The door swings open and I find myself looking at a short gray-haired man with a snarlish mouth and wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are smeared with fingerprints.

“Jerrold McCullough?” I ask.

“You’re looking at him.” I hear a hint of the Kentucky hills in his voice. He looks past me at Skid, but he doesn’t smile and makes no move to let us in. “If you’re here to evacuate me, I’m not leaving, so you might as well just turn around and go.” He jabs his thumb in the general direction of the road. “That creek back there hasn’t flooded in thirty years, and it’s not going to flood now.”

“We’re not here about the flooding, Mr. McCullough,” I assure him. “We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions about Dale Michaels.”

“Dale, huh?” He grimaces. “I heard about the murder. Hell of a thing.” But he makes no move to invite us inside and I find myself hoping it doesn’t start raining harder. Talking to McCullough is going to be unpleasant enough without doing it with wet hair and cold rain pouring down my neck.

“Do you mind if we come inside, sir?” I ask.

He’s staring at me as if he’s afraid we’re going to force our way in and cart him off against his will. But after a moment he steps back and opens the door. “Might as well. Come on.”

We enter a living room that’s lit by a single lamp and the glowing screen of an old-fashioned tube television set. I get the sense of a cramped, claustrophobic room. It doesn’t take me long to realize McCullough is a hoarder. The room is jam-packed with every type of household item you can think of. Piles of clothing, shoes, and newspapers are scattered everywhere. A small plastic doghouse is shoved against the wall. Magazines spill from cardboard boxes with busted sides. The smell is worse than the mess, an unpleasant combination of a recently microwaved TV dinner, moldy towels, and a bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time.

I glance over at Skid. He’s not exactly a neatnik, but he’s looking around the place as if he’s afraid of picking up some contagion. We’re standing in the entryway and there’s barely enough room for the three of us to face each other and speak from a comfortable distance. McCullough doesn’t seem to notice.

“You get the person who did it?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “But we are following up on some pretty solid leads.”

He licks his lips, his eyes flicking to Skid and then back to me. “What kind of leads?”

I give him a pointed look. “Were you and Dale friends?”

“I knew him. A long time ago. You know, high school.” He gestures with the final word and I notice his right hand is missing at the wrist. The flesh is puckered with layers of scar tissue. He doesn’t appear to be self-conscious about it and makes no effort to conceal it.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I ask.

Same as Blue Branson, McCullough walks right into the trap. “It’s been a while.” He shrugs. “Seen him around town a few times.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I saw him at the grocery store. Gas station a couple weeks ago.”

“Mr. McCullough, Dale Michaels’s cell phone records show that the two of you had a conversation the day before he was murdered.”

His eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses. For a moment he looks flustered. “Oh. That.” His laugh is forced. “Nearly forgot.”

“Why did he call you?” I ask.

He blinks at me, his eyes darting, and it strikes me that Jerrold McCullough isn’t nearly as good a liar as Blue Branson. But why would he lie about his relationship with Dale Michaels? “Mr. McCullough, if you could just answer the question, I’d appreciate it.”

“He called me just to see how I was doing. That’s all. Just to say hello. You know.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“Did he happen to mention a meeting or say he was meeting someone later?”

“No, he didn’t say anything about a meeting.”

I spend fifteen minutes going through the same questions I posed to Blue Branson. McCullough seems to have settled into the idea of the police showing up at his door. He keeps his cool and his answers are consistent. Still, in those first few minutes, he’d seemed shaken and uncertain.

“Did Dale have any enemies that you know of?” I ask. “Anyone who didn’t like him or might’ve been holding a grudge?”

“I don’t know. He was a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to do him harm.” He shrugs. “Everyone liked Dale. He was a family man. A dad and a grandpa. Worked hard his whole life.” His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I get the sense his answer isn’t rehearsed. “He shouldn’t have met that kind of end. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“How well do you know Blue Branson?”

“Pastor Branson?” His hesitation is so subtle, I might have missed it if I hadn’t been anticipating it. He shakes his head and I notice him rubbing the stump of his right wrist. I wonder if it’s a nervous habit. I wonder what he has to be nervous about. “I know who he is, what with the church and all.”

“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.