The Dead Will Tell (12 page)

“Are you friends?”

“No, but I knew him back in high school.”

“Were Dale and Blue friends?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen either of them in years.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find the person who did this?” I ask.

For an instant, his eyes search mine. Then he looks away. “That’s all I know.”

I hand him my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.” I catch his gaze again and hold it. “Day or night.”

“All right.”

Midway to the Explorer, Skid says, “That son of a bitch is a terrible liar.”

“I got the same impression.” I reach the vehicle and look at him across the hood, pleased I’m not the only one who noticed. “The question is, what is he lying about and why?”

“Gotta be hiding something.”

“Or he’s guilty of something.”

“You think he’s involved in the murder? Hired it out, maybe?”

“If he did, we don’t have a motive. And it sure doesn’t explain the Amish peg doll.” I think about that a moment. “But he’s hiding something.” I unlock the door and slide inside.

Skid does the same and I look at him across the seat. “You have time for one more stop?”

“Sure.”

I put the Explorer in gear. “Maybe Julia Rutledge can shed some light.”

CHAPTER 10

Julia Rutledge lives in a stately home surrounded by mature trees in an established neighborhood of Painters Mill. I pull into the driveway and park behind a green Jaguar XJ6.

“Nice wheels,” Skid says as I shut down the engine.

“A little above your pay grade,” I say. “So is she.”

“A guy can hope.”

“Are you referring to the car or the woman?”

At his grin, I get out and slam the door. We walk in silence to the well-lit front porch, where baskets of pansies and asparagus ferns hang from freshly painted eaves. It’s raining again, but I can hear the television inside. I knock and a moment later a female voice comes at me through the door. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Ms. Rutledge.”

“Would you mind showing me your ID?”

“No problem.” Surprised by her vigilance, I glance at Skid as I reach for my badge. He looks back at me and shrugs. I hold my ID a foot or so from the peephole. A moment later the bolt lock snaps open. I hear the security chain disengage. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a striking woman with wavy blond hair that falls well past her shoulders and perfectly arched brows that frame eyes the color of lake ice. At fifty-three years of age, Julia Rutledge is attractive with a slender, athletic build and cheekbones any runway model would pay a year’s salary to possess. She’s wearing a pale blue linen blouse with black slacks. Bloodred toenails peek out of embroidered espadrilles.

“Julia Rutledge?” I show her my badge again.

Taking her time, she gives it another once-over. “Sorry about that. A single woman can’t be too careful these days.” She has the deep and melodic voice of Lauren Bacall, but with a touch of the South. Her gaze sweeps to Skid and her mouth curves. “Hello.”

Skid touches his hat. “Ma’am.”

“This is Officer Skidmore,” I tell her. “May we come inside? We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Please do. It’s awful out there.” She steps back and opens the door wider. “Weatherman says there’s more on the way.”

Skid and I step into a large, neat living room with gleaming hardwood floors covered with an Amish-made braided rug. An oil painting depicting an Amish woman standing in the middle of a wheat field, a woven basket in hand and a dog at her side is displayed on the wall next to the fireplace. The air smells of cigarette smoke that’s not quite masked by the otherwise-pleasant scent of vanilla.

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her.

“Thank you.”

I motion at the painting. “Are you the artist?”

She smiles at the painting as if it’s a cherished old friend. “A doctor up in Wooster asked me to paint that one for him.” She chuckles. “When I finished, I couldn’t part with it.”

“I hope he understood.”

“He didn’t.” But she waves it off. “Such is the life of an artist.”

“Mrs. Rutledge—”

“Call me Jules, please.”

“Jules,” I repeat. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but a Painters Mill man by the name of Dale Michaels was murdered a couple of days ago.”

“I heard about it at the gallery today. Just … awful.”

Though she doesn’t actually move, she seems to curl in on herself. Then without a word, she crosses to the nearest end table and snags a pack of cigarettes. I watch as she taps one from the pack and lights up. That’s when I notice the Beretta on the lower shelf of the end table, within easy reach from the sofa.…

I wait, wondering if she’ll mention the call he made to her the night he was killed.

“I’d been talking to him about a painting he wanted to buy,” she tells me. “He told me he’d walked by my gallery one evening after hours and saw it in the window.”

“When was that?”

“I think it was the day before he was killed,” she tells me.

“Were you and Dale friends?”

She shakes her head. “I knew him in high school, but then everyone knew everyone in high school back then. Until that night, I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

“Do you always take late-night calls from people you don’t know?”

Her eyes sharpen on mine. “That particular call came in on the gallery number. I had forwarded calls to my cell and just happened to pick up.”

I nod. “Did you talk about anything besides the painting?”

“I don’t think so. He mainly wanted to know if it was for sale and how much I wanted for it.”

“Do you know Blue Branson?” I ask.

“I see him around town on occasion.” She considers me a moment. “We went to high school together.”

“What about Jerrold McCullough?”

“What about him?”

“You went to school with all three of those men, didn’t you?”

“Painters Mill is a small town, Chief Burkholder. If you have a point, I’d appreciate it if you’d make it.”

“Did you keep in touch with any of them after high school?”

“No.”

I nod. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us figure out who killed Dale Michaels?”

“If I think of something, I promise I’ll let you know.”

I hold her gaze for a moment. She doesn’t look away. She’s got pretty eyes, I think. But there’s something in their depths I can’t quite put my finger on. Secrets? Fear?

I motion toward the pistol on the lower shelf of the coffee table. “Any particular reason you keep that so handy?”

“I’m not breaking the law, am I?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m just curious.”

“With news of this murder … I was feeling uneasy, I guess.”

I nod. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Rutledge.”

I reach for the knob and open the door. Skid and I step onto the front porch. Jules Rutledge follows as far as the doorway. “I hope you find the killer.”

