“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?”