Mining for Justice Page 6

  Suddenly he realized what Chief Naborski hadn’t said. Who was going? It should be me, Roel­ke thought. This was a great opportunity, and he really, really wanted it.

  “The catch,” Naborski said, “is that the Police Committee wants to be involved in choosing the recipient.”

  Roel­ke’s right knee began to bounce. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Naborski admitted. “And I don’t like it. But Ms. Blevins was adamant on that condition.”

  Was this Ralph Petty’s handiwork? Roel­ke wondered, gritting his teeth. Petty was not on the Board, but it was no secret that Chloe’s boss was contemplating a run in the next election. Roel­ke had found a way to cut Petty down to size last summer during a murder investigation. Was this his revenge? Had he made nice with the Committee members and managed to set Roel­ke up for failure?

  “I was asked to recommend two officers for consideration.” Naborski’s gaze was steady. “I gave them your name and Skeet’s.”

  Officer Skeet Deardorff was not a permanent employee of the EPD, as Roel­ke was. But that was only because the funds for another full-time officer—with benefits—didn’t exist. Skeet worked as many hours as Roel­ke did. And Roel­ke knew that Skeet was hungry for any opportunity like this. For Skeet, extra training and certification made it that much more likely that he would get hired in a permanent status in Eagle, or with another force.

  “Is there some kind of evaluation process?” Roel­ke asked.

  “The Police Committee will call each of you in for an interview one day this week.”

  Roel­ke hated having to compete with Skeet for this, but there it was. “Alright.”

  “One more thing.” Chief brought the front legs of his chair to the floor with a bang. “You’re a good cop, Roel­ke. But if you want this one, you gotta fly straight. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Roel­ke said, although he didn’t, not fully. Was Naborski’s comment a general statement? Or did it hint at something more? Since joining the EPD he had crossed the boundaries a couple of times. He’d once kicked a killer after he was cuffed. I’m a better cop now, he thought. Nothing like that would ever happen again.

  “Any questions?” Chief asked.

  Roel­ke’s knee was working like a piston. He forced it to stillness and stood. “No sir.”

  At Polperro House, excited voices signaled the approach of the first school group. “We can make our escape this way,” Claudia told Chloe, opening a door that led to a steep, narrow staircase. Upstairs Chloe got a quick glimpse of an 1840s-style kitchen before following her friend out another door. “The benefit of building into such a steep hill,” Claudia said. “Both floors are ground floors.”

  Chloe paused, looking back at the old house. She wanted to get a better feel for the people who had once walked the floors of the homes now preserved at Pendarvis, and she wasn’t sure how. “Is there an old Cornish cemetery? Maybe at one of the churches?”

  “Your best bet is the old city cemetery.” Claudia kicked a fallen stick from the walkway. “Burials date back to the 1830s. Take Second Street just a few blocks south of High Street.”

  “Great. When I have a chance I’ll wander through, see what I can find of the Cornish immigrants.”

  “Feel free to do that on state time. I’d welcome any information you discover.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Chloe glanced at her watch as they walked up steps that led to the upper property. “Claudia, I need to tell you something.” She summarized what had happened at Chy Looan the day before.

  “Dear God!” Claudia stopped walking. “A skeleton? Really?”

  “As you can imagine, Tamsin Bolitho was disturbed by the news,” Chloe said. “She asked if I’d do some research, in hopes of somehow identifying the body.”

  Claudia looked dubious. “How are you going to do that?”

  “I think it’s most likely that the death and burial took place in the early 1930s, when the cottage sat empty. Maybe I can find some record of a missing person.” She gave a regretful shrug. “I’m hardly the best choice for the job, but I was handy, and I’m glad to help if I can. Any suggestions on where I should begin?”

  “The Mineral Point Archives,” Claudia said promptly. “Bob Neal donated his collection of documents and photographs to the public library before he died, which formed the nucleus of the collection. What he saved is priceless. And Midge, the archivist, is a dynamo.”

