Seventeen

“The mill exploded?” Chloe repeated blankly. “Because of flour dust?”

Owen nodded. “On the second of May, 1878. The dust inside this mill was so thick the workers couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of them. We know now that flour packed densely into containers is generally safe, but when individual particles get suspended in the air in confined spaces, and they’re exposed to oxygen, the risk is enormous.”

“I had no idea.”

“All it took was a spark. The explosion and fire destroyed much of the commercial area along the riverfront, and it cut the city’s milling capacity in half. It also killed fourteen men working the night shift here, and four more nearby. A daytime explosion would have been much worse. After the explosion the mill was rebuilt with safer machinery, but the danger of fire and possible explosion never completely went away. There was always the chance that if a motor caught fire, flames could get sucked into the whole system. That could have led to another massive fire and explosion.”

My God, Chloe thought. That explains the fear lingering in this place. It wasn’t just the machinery, or the danger of suffocating in a grain bin.

“We interviewed a former employee who worked until 1965, when the mill closed,” Owen added. “He always feared that a fire might start and not get noticed right away. He worked the night shift, when just a few guys were on duty.”

Chloe’s eyebrows rose. “Just a few guys in this whole place? At night? Spooky.”

“Once there was a flour dust explosion in the next room. The man described the sound of it, and his eyes …” Owen shook his head. “Even years later, I could see terror reflected in his eyes.”

“Geez.” Chloe hoped that there wasn’t a cloud of flour dust inexplicably lingering in the next room now.

“There was another bad fire in 1928. The building was remodeled after that, and some of the milling machinery goes back to that time as well.” He gestured at the dust collectors. “For years the flour dust was considered a waste product. The local mills dumped three thousand pounds of bran, germ, and dust into the river every single day.”

“Wow,” Chloe murmured absently, but her mind was stuck in 1878. Everyone needs flour. She hadn’t realized that flour could also be deadly.

Roelke stood glaring at Kip, hands balled into fists, every muscle poised to spring. He had no idea how he and his old buddy had gotten to this place. He had no idea what to do about it. All he knew was that he needed to pound somebody into the pavement.

Kip reached beneath the bar, where he kept the damn baseball bat.

Don’t be a dumbass, McKenna!

The words were so clear that Roelke jerked his head, half-expecting to see Rick Almirez hooting with laughter because he’d just pulled the mother of all practical jokes on his best friend. Instead Roelke saw four women at the closest table, watching with expressions ranging from indignation to apprehension. The next table went quiet, then the next. Soon the tavern was silent.

Roelke turned and walked out of the Bar.

He kept walking, faster and faster, trying to outpace the thoughts banging around in his brain. Rick and Erin. Rick and Erin. There had to be a connection. There had to be. And that meant that Erin’s husband had just pole-vaulted to the top of his suspect list.

A passing taxi threw up a spray of slush. Roelke barely noticed it, or a car horn’s distant blare, or anything else. He was trying to understand the incomprehensible. Why was Kip lying? He had to be lying—

“Hey!” Someone grabbed the back of Roelke’s coat. He whirled and saw Danielle, coatless and panting. “Didn’t you—hear me?” she gasped. “I’ve—never seen Kip—go nuts like that. I said I was just—taking a ciggie break.”

Roelke felt his cop brain snap back to attention, angry that he’d let himself be oblivious to his surroundings. “Sorry. Why do you want to talk to me?”

“I heard part of what you said to Kip. And the thing is, I really liked Joanie.”

Roelke whipped out his photograph of Erin. “Is this her?”

Danielle covered most of the red curls with her thumbs. “She looks different now, but yeah. That’s definitely her.”

“Do you know why she quit?”

Danielle glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I didn’t even know she had quit until I got in today.”

“Do you know where I might find her?”

“I don’t know where she lived. She didn’t talk about herself at all.”

“How long did she work for Kip?”

Danielle shrugged. “I started three months ago, and she was already here.”

“Can you think of anything that might help me find her? I really am an old friend. I’m worried about her. I just want to be sure she’s safe.”

“I’m worried, too. I could tell she was scared of somebody.”

Her SOB husband, Roelke thought.

“All I have is this.” Danielle scrabbled in her pocket. “I found a sort of business card thing this morning under the coat hooks we use.”

Roelke felt his nerves quiver as Danielle extracted a creased business card. An address, a phone number—he’d be grateful for even the tiniest scrap of information.

He didn’t get an address. He got chickens. Two very pretty chickens, flanking a bouquet of flowers, printed in vibrant colors. It was all very artsy, and not the least bit helpful.

Danielle must have noted his disappointment. “There are two words on the back.”

Sure enough. Someone had penciled Linka-Małgorzata on the back. “Do you know what that means?”

“Nope.”

Roelke didn’t either. Linka might be a name. The whole thing sounded vaguely Polish. Dobry’s family was Polish, so at least he had someone to ask. “Did Erin—Joanie—ever mention art school? Anything like that?”

“No. She didn’t say much of anything personal, though. Look, I gotta get back.”

“Here.” Roelke fumbled for one of his own business cards. “If you hear from her, or hear anything else about her, please call me.”