As collections curator for Old World Wisconsin, Chloe Ellefson delights in losing herself in antiques and folk traditionsand forgetting her messy love life. But her peace is destroyed when her ex-boyfriend unexpectedly turns up, followed by a break-in at her friend Dellyn's historic housea potential treasure trove of priceless antiques. Was the intruder hunting for the missing Eagle Diamond, a legendary gemstone unearthed in 1876?
When a grisly murder takes place on the museum grounds, Chloe is further drawn into a mystery involving a rare variety of Swiss cheese, a nearly extinct heirloom flower...and plain, old-fashioned murderous greed.
Winner of the 2011 Anne Powers Fiction Prize from the Council for Wisconsin Writers.
"Chloe is an appealing character, and Ernst's depiction of work at a living museum lends authenticity and a sense of place to the involving plot."St. Paul Pioneer Press
"Greed, passion, skill, and luck all figure in this surprise-filled outing."Publishers Weekly
"Entertainment and edification."Mystery Scene
"Interesting, well-drawn characters and a complicated plot make this a very satisfying read."The Mystery Reader
About the Author
Elise Arsenault is a classically trained actor, singer, and voice-over artist. She has worked throughout the country with various regional theaters, including Merrimack Rep, Lyric Stage Company of Boston, Ivoryton Playhouse, Imagination Stage, and the Discovery Theater at the Smithsonian Institute.
Read an Excerpt
The Heirloom Murders
By Kathleen Ernst
LlewellynCopyright © 2012 Kathleen Ernst
All right reserved.
Chapter One"The guy tried using a pistol?" Roelke McKenna asked, as he opened his locker door. It was almost eight in the morning. He was coming on-shift; Skeet Deardorff was going off. Roelke always arrived at the Eagle police station early enough to catch up on news.
"Yeah. Oh, man." Skeet was laughing so hard he could hardly speak. The phone rang, and he waited until Marie answered it before gasping in a lower voice, "He couldn't loosen the lug nut with a wrench, so he figured a shot or two would—"
Marie's hand sliced the air so fiercely that Skeet stopped talking. She swiveled her chair to face the officers. Roelke's nerves snapped to full alert.
In the sudden silence she said, "Ma'am, I'm sorry, I've got some static on the line. Can you repeat what you just said?" Then she pressed the speaker-phone button.
A woman's voice: "—said, I'm about to kill myself."
Jesus. Roelke snatched a daily report form and pen from a nearby desk and scrawled, WHERE? Before he could even thrust it at Marie she was asking, "Where are you, ma'am?"
"I'll tell you in a moment," the caller said.
Skeet fumbled for his duty belt. Roelke grabbed a radio.
"Please, ma'am, let's talk about this," Marie said. "I might be able to help. Can you tell me your name?"
"My name is Bonnie. But—"
"I'm Marie. Can you tell me a little about whatever is bothering you?"
"I appreciate what you're trying to do," Bonnie said. "Really. But there's nothing to discuss."
Roelke reached for the car keys. The hook was empty. Where were the damn keys?
"I'm only calling because I want the police to get here first." Bonnie sounded young-ish. Twenty-five, maybe? Thirty? "I'm in a public place. I don't want kids to find me."
Roelke rifled the counter below the key hook. Papers sank to the floor with a languid rocking motion. Skeet snapped his fingers, then held up the keys. Roelke snatched them.
"I'm driving a Cadillac Cimarron," Bonnie said. "You'll find my wallet on top of the left front tire. I removed my credit cards, but left my ID. My keys will be in the right pocket of my jacket."
Roelke felt the seconds ticking by with frenzied impatience. He stared at Marie, willing her to find a way to stop this. Marie spread her hands in a helpless gesture, but said, "Please, Bonnie, just tell me where you are."
"I have a plastic garbage bag with me. I'll be as tidy as possible."
Roelke closed his eyes. He could feel Skeet quivering in the doorway beside him.