  They continued walking up the hill. Back in the office, an elderly woman with ramrod posture and silver hair swept back from her face in permed patrician waves sat at the second desk. A cane was propped within easy reach. She swiveled in her chair to greet them.

  “Chloe, this is Evelyn Bainbridge,” Claudia said. “She helped out in the gift shop last year. This year she has kindly given us a lot of volunteer hours as receptionist.”

  “Hi, Evelyn,” Chloe said, hoping she wasn’t stepping in it this time.

  Evelyn extended a hand with manicured nails. Chloe caught a faint whiff of lavender. “It’s good to meet you, Chloe.”

  “We’d be lost without her,” Claudia added. “Not only is she great with callers, but she’s lived in Mineral Point her whole life.”

  “My husband did too, God rest his soul.” Evelyn’s voice was wistful. “We shared a love of history. He collected military antiques. Anyway, I’m grateful I can be helpful here.”

  “We’re grateful too,” Claudia told her, then looked around. “Was Yvonne Miller here when you arrived?”

  “She just left.” Evelyn looked annoyed. “But she didn’t have the courtesy to put back the files she pulled! As if we have room to store things for her.” She gestured indignantly at a new stack of folders. “Don’t worry, Claudia. I’ll put them away.”

  Another member of the Dr. Yvonne Miller fan club, Chloe thought.

  “If I can, in between calls,” Evelyn amended. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.” She held out a stack of little While You Were Out slips.

  Claudia took them and dropped into her desk chair with a stifled groan. “Let me guess, people are upset about the newspaper article.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I’ve been hearing them out, explaining that I don’t have any additional information, and reminding them about the meeting this evening at the Walker House.”

  Every site needs an Evelyn, Chloe thought.

  “I have to deal with these,” Claudia said. “Chloe, maybe you should start with our site interpretive plan, and some of the general research files.”

  “Sounds good,” Chloe said. She truly wanted to contribute something useful while she was here. She also wanted to keep so busy today that she didn’t stew about the meeting this evening.

  At noon she slipped away and walked the short distance to Chy Looan. Adam’s truck was the only vehicle parked in front. He stepped outside as she approached.

  “Where is everyone?” Chloe called.

  “Just left.” He sank onto the stone wall. “You should see the root cellar. They moved a lot of dirt.”

  Chloe didn’t want to see the root cellar. “Did they find anything else?”

  “A few odds and ends. No more bodies, thank God.”

  “Thank God,” she echoed fervently.

  Adam rubbed his palms on his thighs, looking frustrated. “Yesterday I was shocked. Today I’m furious. Who would have buried a body in my cottage?”

  He doesn’t want to say the word, Chloe thought. But burial was the lesser crime. Whoever dug that rough grave had likely been a murderer.

  Roel­ke had gotten home too late the night before to talk with his cousin. At lunchtime he drove straight to the modest ranch house in Palmyra that Libby had shared with her kids since her marriage ended two years ago. The divorce had been so ugly that Roel­ke had moved to Palmyra to lend support. Since he’d rented a tiny soulless walk-up flat, th
is house had been his de facto home until he bought his ancestral farmhouse last summer.

  Libby’s car was in the drive. Justin’s bike lay abandoned in the front yard, which needed mowing. Roel­ke would have been glad to mow Libby’s grass, but she wouldn’t let him.

  He had a key and let himself inside. “Libby?”

  “In here.”

  He walked into the kitchen. A typewriter and several file folders sat on the table. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Libby stood at the counter, measuring flour into a big yellow bowl. She wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and shorts.

  “Hey.” Libby glanced at the clock. “I have to pick up Deirdre from preschool in about fifteen minutes. What are you doing here?”

  “I think you know.”

  Libby did not meet his gaze. “If you have something to say, Roel­ke, just say it.”

  “Why did you cancel on Adam and the trip to Mineral Point?”

