Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,45
Sergeant turned to behold a smiling man waiting at a large, handcrafted oak table. There were two plates on the table, and the smell of pasta and tomato sauce coming from a small stove tucked in the far corner of the cabin.
The glass window above the stove had fogged from heat, but the smell sent the Sergeant’s stomach rumbling.
“Are you hungry, dear Joseph?” the woman asked.
The table was very large. Much larger than suited the cabin, the Sergeant thought to himself. There were also a few seats around it, all of them empty. He counted six chairs in total; only two of them had plates in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, nodding politely toward the man who was also sitting. “How do you do?”
The man had gray hair, and eyes wrinkled with laugh lines. “Hello,” the man said.
“Hello, I was just telling your, er friend?”
“Wife,” the man corrected, quickly, with a disarming smile. He gestured at the Sergeant. “Come, sit.”
Again, he was struck at the lack of fear. They were just inviting him into their home. It felt like a dream sequence. Why were they so trusting?
This, strangely, aroused a sudden spurt of distrust in the Sergeant. At the same time, it came with a flash of guilt. Warmth and hospitality created distrust. Heavens, if his mother could see him now.
Eventually, the Sergeant explained himself again, explained he was part of a search party and that he was a police officer. The Kloses invited him to sit. Mr. Klose finished heating up the food, and then his wife moved and served plates for all three of them.
“I grow the tomatoes myself. I hope you like it,” she said.
The Sergeant nodded politely. He wasn’t sure why he sat, nor why he didn’t push the food away. Something about all of it seemed so… inviting. He took a bite of the food, and could feel his stomach grumbling as he did. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. Normally, the Sergeant wasn’t one for rabbit food. Namely, anything without meat. But the pasta and the tomato sauce was quite good. He said as much, thanking them.
He glanced around the small cabin, trying not to make a big deal of it. There were still no curtains on the windows. Not even from the inside. He spotted a bed next to a fireplace and decided that the single room he’d spotted earlier likely led to the bathroom.
There were no photos on the walls, nor TVs that he could see. He was starting to like these folks even more.
“As I was telling you,” he said, after another bite of the spaghetti, “we’re out here searching. You haven’t seen anything suspicious, have you?”
Mrs. Klose laughed a clear, tinkling sound. “Suspicious? No. We’ve been here for a few years now. Haven’t seen anything like that.”
Her husband nodded in confirmation.
“A few years?” said the Sergeant. “Do you own the land?”
Mr. Klose said, “Yes. Certainly. Everything is legal. We have the permit, and I have copies of the papers here. I keep some of them up at the bank. If you’d like I could show you.”
The Sergeant quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, to be honest with you,” said Mrs. Klose, reaching out a hand and touching him gently on the back of his hand. The Sergeant felt a shudder, and just as quickly suppressed it. The woman had kind eyes, and she fixed them on him. “I’m very sorry to hear why you’re out here. We’re no strangers to tragedy. We used to live in Berlin. Big city living. But our son, well, he was killed at the time.”
The woman’s voice cracked, and she looked away, her hand still pressed against the Sergeant’s.
The warmth from her fingertips warmed his own.
If Mr. Klose seemed jealous or upset by the proximity, he didn’t show it. Instead, in a gentle voice, he said, “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.” He rubbed her shoulder and allowed her to continue.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking, tears slipping down her delicate cheek. “You don’t want to hear anything about our story. Look, if we see anything, we’re happy to tell you. Any questions, we’ll answer. Is there something you want to know?”
The Sergeant hesitated. Caught off guard again. The Kloses just seemed like nice folks. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about your loss. Your son was killed, you say?”
The woman nodded, grief emanating from the gesture.
“I’m no stranger to loss either,” said the Sergeant.