Mining for Justice

by Kathleen Ernst

  “But—”

  “Shut up!”

  Libby’s breath came in tiny pants but she swallowed whatever she’d been about to say. The night ticked by. When the neighbor’s bedroom went dark again Roel­ke forced himself to count to one hundred before moving. “Okay,” he grunted. “We need to get inside. Fast.”

  “Oh Roel­ke,” Libby quavered. “I’m so sorry! I thought it was—”

  “There’s no time for that.” Roel­ke winced as he lurched to his feet. “Come on. Stay low. Do not turn on any lights.”

  Stumbling, hunched over, he managed to make it to the house. Libby opened the back door and they slipped into the kitchen.

  “Bathroom.” The word squeezed out between clenched teeth. “Don’t wake the kids. Get a flashlight.” He heard a drawer slide open, slide closed again.

  In the bathroom he made sure the blinds were closed, the curtains drawn, and the toilet seat lid down before dropping. Thanks to a nightlight’s soft glow the flashlight wasn’t needed. He was clutching the wound with his right hand. Blood seeped between his fingers, stained his shirt. He forced himself to loosen his grip. A burning sensation throbbed in his side, but it looked like a flesh wound. The bullet had grazed him just below his rib cage. An inch higher would have splintered bone. Two inches to the right would have torn through organs.

  “Oh my God,” Libby moaned. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. We’ve got to get you to the hospital—”

  “No hospital.”

  “You’re going to the ER!”

  “No hospital,” he insisted. “I’d have to explain where I got a gunshot wound. You want me to do that?”

  Libby began to cry. “I want to make sure you’re alright!”

  “I’m alright.” He grabbed a towel hanging by the sink and pressed it hard against his side. With his left index finger he eased the blind away from the window, just a bit. The street was dark and still.

  Libby collapsed onto the rim of the bathtub, leaning over with her face in her hands, weeping uncontrollably.

  Roel­ke wanted to reassure her but every ounce of energy he had left was focused on the street. A minute passed, maybe two. He was just beginning to hope that they’d get away with this debacle when he saw headlights. A sedan crept slowly down the road, parked in front of Libby’s house. The Palmyra PD, responding to the neighbor’s call.

  Libby sobbed.

  “Shut up!” Roel­ke breathed. “There’s a cop outside.”

  The cop switched on his bright searchlight and scanned the front yard. After a moment the beam flicked off, and the squad car door opened. Roel­ke didn’t dare touch the blinds again and so tried to mark time in his head as if he were outside, gun in one hand and flashlight in the other. He’d clear the front yard first, checking behind the bushes, before creeping down one side and to the back yard. Then he’d take another good look.

  Roel­ke closed his eyes. How much of a mess had he and Libby left in the back yard? There was surely blood, and the spent bullet. But with any luck this inspection would be cursory. If it were him, he’d want to assure himself that there was no dead body among the tulips, no pet injured by a stray shot. Then he’d come back at first light and take a much harder look around.

  Time crawled. Libby wept. Blood soaked into the towel as Roel­ke sat rigid, terrified that the cop would bang on the door. Thanks to his own informal request to keep an eye on Libby’s place, the guy was likely to be more suspicious than usual. But after a painful eternity, Roel­ke heard a car door close, the engine rumble to life. He dared one more peek out the window and saw the street brighten as headlights came on. The cop drove away.

  Roel­ke counted to a hundred again. “Okay. I think we’re clear. Get some first-aid supplies. … Libby? Libby!” He snapped his fingers in her direction. “First-aid supplies!”

  She blinked, stood, fumbled in the medicine cabinet. “We have to go to the ER. You need stitches. I don’t care if I get in trouble—”

  “Then you’re not thinking straight. There are two children asleep just down the hall, and you’re all they have.”

  “But … ”

  “I’m all right, Libby.” Roel­ke leaned sideways against the sink. “Turn on the light and patch me up. Then you’re going to get some sleep. You have to pull yourself together, do you hear me? In just a few hours the kids will be up. Do you understand?”