  “Stuff came up.” Libby opened a drawer and pulled out a set of metal measuring spoons.

  Roel­ke rarely got pissed at his cousin, but he was getting pissed now. Libby was never evasive. Never coy or secretive. “‘Stuff came up?’ That’s a lousy excuse for disappointing Adam at the last minute.”

  “Look, I know he’s your friend, and I’m sorry if that makes things awkward. But it’s just not going to work out with Adam and me.”

  He frowned. “I thought things were going okay.”

  She shrugged and stirred cinnamon into the flour.

  Roel­ke reached over and took the spoon from her hand. “Tell me what you’re leaving out.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Libby.” He waited until she finally, reluctantly, looked at him. “You and I don’t always agree, but we are always straight with each other. What the hell is going on?”

  Libby blew out a long sigh and leaned against the counter. She ran her fingers through short gray-shot dark hair, leaving little spikes sticking out. Finally she said, “Roel­ke, I told you last summer that I didn’t want to date until my children are older. A lot older. After all the turmoil, they need stability.”

  Roel­ke considered her with narrowed eyes. He remembered the conversation. But he’d also seen Libby and Adam together several times over the past few weeks. They were taking things slowly, but there had been a growing ease in their conversations. “Something has changed. You agreed to go down to Mineral Point and see Adam’s cottage. You were looking forward to it. So—what gives?”

  Libby walked to the window and shoved her hands into her pockets. “I’ll only tell you if you promise not to get angry.”

  “I promise,” Roel­ke said automatically.

  “It’s Dan.”

  Roel­ke was instantly angry. “What does your ex have to do with anything?”

  “Dan doesn’t want me to date.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what Dan does or doesn’t want. And neither should you.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Libby said evenly, “if Justin and Deirdre weren’t involved. But they are.”

  “What happened?” Roel­ke growled.

  She sighed. “Adam and I sat together at one of Justin’s T-ball games. That’s it. We talked, we laughed, we cheered on Justin’s team. Well, unbeknownst to me, Dan actually showed up. He’d never come to one of Justin’s games before.”

  “That’s because Dan sucks at being a parent.” Deirdre went with the flow but Justin’s heart had been broken by his father over and over.

  “After the game Adam gave Justin a high-five, said goodbye, and left. Then I see Dan walking up. Justin wraps his arms around him. He was so happy that his dad had come to see him play. It should have been a nice moment.”

  “And?”

  “And Dan looks at me over Justin’s head and says, ‘I see your new boyfriend is spending time with my son.’” Libby’s voice was tight. “I know Dan, and the look in his eyes when he said it—”

  “Dan Raymo abused you and has been indifferent to his kids.” Heat flamed inside Roel­ke’s chest. “Whether any friend of yours spends time with Justin is none of his concern. You have every right to—”

  “But I won’t. Dan still wants to punish me for divorcing him, and it’s the kids who will suffer. Maybe he’ll file for joint custody.”

  “Maybe you should try to get a restraining order.”

  “On what grounds?” Libby demanded. “I know that he was making a threat. But he didn’t actually say anything threatening.”

  Roel­ke knew that. He also knew that beating the crap out of Justin’s father, which he sorely wanted to do, was not the way to go. He began to pace the room, almost tripping over a stuffed unicorn. “This isn’t right, Libby. Adam’s a great guy, and—”

  “And I can’t see him anymore. End of story.”

  “But—”

  “Justin’s fragile enough already,” Libby snapped. “You know that, Roel­ke.”

  He knew that too. Justin was small for his size, not particularly athletic, not particularly good at making friends. He wore glasses and could be moody and still desperately wanted to believe that his father actually cared about him. Roel­ke had spent a lot of time with Justin and Deirdre and couldn’t possibly love them any more than he did.

  “He’s such a good kid,” Roel­ke said. His heart hurt.

  “He is.”

  “They’re both good kids.”

  “I agree.”

  “You’re giving Dan too much power.”

