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Authors: Kathleen Ernst
Tags: Mystery
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lot of people were unhappy when Petra earned one,
but not Violet.”
“That hardly seems like motive for murder. Are you suggesting
that Violet Sorensen—”
“No!” The word burst out loud enough to turn heads. Chloe tried again. “No, of course not. I’ve known Violet for years. I’m
just saying that in broad terms … some people might take the
whole competition thing a bit too seriously.”
Roelke sipped his water. “My grandmother and her friends
took the Jefferson County Fair pie competition too seriously, but
no one ever came to blows about it. Even though nobody ever beat
my grandma’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.” He sounded a bit smug
about that.
Chloe made a mental note to trot out her own strawberry-rhu-
barb- maple pie recipe come spring. “No disrespect to your
grandma and the Jefferson County Fair, but this is a national com-
petition. Gold Medalists are put up on a pedestal. Collectors and
museums buy their work. They write books and teach classes.
Petra had just taught a class in Norway, for crying out loud.”
58
“OK, OK.” Roelke made a few more notes on a new index card.
“Anything’s possible, and jealousy can simmer for a long time
before erupting. I’ve seen people fly into a rage for less.”
Chloe eyed her last sliver of pizza with regret, too full to join
the clean plate club. “Let’s talk about something else. If I can line up an interview for this evening, do you want to come along?”
“Sorry, but I can’t. This afternoon I got a note to call Chief
Moyer. He asked if I could come by the station tonight at seven.”
Chloe used her straw to swirl the ice cubes in her glass. Just as
she’d anticipated: cop stuff trumped gentleman-caller stuff.
“That’s OK,” she said. “It was just an idea.”
Roelke arrived at the police station at 6:55 PM. Buzzelli was run-
ning something through a photocopy machine. Chief Moyer
stepped from his office as Roelke stamped snow from his boots.
“Thanks for coming by,” Moyer said.
“No problem.”
Moyer gestured both men into his office, which looked a lot
like every other chief ’s office Roelke had ever seen: tidy desk (sloppiness did not send a good message to the visiting public), a few
framed citations on the wall (certifications attesting to profes-
sional prowess, and plaques of appreciation from the Kiwanis,
Rotary, and Lions Club attesting to community involvement) and
pictures of young children (because a family man understood
problems on a personal level). Roelke and Buzzelli dropped into
the chairs facing the desk.
59
“Twenty-four hours have passed since Ms. Lekstrom was
found,” Moyer said. “Officer McKenna, I have explained to the
investigator here, and also to the DCI agent in charge, that I’ve
asked you to participate informally in this investigation.”
Roelke nodded. Buzzelli did not. Definite friction here, Roelke
thought. Thankfully, not his problem.
“I have spoken with Chief Naborski in Eagle,” Moyer contin-
ued. “He assured me that you can hold your own counsel.”
That made Roelke feel good.
“It would of course be inappropriate to share any confidential
information we learn during the investigation,” Moyer added.
“Of course,” Roelke agreed.
“But discussing basic details might be helpful as you get to
know people this week. Investigator?”
Buzzelli opened a file folder, extracted a color photograph, and
slapped it down on Moyer’s desk. “Petra Lekstrom, age fifty-four,
of Preston, Minnesota.”
Roelke picked up the head-and-shoulders shot. Petra looked to
be wearing the same getup she’d died in—red wool cap, white
blouse, green vest. She was what his grandmother would have
called ‘a handsome woman’—hair a soft brown, face largely clear
of wrinkles, dark eyes, full mouth curved in a smile that contained a hint of seduction.
“The victim was five-foot-three and slight of build,” Buzzelli
continued. “That big
but not Violet.”
“That hardly seems like motive for murder. Are you suggesting
that Violet Sorensen—”
“No!” The word burst out loud enough to turn heads. Chloe tried again. “No, of course not. I’ve known Violet for years. I’m
just saying that in broad terms … some people might take the
whole competition thing a bit too seriously.”
Roelke sipped his water. “My grandmother and her friends
took the Jefferson County Fair pie competition too seriously, but
no one ever came to blows about it. Even though nobody ever beat
my grandma’s strawberry-rhubarb pie.” He sounded a bit smug
about that.
Chloe made a mental note to trot out her own strawberry-rhu-
barb- maple pie recipe come spring. “No disrespect to your
grandma and the Jefferson County Fair, but this is a national com-
petition. Gold Medalists are put up on a pedestal. Collectors and
museums buy their work. They write books and teach classes.
Petra had just taught a class in Norway, for crying out loud.”
58
“OK, OK.” Roelke made a few more notes on a new index card.
“Anything’s possible, and jealousy can simmer for a long time
before erupting. I’ve seen people fly into a rage for less.”
Chloe eyed her last sliver of pizza with regret, too full to join
the clean plate club. “Let’s talk about something else. If I can line up an interview for this evening, do you want to come along?”
“Sorry, but I can’t. This afternoon I got a note to call Chief
Moyer. He asked if I could come by the station tonight at seven.”
Chloe used her straw to swirl the ice cubes in her glass. Just as
she’d anticipated: cop stuff trumped gentleman-caller stuff.
“That’s OK,” she said. “It was just an idea.”
Roelke arrived at the police station at 6:55 PM. Buzzelli was run-
ning something through a photocopy machine. Chief Moyer
stepped from his office as Roelke stamped snow from his boots.
“Thanks for coming by,” Moyer said.
“No problem.”
Moyer gestured both men into his office, which looked a lot
like every other chief ’s office Roelke had ever seen: tidy desk (sloppiness did not send a good message to the visiting public), a few
framed citations on the wall (certifications attesting to profes-
sional prowess, and plaques of appreciation from the Kiwanis,
Rotary, and Lions Club attesting to community involvement) and
pictures of young children (because a family man understood
problems on a personal level). Roelke and Buzzelli dropped into
the chairs facing the desk.
59
“Twenty-four hours have passed since Ms. Lekstrom was
found,” Moyer said. “Officer McKenna, I have explained to the
investigator here, and also to the DCI agent in charge, that I’ve
asked you to participate informally in this investigation.”
Roelke nodded. Buzzelli did not. Definite friction here, Roelke
thought. Thankfully, not his problem.
“I have spoken with Chief Naborski in Eagle,” Moyer contin-
ued. “He assured me that you can hold your own counsel.”
That made Roelke feel good.
“It would of course be inappropriate to share any confidential
information we learn during the investigation,” Moyer added.
“Of course,” Roelke agreed.
“But discussing basic details might be helpful as you get to
know people this week. Investigator?”
Buzzelli opened a file folder, extracted a color photograph, and
slapped it down on Moyer’s desk. “Petra Lekstrom, age fifty-four,
of Preston, Minnesota.”
Roelke picked up the head-and-shoulders shot. Petra looked to
be wearing the same getup she’d died in—red wool cap, white
blouse, green vest. She was what his grandmother would have
called ‘a handsome woman’—hair a soft brown, face largely clear
of wrinkles, dark eyes, full mouth curved in a smile that contained a hint of seduction.
“The victim was five-foot-three and slight of build,” Buzzelli
continued. “That big
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