  Libby nodded and flicked the switch. Roel­ke winced at the harsh flood of light. Through squinting eyes he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.

  She cleaned the wound as best she could, dabbing at the welling blood before applying several butterfly bandages. Then she pressed a thick pad of gauze against the hole, fastening it in place with medical tape. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it.” Her voice was all shuddery. “We’ll probably need to change the dressing.”

  Roel­ke nodded. All he wanted to do was lie down and pretend the last hour had never happened. But the question had to be asked. “Libby, where the hell did you get the gun? You told me you’d never have a gun in the house.”

  “He—he was here again,” she quavered. “Dan. I sat up last night, trying to watch out the window, but I fell asleep. This morning I found … I found a dead yellow rose.” A new wave of tears began. “And two dead rosebuds.”

  Roel­ke’s marrow turned to slush. Raymo had just threatened to kill Libby and the kids. “And you didn’t call me?”

  “I was afraid you’d go after him and do something that would wreck your career.” She swiped at her eyes. “This isn’t your problem, Roel­ke.”

  “The hell it isn’t!” He took care of the people he loved.

  “So after I took the kids to school I drove to Waukesha, and I … I went to a gun store.”

  “Were you planning to kill him, Libby?” Roel­ke demanded in a harsh whisper. “What would happen to Justin and Deirdre then, hunh? What were you thinking?”

  “This has to stop.” Libby lifted her palms in a helpless gesture, let them drop. “That’s what I was thinking. This has to stop.”

  Roel­ke had nothing left. “I gotta lie down,” he muttered. “You do too. Set your alarm, because everything needs to be tidy before the kids wake up.” His bloody shirt and two soaked towels were in the corner, and he’d no doubt dripped blood on the kitchen floor.

  He wound a beach towel around his midsection in hopes it would catch any seeping blood. In the living room he gingerly lowered himself to the sofa and curled on his right side. His wound still pulsed painfully. There were things to do, but first, he had to get some rest.

  But sleep eluded him. The night’s events played through his brain like a movie. Libby had shot him. Libby had actually shot him. His cousin, the person he knew better than anyone else, had become an armed stranger, wild-eyed and sobbing.

  Roel­ke felt a hollowness in his chest like he’d never known. It came partly from anger, but partly from fear too.

  Twenty-Four

  Roel­ke felt groggy when he staggered from the sofa on Friday morning. Had he slept at all? It didn’t feel like it. Maybe he could call in sick. No, that wouldn’t work. He needed to oversee Michelle Zietz’s second set-up buy today. It was his case. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Skeet to handle it, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

  He gingerly unwrapped the towel. The bandage was stained, but dry. The wound didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. Good.

  The house was quiet, which meant the kids were still asleep. He found Libby in the kitchen. Her face was haggard, and when she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Knock that off.” Roel­ke put his arm around her.

  “I could have killed you!”

  “But you didn’t.” He stepped back so he could look her in the eye. “Listen, you have to pull it together. I’m going to leave before the kids get up. I don’t want them to know that anything’s wrong. And there�
�s a good chance that a Palmyra cop will show up—”

  Panic flared in her eyes. “Why?”

  “It’s what I’d do if I got a ‘shot fired’ call in the wee hours. I’d knock on the door and ask if everything was okay. If that happens, you have to convince him that you did not hear anything.” Roel­ke struggled to appear calm. He was urging his cousin to lie to a police officer.

  Libby studied her fingers. “I don’t know if I can convince anyone of anything.”

  He let his voice get sharp. “Do you know what will happen if the fact that you shot me last night becomes public knowledge? Your ex will suddenly have some interesting new information to take to a judge about your fitness as a parent.”

  She took that in, stood straighter, squared her shoulders.

  “You can handle this.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m going home to clean up before work. Where’s the pistol?”

  Libby pushed a step-stool in front of one of the cabinets and retrieved the gun from the top shelf.