  “He already has power. He knows nothing hurts me more than involving the kids in the ugliness.”

  “I’ll talk to him. No threats. Just talk—”

  “No, you won’t.” Libby grabbed his arm, fingers digging into the skin. “I will handle my ex.”

  But this is what I do, Roel­ke wanted to say. He did his damnedest to take care of people he loved. The look in Libby’s eyes—and the bruises surely already forming on his arm—were painful reminders that he had work to do.

  But he didn’t argue. Instead he put on his best impassive cop face. “Adam deserves an explanation, Libby.”

  She sighed. “I know. I’ll call him.”

  Roel­ke had to be satisfied with that. “When’s Justin’s next T-ball game?”

  “Tomorrow. Seven p.m.”

  “Unless something messy comes up, I’m off work at three tomorrow. How about I pick you up? It’s been way too long since I went to one of his games.”

  Libby’s shoulders relaxed, and she rewarded him with a genuine smile. “That would be great.”

  Roel­ke couldn’t manage a smile in return. One pleasant evening wouldn’t wipe away the damage Dan Raymo was doing.

  Six

  After leaving Chy Looan, Chloe detoured south. The old city cemetery sprawled over maybe two acres on top of a hill. The years had not been kind to the tombstones, many of which were not only worn, but broken. But like most cemeteries it was peaceful. Chloe believed that those who had suffered during their earthly days were now free of pain, reunited with loved ones.

  She was wandering when a voice surprised her. “Can I help you find something?” A balding, white-haired man sat on the ground beside a broken headstone. He held a clipboard. “I’m a volunteer with the cemetery restoration committee.”

  “I’m looking for any gravestones of early Cornish immigrants.”

  The man got to his feet. “The majority of burials here took place before 1860. Lots of victims of mining accidents, and the cholera epidemics of 1849 and 1851. But there’s no official burial map.”

  Of course there’s not, Chloe thought. That would have been way too easy.

  “Before statehood in 1848, death records weren’t even collected. I’m trying to document the stones here before any more become illegible. Are you a descendant?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. Just doing some
research.” That seemed safer than saying she’d come in hopes of somehow connecting with the old Cornish souls.

  “I’m afraid there’s no logic to the layout,” the gentleman added. “And lots of people from Cornwall listed England as their birthplace. Good luck.”

  Chloe thanked him and walked away, checking those stones she could read for early burials and Cornish surnames. She hadn’t gone far when she spotted a young woman crouched near an oak tree, doing a gravestone rubbing. Her back was turned, but the cap of black hair, the scarlet shirt, and the green journal lying in the grass unmistakably belonged to Dr. Yvonne Miller.

  Really? Chloe thought, vexed. You pick the one day I’m here, looking for peace and quiet, to do cemetery research? She stood for a long moment, willing Yvonne to go away.

  It didn’t work. Finally Chloe turned, leaving the dead to Yvonne’s scrutiny, and retraced her steps. She’d come back to the cemetery another time.

  Roel­ke worked a double shift that day, picking up the extra hours as a favor to Skeet. Evidently Skeet had something better to do that evening. Evidently Skeet’s wife was not spending a week as guest curator a hundred miles away. Well, Roel­ke thought, I wanted to keep an eye on the suspected drug house anyway.

  Once on Hackberry Lane, he cruised past the house that the observant mom had reported for suspicious activity. It was just a house—well kept up, bushes pruned, grass mowed. He’d learned what he could about the couple who owned it. Greg and Marjorie Trieloff, both thirty-eight. No kids, thank God. Greg worked in the Waukesha warehouse of a food distribution company. Marjorie worked at a day care facility in Mukwonago. Not bad jobs, but not high-paying either. Did Mr. and Mrs. Apple Pie America decide they wanted a ritzier lifestyle than warehouse work and teaching ABCs allowed? Evidently, because Roel­ke’s gut sense agreed with the mom who’d made the report. Too many cars came and went. Something hinky was going on.