"Bonnie, please give us the chance to help you." Marie was clutching a pen so hard that her knuckles were white. "If you just wait until one of our officers can get there—"
"Please tell the officer that I'm sorry." An audible breath in, out. "I'll be three hundred paces up the White Oak Trail—"
Roelke and Skeet bolted outside. Roelke slid behind the wheel of the squad car and was almost out of the parking lot before Skeet got his door closed.
The White Oak Trail was a short loop in the Kettle Moraine State Forest. Twelve minutes tops, Roelke thought. "Call it in," he told Skeet. Marie would do it if she could, but there was still a chance that Marie would be able to keep Bonnie on the phone. To keep Bonnie talking. To keep Bonnie alive.
Skeet radioed for backup: Waukesha County, Department of Natural Resources, Eagle Fire and Rescue. Roelke switched on the flashers. He shot through a stop sign, then veered around a pickup that was too slow to yield.
"Hit the siren!" Skeet urged, as they left the village behind. He sat with feet and arms braced.
"No." Roelke's hands tightened on the wheel as they flew around a curve on Highway 59. "Maybe she's having second thoughts. If she hears us coming, she might pull the trigger."
"She didn't sound like she might have second thoughts."
"There's always a chance. Hold on." Roelke braked hard and turned onto a side road. The small parking area that marked the White Oak Trailhead was ahead on the right. Gravel flew as he swerved into the lot.
A white Cimarron sat in the shade of a huge old oak tree. No one was in sight. "Tell the EMTs to stage around the bend," Roelke said, as he pulled in beside the car. Maybe there was still time. Maybe—maybe—maybe.
He jumped from the squad—leaving the door open, still worried about noise—and hit the trail at a run. Twenty steps ... ninety seven ... one hundred thirty-two ...
At one hundred and eighty-six he rounded a bend and stopped abruptly. "God damn it."
The body lay on the trail beside an old stump and a clump of ferns. Sunlight sifting through the canopy dappled the garbage bag that partly shrouded the woman's head and shoulders. Jean-clad legs, feet in yellow high-heeled leather sandals with thin straps, extended from the bag. The woman's left hand was visible too, resting against the earth, palm-down. Her wedding band glittered with tiny diamonds.
The top of the garbage bag was not intact. Shreds of brown plastic and gray matter splattered the dirt and dead leaves nearby.
Roelke crouched on the right side of the body and carefully pulled aside what was left of the bag. He instinctively reached to check her pulse, but there was nothing left beneath her jaw to touch. In almost any circumstance he would begin CPR, but in this case ... "God damn it!" he exploded again. A 9 mm Smith and Wesson had fallen from Bonnie's hand, and lay near her throat.
Skeet emerged from the trees and skidded to a halt. He stared for a long moment, then leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Roelke didn't know if the other man was struggling with heat or exertion or nausea.
Roelke was struggling with searing rage. "I could have helped you," he muttered. "If you'd just given me a chance, I could have helped you!"
* * *
Within half an hour Roelke had carefully photographed the scene, tucked the handgun and shell casing into evidence bags, and established a perimeter. The medical examiner, a pudgy man with dispassionate eyes, arrived and did his own assessment of the body and its surroundings. Then he and Roelke watched two EMTs secure the body in a Stokes Basket for transport to the parking lot. Bonnie had positioned the gun under her chin, damaging the airway and eliminating any chance of keeping the physical body resuscitated long enough to harvest organs for donation.
Marge Bandacek, a Waukesha County deputy, sidled closer. "You want me to call in our evidence team?"
Roelke shook his head. "No need."
"We've got better equipment—"
"No need," Roelke repeated. As first on the scene, he'd taken command. He'd examined the area carefully, collected everything there was to collect, documented everything there was to document.
Marge opened her mouth, as if about to argue. Roelke fixed her with a stare. Although he'd bundled his anger deep inside, it hadn't diminished. This was state forest land, but the DNR responders weren't second-guessing him. He was in no mood to take any crap from Marge Bandacek.
Marge hitched up her belt as the EMTs began their march back to the ambulance. "If you say so."