  Roel­ke slipped it into a pocket and then zipped his dark jacket all the way up to cover his bare chest. “We’ll talk later.” He let himself out the kitchen door and quickly surveyed the back yard. No evidence of the wild shot.

  As he circled to the front yard, a Palmyra cop car pulled up and parked. Officer Troy Blakely stepped out. Here we go, Roel­ke thought, and went to meet his colleague.

  “Hey, McKenna,” Blakely said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I spent the night. Just keeping an eye on my cousin’s place until this foolishness with her ex settles down.”

  “Any sign of him last night?”

  “Nope.”

  “When I got in this morning, I found a note from the third shift guy. The neighbor”—Blakely cocked his head toward the next house—“called at two a.m. and reported hearing a gunshot. You hear anything?”

  “A gunshot?” Roel­ke held Blakely’s gaze, trying to look surprised and perplexed. Libby’s pistol was a hot weight in his pocket. “No, I didn’t hear a thing. And if Libby heard a gunshot, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me this morning.”

  Blakely exhaled slowly. Finally he nodded. “Well, I wanted to check it out. Especially since Raymo’s been harassing your cousin.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t worry. In the end, justice will be done.”

  “Sure,” Roel­ke said, but only because he wanted the conversation to end. When it came to Raymo, justice was proving elusive.

  “Raymo’s so-called hunting club is meeting at Mickey’s Tavern on Sunday afternoon,” Blakely said. “I arrested him there once after a brawl. I’ve also nailed him for drunk driving a couple of times after one of these gatherings, and once for possession of marijuana. I’m sure he does harder stuff too. He thinks it’s all a game. The asshole actually taunts me.”

  The thought of Raymo maybe messing around with drugs around the kids made Roel­ke feel sick. “Sounds like him.”

  “I’ll look for him on Sunday. If he’s inebriated, I can search the car.” Blakely fiddled with the baton on his duty belt. “Say, how’s your drug case going? You still looking for backup tomorrow?”

  “I am. Everything’s going according to plan.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Great.” Roel­ke turned away.

  “Hey, McKenna,” Blakely called. “Where’s your truck?”

  Roel­ke turned back. “Down the street. I didn’t want the kids to know I spent the night. Libby and I are trying to keep them out of this mess with their father.”

  Blakely nodded and walked back to his squad. Roel­ke felt a flood of relief when his friend, the man he’d asked to keep an extra eye on his family, drove away.

  He walked to his truck and climbed stiffly into the cab. Then he sat. Now he’d lied to a cop. He’d betrayed his training, his oath, everything he believed.

  And it hadn’t solved the larger problem. He had no reason to hope that Raymo was finished stalking Libby and the kids. Did I hear a squirrel along the back fence last night, Roel­ke thought, or had it been Libby’s ex? Had her shot scared him off—or made him even angrier?

  Chloe plodded from the guest room that morning feeling bleary-eyed and dull. She gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Tamsin and snuggled into the antique rocking chair.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” Tamsin said cheerfully.

  Chloe tried to put bad thoughts aside and face the day with at least a dollop of good cheer. She tucked the cheerful blue and yellow crocheted afghan over her lap and gently rocked. “I love this chair,” she told Tamsin. “It’s comfortable, and beautiful, and it just makes me want to curl up with a good book.” Today would be great for that. A soft rain was pattering against the windowpanes. The room smelled of the saffron buns Tamsin already had in the oven. It was all much more appealing than the threat of closure, and the troubling aftermath of a suspicious death, that were waiting for her at Pendarvis.

  “I’ve spent many an hour in that chair,” Tamsin told her. “Rocking my children, knitting, thinking. It’s seen me through some hard times.”

  Chloe tucked her toes under the afghan. “Is it a family heirloom?”

  “Not really.” Tamsin put a pitcher of orange juice on the table. “We found it in Chy Looan when we moved in. Someone had left it in the crawl space above the second floor.”

