The sketch progresses with excruciating slowness. Deborah is infinitely patient. Several times, Alma and William jump in to translate a term for Billy. The boy sometimes uses fruits and vegetables when he is referring to colors. “Like a peach” or “like corn right before harvest.” Hair is “like a dog.” Round is “ball.”
Four hours and three cups of coffee into the process, it strikes me that despite Deborah’s talent, the sketch is not going to happen. Billy is unsure about too many of the details and changes his mind more than a dozen times. Deborah spends much of her time reworking the sketch.
It’s after nine P.M. when Deborah packs up her tools. I thank the Zooks for their time and help, and give Billy a five-dollar bill. I’m disheartened as I climb into the Explorer.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get a viable sketch for you,” she says. “People see things in different ways. Billy isn’t visually oriented, but I think he did his best.”
“It was worth a shot.” But all I can think is that I’m back to square one. “You must be exhausted. Would you like me to put you up at the motel for the night?”
“Thank you, but I’ll drive back tonight.” She grins. “Husband is expecting me.”
I drop her at the station where her car is parked. Normally, I’d go inside and spend a few minutes chatting with Jodie. Tonight, my mood is so low, all I want to do is go home, dive into bed with my bottle of Absolut and pull the covers over my head. Of course, I can’t.
I don’t know if it’s the cop in me, my empathy for Mary Plank, or some inflated sense of justice because of what happened to me when I was fourteen. But I cannot—will not—accept the possibility of someone getting away with these crimes. The thought is like a dentist drilling an exposed nerve.
On the way home, I brood over my lackluster inventory of suspects. With Long’s posthumous confession, all I have left are James Payne, Aaron Plank and Scott Barbereaux. Of the three, I like Payne the best. He’s got the three pillars of police work: motive, means and opportunity. Not to mention a heart full of hate. That puts him at the top of the list.
I think about Aaron Plank, try to consider all the angles, but no matter how I look at the big picture, I don’t see him as a serious contender for murder, particularly with that level of violence.
My mind moves on to Barbereaux. He has an alibi, but that doesn’t necessarily eliminate him as a suspect, mainly because I haven’t yet verified it. Glancing at my watch, I realize that’s something I might be able to get done yet tonight. Instead of making a left onto my street, I hang a U-turn and head east.
If you live in Painters Mill and you can afford it, the Maple Crest housing development is the epitome of location, location, location. The homes are spacious with large lots and lushly landscaped yards. A lighted waterfall cascading from a stone wall with the words Maple Crest etched into the rock greets me when I turn onto the smooth asphalt street.
Glenda Patterson lives in a stucco-and-brick ranch with high, arching windows and a giant maple tree that must have cost a small fortune to have planted. A sleek red Volvo sits in the driveway. The lights are on inside, so I pull in and park behind the car.
Patterson has her own interior design shop in Millersburg. She must be doing well, because a house like this one isn’t cheap. I knock and try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me this is yet another exercise in futility.
A moment later the porch light flicks on. I sense someone checking me out through the peephole, so I face forward and give her a moment to identify me. An instant later, the door swings open and I find myself facing a petite blonde with huge baby-blue eyes and a mouth a lot of women would give a year’s salary to possess.
“Glenda Patterson?”
Those baby blues widen, and she cranes her head to look behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A case I’m working on.” I smile, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sorry about the late hour.”
She relaxes marginally and gives me a nervous laugh. “I’m not used to seeing the police on my doorstep.”
“I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“It’s okay.” She steps aside. “Come in.”
The house is warm and smells of eucalyptus and lemon oil. The living room is tastefully decorated with a minimalist style and bold colors that run to the avant-garde. Teal walls contrast nicely with a sleek, black leather sofa. Two matching turquoise chairs sit adjacent to a stainless-steel-and-glass coffee table. Pillows with metallic stitching draw the silver theme back to the sofa. It’s an open concept home, and I can see the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops of a state-of-the-art kitchen from where I stand.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Thank you.” She beams at the compliment. “This was my first big design project.”
I nod approvingly. “You’re good.”
“Thanks.” She flashes a professionally enhanced white smile. “I just opened my office six months ago.”