“I’ll do my best,” I assure her.

She closes the door. I hear the bolt lock and the security chain being engaged and look at Skid. “She seem kind of nervous about something to you?”

He nods. “Definitely uptight about security.”

“She doesn’t look like the type to keep a pistol handy while she’s watching TV.” I start down the steps.

“You think she’s afraid because of the murder?” he asks.

“Or else she’s expecting trouble.”

*   *   *

It’s past nine thirty, and I’m in the process of packing the file and my computer into my laptop case when a knock sounds at my door. I glance up to see Town Councilman Norm Johnston standing in the doorway, looking like he’d been physically dragged into my lair and I’m about to jab my spider fangs into his heart and suck out all his blood.

He’s not one of my favorite people, and the sentiment runs both ways, I’m sure. Shortly after I became chief, I busted him for a DUI, dashing his mayoral aspirations and setting the tone for an adversarial relationship that’s lasted almost four years now. The rift deepened during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation when his daughter was murdered. I was the primary investigator, and like so many family members of victims, he blamed me.

“Hi, Norm.” I set down my laptop case. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

Norm is never comfortable around me. I know it’s because he doesn’t like me, but his job requires him to set his personal feelings aside. Tonight, I get the sense there’s another reason for his discomfort.

“I need to talk to you.” He enters my office and closes the door behind him. “Confidentially.”

I wonder if he’s going to cut my budget again despite the fact that it’s barely enough to keep my small department afloat. I mentally shore myself up, formulating my arguments as he settles into the visitor chair across from my desk.

“I think someone’s stalking me,” he begins.

It was the last thing I expected him to say. I try not to show my surprise. “Who?”

He glances over his shoulder at the door, as if expecting someone to come through it and catch him in here with me, and I realize he’s not merely upset; he’s frightened. “I’m not sure, but in light of this recent murder, I thought I should let you know.”

I may not like Norm, but I’ve never known him to be an alarmist. I know he wouldn’t be here talking to me about this if it wasn’t serious. As a cop, I’ve learned to take any threat seriously.

I pull out a yellow legal pad. “Tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

He reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves several folded sheets of what looks like lined notebook paper. “I found the first one taped to my car window. Three days ago.”

I open my drawer and pull out a single latex glove, then work my right hand into it. I take the papers, lay them on my desktop, and unfold them. I see cursive scrawl in blue ink.
You knew.
Nothing else. Puzzled, I go to the second page.

You looked the other way.
I go to the final page.
You’re next.

“Kind of cryptic,” I say.

“Not to mention threatening,” he says.

“Do you have any idea why someone would send them to you? Or what the notes refer to?”

“Some nutcase.” He shrugs. “Maybe some council business I was involved with? A decision I made someone didn’t agree with. Believe me, it happens.”

I nod, but sense I’m not getting the whole story. “You said this was taped on your windshield and yet it doesn’t look as if it’s been wet.”

“My car was parked in the garage.”

“So whoever left this entered your home without permission?”

“That’s correct.”

“That’s trespassing.” I think about that a moment. “Any idea how they got in?”

“There’s a dog door that goes into the backyard. Probably came in at night.”

Turning, I pull an evidence bag from a drawer in my credenza. I slide the notes into it and then seal it. “I’ll send these to the lab to see if they can pick up some latents.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know, Norm, most stalking victims know their stalkers or they’ve had some contact with them at some point.” I make the statement without looking at him.

“Well, I have no idea who this is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Do you think it’s from a male or female?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

I tap the evidence bag with my finger. “Are these the only notes you’ve received?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything else unusual happened? At home? At your office? Or when you’ve been out and about?”

“No.”

“What about social media? Facebook or Twitter? Or e-mail? Any strange messages? Or phone calls?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Anything taken from your garage?”

“I checked. No.” Pulling a kerchief from the pocket of his jacket, he blots at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “This person came into my home, Chief Burkholder. In light of this recent and as-of-yet-unsolved murder, I felt as if I was being threatened.”

I pick up the evidence bag and recite the notes aloud from memory. “‘You knew.’ ‘You looked the other way.’ ‘You’re next.’” I furrow my brow. “They seem to be referring to a specific incident,” I say. “You’re sure you don’t have any idea what this stalker is referring to? Maybe he or she feels you’ve somehow wronged them? Maybe you had an argument or altercation that you didn’t think was important or significant at the time?”

“I have no idea what they could be referring to.”

“Norm, I know it’s frightening when something like this happens, and I know it can be disruptive to your life, but we don’t know that it’s related in any way to the murder.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he says defensively. “I said in light of the unsolved murder, I felt I should let you know.” He lowers his voice. “I’d appreciate some protection, Chief Burkholder. I want a police car at my house. At least at night.”

I pause to choose my words with care, because I know he’s not going to respond well to what I’m about to tell him. “Norm, I’m not discounting the threat posed to you by these notes. I think we should take this very seriously. But as town councilman, you know I don’t have the manpower to assign an officer to you, especially with this homicide on my hands.”

“I’m part of the governing body of this town. It’s your responsibility as chief to keep me and the rest of the citizens of Painters Mill safe from harm.”

“I can step up patrols—”

“I’ll go over your head. I’ll—”

I cut him off. “Norm, all you can do at this point is be vigilant about your personal safety. Keep your doors and windows locked. Keep your alarm system engaged. Be aware of your surroundings—”

“I don’t have an alarm system,” he snaps.

“Well, then get one installed,” I say firmly. “If you’re frightened, I suggest you hire private security.”

“Private security? Are you kidding?” He rises so abruptly, the chair back strikes the wall and chips the paint. “I knew better than to come in here and ask for anything from you.”

I rise as well. “Norm, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”