  “Seriously?” Chloe stopped rocking. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Tamsin looked startled. “Well, I don’t think about it. I’ve had that chair for … almost fifty years.”

  Chloe stood and stared at the rocker. Had Mary Pascoe owned this chair?

  Probably not, Chloe cautioned herself, before she could get too carried away. This style of rocker dated back to the 1820s, but it seemed unlikely that Cornish immigrants would be able to afford such a piece very soon after their arrival.

  “Knowing where the chair came from wouldn’t have helped your research,” Tamsin added.

  “No. Still, I’d like to figure out who made it, or sold it,” Chloe mused. “Claudia is looking for furniture documented to Mineral Point. Perhaps there are business records in the archives. It’s a long shot, but maybe I can even confirm that Chy Looan’s original occupants owned this chair.”

  “I told you yesterday that I didn’t want to learn any more about the people who lived in that cottage.” Tamsin filled one glass and moved on to the second.

  Chloe hesitated. “I remember, but … I don’t understand why.”

  Tamsin wiped some nonexistent crumbs from the tablecloth. After a long moment she said, “You left the list of property owners sitting by the phone after talking to Adam the other evening. I took a look, and … ” Her voice trailed away.

  “And what?”

  “Andrew Pascoe is actually an ancestor of mine. On my mother’s side.”

  “Really?” Chloe absorbed that news. “And when you bought Chy Looan, you didn’t know he was the original owner?”

  “I had no idea.”

  That was an amazing coincidence, but it didn’t explain anything. “And?” Chloe prompted. Tamsin’s anxiety suggested knowledge of something ghastly.

  Tamsin pleated her apron with her fingers. “We don’t know when that man was buried in the cottage. I don’t want you to find anything that might tarnish the record of someone on my family tree. Please, Chloe. I want to forget the whole sordid incident.”

  Chloe wanted to point out that no one could blame Tamsin if some dark story actually came to light. Everyone had unpleasant stories on their family tree. If Andrew had killed a man and buried the body in his root cellar, the crime dated back one hundred and fifty years.

  But one glance at the older woman’s troubled face made Chloe swallow her protest. This wasn’t about her family. What mattered were Tamsin’s feelings.

  �
��I understand,” she lied. “But your Boston rocker is still an amazing piece. And very valuable.”

  “Is it, dear?”

  “The elaborate decorations have held up remarkably well.” Chloe leaned closer to the chair. “Whoever painted this piece did some graining on the surface, using a comb to put red over the base black to make it resemble expensive rosewood.”

  “I always thought it was pretty.”

  “My best guess is that some of the embellishment was stenciled and some painted freehand, but it’s all done by an experienced artist. The metallic gold detailing is spectacular. Would it be okay if I look at the bottom?”

  “Certainly.” Tamsin waved a permissive hand.

  Chloe put her coffee down and gently eased the rocking chair onto its side. Her mouth dropped open. “There’s a signature penciled on the bottom.”

  “Gracious!” Tamsin sounded duly impressed.

  “It looks like … ” Chloe squinted. “‘T. George/Min. Point.’” She looked up. “Do you know that name?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever heard it.”

  “I would have guessed that anything of this caliber would have been shipped in from Madison or someplace,” Chloe mused. “If a ‘T. George’ is known to have been making furniture in town, it would be huge.”

  A timer dinged in the kitchen, and Tamsin hurried away. “Breakfast is ready.”

  Chloe returned the chair to its rockers and gently draped the afghan over the back. She couldn’t wait to get back to the archives.

  And if being there gave her the opportunity to learn more about Mary Pascoe, so much the better. Chloe was willing to give up on the skeleton found in the root cellar. But now she was on the hunt for an immigrant woman’s life, and it would take more than Tamsin’s reticence to make her stop.

  When Chloe reached the Pendarvis rowhouse that morning, she was almost bowled over as Holly plunged out the door. “Good morning, Holly!” she said, stepping backwards. Holly, looking adorable in a period dress made of pinstriped blue cotton, flashed her a smile but kept running.