Roelke waited until the parade had disappeared, and took one last look around. The police tape looked obscene in this peaceful place of greens and browns. He pounded one fist against his leg, and turned away.
Back at the parking lot, Skeet was handling the scene log. "Have you searched the car?" Roelke asked.
"Not yet," Skeet said. "Traffic control, including a couple of reporters."
"Piranhas," Roelke muttered. He didn't hate the press. He did hate reporters who thought it was OK to, in this case, broadcast a shot of Bonnie's car before the cops had a chance to reach the family. "I'll ask Bandacek to handle them."
After siccing Marge on the press, Roelke searched the Caddy. "Simon and Bonnie Sabatola," he read from the vehicle registration. The form listed a Town of Eagle address.
What he did not find was Bonnie Sabatola's wallet. "That's odd."
"What?" Skeet asked.
"She said she'd leave her wallet on top of the left front tire. It isn't there. It's not in the car, either."
Skeet leaned against the oak tree, folding his arms. "The woman was about to blow her brains out. I don't suppose she was thinking clearly."
"Clearly enough that she didn't want anyone but us to find her." Roelke turned away and scanned the gravel near the car. Nothing. He moved out in widening circles, moving the tall grasses bordering the lot with his foot. Still nothing. Finally he spotted an unnatural patch of brown along the trail, almost invisible against the leaf litter. "Got it."
"Hers?" Skeet called. He hadn't bothered to move from the shade.
Roelke flipped the wallet open. The coin pocket and bill slot were empty. Three of the four little credit card-sized sleeves were empty, too. The fourth held a Wisconsin driver's license. Roelke stared at Bonnie Sabatola's picture. Her face was thin and elegant; her chestnut hair obviously styled with care. Her expression seemed to hold something more than the blind stare he usually found in drivers' license pictures. Birth date, July 21, 1954. She had killed herself one week after her twenty-eighth birthday.
Bonnie Sabatola had been the same age he was.
Why did you do this? he asked her silently. What made you lose all hope?
The ME waddled from the woods. "That her license?"
"Yeah." Roelke handed it over.
The other man scrutinized it for a moment, then handed it back. "No doubt on the ID. Approximate time of death is consistent with the call she made to your office. I'll go through the motions, but the cause of death was obviously a self-inflicted gunshot wound."
The DNR ranger on the scene stopped a Chevy that had slowed to turn into the lot, and spoke through the window to the driver. Skeet straightened, dusting off his trousers. "Listen, do you mind if I catch a ride back to the station? I can still make class on time. You'll handle this, right?"
Handle it: the death notification, the paperwork. "I'll handle it," Roelke said. "But something isn't right."
"The wallet? Listen, she just tossed it on her way down the trail. It doesn't mean anything." Skeet waved a hand in a vague gesture of dismissal.
"The steps were off, too."
Skeet sighed. "What?" He had ginger hair, and a pale complexion that betrayed his impatience.
"The steps," Roelke repeated. "She said she'd be three hundred paces up the trail. I found her at one hundred and eighty-six."
"So what? You were running. No way her strides were as long as yours. I'll see you tomorrow." Skeet headed toward the ME's sedan. "Hey, Sid! Give me a ride?"
Roelke watched them go. Skeet was a family man who still found time to take college classes in Waukesha. That might well put him on top when the next full-time, permanent job opened up. The police department in Eagle, Wisconsin, was tiny. Roelke was committed to the department, and to the village he had come to care so much about. But opportunities for advancement were few and far between.
Then he stared back at the driver's license in his hand, at Bonnie Sabatola's enigmatic face, and his ambitions and worries disappeared. He looked again at the Cimarron, the clearing, the trailhead. Bonnie must have stood right there, by the little shed that housed the toilets, where a pay phone had been installed on the exterior wall. She'd already walked away from her car, and was halfway to the trailhead. So why had she told Marie that she'd leave her wallet on the tire?
