The Heirloom Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ott’s’ morning glories bloomed for the first time this morning. A luscious deep purple. Must save enough seed to give some to Sonia.
    “What a treasure,” Chloe said softly. “When my grandma died, I got her file box of recipe cards. Half of them are for foods I’d never fix—Jello-and-mayonaise salad, stuff like that—but there’s more her in those cards than in any object.”
    Dellyn set the notebook aside, and reached for a file folder. Opening it, she revealed a stack of whispery onion-skin paper, all covered with typewritten notes. “And these were my dad’s.”
    “ October 14, 1963 ,” Chloe read aloud. “ Mrs. Harrigan gave me a black dress that her grandmother wore on her wedding day, June 18, 1890. ” Chloe stepped back so she could regard her friend. “So he did keep records! That will help a lot as we work through all that stuff in the attic.”
    “Thank God for small favors.” Dellyn looked at her watch. “If you’re going to make it to morning meeting, you better get going.”

1876
    “He likes you, you know.”
    Clarissa Wood paused, pushing hair from her forehead with one wrist. She had a roast in the oven, and peas and potatoes on the stove. “Who?”
    Her husband snorted. “The German. He makes calf eyes at you whenever he thinks I’m not watching.”
    “He just likes my cooking,” Clarissa said lightly. She cracked the oven door, and a new wave of heat shimmered into the room. She hoped that would excuse any flush staining her cheeks. Charles was a good man. A good husband. Still … it had been a long time since he’d looked at Clarissa the way Albrecht looked at her.
    “I think there’s more to it than that.” Charles stepped behind her, and Clarissa felt a whisper of unease. Then he surprised her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.
    Clarissa leaned her head against his shoulder, smelling sweat and dirt, the cheap cotton shirt rough beneath her cheek. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But he’s harmless. A young man who hasn’t yet found a good woman of his own. We’re lucky he’s willing to work for you.” She and Charles only rented the land they were developing. They were saving every penny toward buying the lot. A Yankee workman would have asked twice what they were paying Albrecht.
    “I suppose so,” Charles admitted. He sounded distracted. He pressed his mouth against the side of her neck. Then he reached for her hand, tugged.
    “Let me at least take the roast from the oven!” Clarissa protested, but she laughed. If her husband’s dinner scorched, he’d have no one to blame but himself.

“Got a minute?” Chief Naborski asked.
    “Sure.” Roelke followed the chief into his office. It was shift change again. The older man liked to catch up with whomever was coming on duty. He always posed his request as a question, though. Not an order.
    Chief Naborski dropped into his chair. He refused to purchase anything that swiveled or rolled; he liked chairs he could tip back on two legs, which he did now. “Fill me in on the suicide. Have you talked to the husband?”
    “Simon Sabatola.” Roelke settled in a chair in front of the desk. “Not yet. He was playing golf in Lake Geneva with a client. Some business thing.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The idea that playing golf on a summer morning qualified as work was beyond his experience. “It took awhile for the local guys to track him down. Sabatola’s office, and the client’s office, knew about the golf outing but didn’t know which course. I’m going to talk to Mr. Sabatola today.”
    “Good.” Chief Naborski ran a hand over his buzz-top. He was a stocky man, plain-spoken, fair with his officers and with the public.
    “I’ve got a funny feeling about this one.”
    “Suicides are never easy.” The chief shook his head. “Hard to tell what finally pulls the trigger, so to speak. Money problems. Relationship problems. Or who knows what else.”
    “Yeah.” Roelke thought about