Excerpted from The Heirloom Murders by Kathleen Ernst Copyright © 2012 by Kathleen Ernst. Excerpted by permission of Llewellyn. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
The Heirloom Murders star Chloe Ellefson, a much more settled character in this second murder mystery set in Wisconsin. Chloe is a collections curator for Old World Wisconsin, a living history museum. When her friend (and avid gardener) Dellyn's sister commits suicide, Chloe steps up to assist Dellyn in continuing to sort through their parents historic house. We get a peek into the past, as Ernst retells the story of a pioneer family that discovers a diamond while digging a well. This gem does become germane to the present story, as greed seems to be a problem for several characters in this mystery. I bounced around a bit in trying to figure out the who-dun-it, but enjoyed the conclusion to the story very much.
When Chloe agrees to help inventory a house full of collectibles, she learns about the history of the home and its occupants, especially about the missing Eagle Diamond. Someone wants the information contained in the collectibles and will do whatever it takes to purloin those records, including murder. What a story! This evenly-paced and action-filled tale takes place in the present with snippets from the past that lends itself in this nicely-done drama. I could not put this book down from the moment I finished the first chapter where the action was non-stop until the end. There were a lot of interwoven plots that moved the story along and kept me guessing throughout most of the book. With an intriguing plot, flashbacks to days gone by and a lovable cast of characters, this was a great and enjoyable read and I look forward to the next story in this wonderfully captivating series.
Kathleen Ernst's love of history, and historic places and items is certainly apparent in this second Chloe Ellefson mystery. The author's ability to create suspense emerges when, in a matter of days, Chloe is clunked over the head with a handemade gardening tool, and locked in a cheese house. She is also barnswangled into working again with her ex on a project in southwest WI while her wannabe boyfriend tries to determine if a woman found along a trail did, in fact, commit suicide or was murdered. Ernst does an excellent job of weaving the details into a fun, learn-a-little mystery.
Excellent book for light mystery and history lovers. Great characters and engaging plot. Would recommend reading Old World Murder first. Truly enjoyed both novels. Had the privilege of attending high school with the author.
I loved this book. First because they were a mini trip down memory lane, but Kathleen describes the settings so well you won't have had to visit the historic site to feel like you are right there in the farmhouses, the barns, or even Chloe's trailer office. Chloe also travels around the area and the author's words take us right along with her. I also enjoyed that Chloe really doesn't want to being the middle of any of the investigations, she would rather be doing her job as Curator of Collections, keep her boss off her back and spending time with her new friends. The best part though are the mysteries. They are so well plotted and intelligently written, with plenty of spins and spills, twists and turns. The characters take some turns and spills themselves. This story also educate us about the cultures of old Wisconsin in a subtle way. The back stories are as rich as the mysteries that unfold in each book. The way historical and modern times mesh together in these stories is truly delightful. You can feel Kathleen's passion for Old World Wisconsin in her words. She understands the history and the extra research she does for ideas is going to give her a wide range of things to shine a light on in future stories. Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Midnight Ink. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. Receiving a complimentary copy in no way reflected my review of this book. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 : "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
Kathleen Ernst is a very talented adult mystery writer who quickly gets the reader involved in her story and her characters' lives. Because Kathleen Ernst actually worked as a curator at Old World Wisconsin, her fictional tales have a sense of reality and the reader learns about the extensive passionate job anyone actually working at the Old World Wisconsin Museum must achieve to accurately portray Wisconsin's past heritage. For a reader to truly enjoy this book, I'd suggest that they read the first book in the trilogy, "Old World Murder" then go on to the second book. In addition to the wonderful characters and mysteries, both books enlighten the reader about the depth of work involved in being a museum curator and the rich heritage of Wisconsin's ancestors. I very much look forward to the last book in the trilogy. I enjoy a well-written mystery with all the many twists and turns and Kathleen Ernst develops her stories well and immediately captivates the reader. She also takes great care to maintain the accuracy of the Wisconsin locations that the fictional story is set-in. In my opinion, Kathleen Ernst weaves a fascinating mystery tale on par with excellent mystery writers like Sue Grafton, Lisa Scottoline, James Patterson, and Nora Roberts.