“Business must be good.”
“It is, after a bumpy start.” She motions toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit? I was just about to have a glass of pinot noir. Would you like one?”
I pat my badge. “Better not, since I’m on duty.”
“I understand.” She crosses to the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and pours wine into a stemmed glass.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask.
Nodding, she turns back to me and sips. “Just me and Curly.”
“I take it Curly isn’t a man.”
She laughs. “He’s an eighteen-year-old Siamese that’s going senile. He’s around here somewhere.”
Since I’m not here to talk to the cat, I nod appropriately then get down to business. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Plank family murders.”
“I heard about it on the news, actually. I almost can’t believe something so horrible could happen here in Painters Mill.” Her brows go together. “Is that why you’re here?”
I nod. “Where were you Sunday night?”
Her eyes widen. “Me?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” I say easily. “I’m just verifying some information.”
“Oh, well . . .” She takes another sip. “I was here.” Her eyes sharpen. “Is this about Scott?”
I ignore her question. “Were you alone?”
“I was with Scott Barbereaux,” she says. “He’s my boyfriend.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” She bites her lip, thinking. “I made dinner for him—salmon, I believe—then we watched a movie. He probably got here about six-thirty or so.”
“What time did he leave?”
“About seven-thirty the next morning.”
“So he spent the night?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he leave at any time during the night?”
She gives me a distinctly feline smile. “No.”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“About six months now.”
“Do either of you date around?”
“We’re exclusive.”
“So you guys are pretty tight,” I state.
“Yes, I would say we’re tight.”
“Has he ever cheated on you?”
Her expression cools to just below the freezing point. “Look, is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I just need to clear up a few things.”
“Well, your questions are kind of personal.”
“I apologize for that.” I pause. “Does he know a girl by the name of Mary Plank?”
“What?” She blinks at me. “The dead Amish girl? Are you serious?”
I nod to let her know I am. “Did he ever mention her?”
“I don’t even think he knew the Plank family.” She hesitates, an emotion I can’t quite identify clouding her features. “Did he?”
It’s an odd question coming from a woman who claimed just a moment ago that she and her lover were close, and I can’t help but wonder if Scott Barbereaux is one of those men who has a difficult time with monogamy.
“I believe he may have had contact with her through the shop where she worked,” I clarify.
Her eyes widen in a slightly different way, as if she’s deciphered some hidden meaning behind my answer, and I realize despite her beauty, her obvious talent and her lovely home, Glenda Patterson is a jealous woman.
“Contact?” she repeats. “What do you mean? What kind of contact?”
“I believe he delivers coffee to the shop.”
“Oh.” She looks at me as if I’ve played a dirty trick on her and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. “These questions don’t sound very routine, Chief Burkholder.”
“I’m just establishing an alibi.”
“Now you have it. He was with me. In bed. All night.” She motions toward the door with her empty wineglass. “It’s getting late.”
“Thank you for your time.” I start toward the door.
She trails me to the foyer. I open the door and step onto the porch. “Have a nice evening,” I say.
Glenda Patterson slams the door behind me without responding.
My house is tucked away on a good-size lot on the edge of town. It’s a small two-bedroom, one-bath ranch built back in the 1960s with hardwood floors and the original tile. A big maple tree stands like a sentry in the front yard. The backyard is shady with several black walnut trees. The grass needs mowing and the shutters could use a coat of paint. But this is my home, my refuge, and I’m unduly glad to be here tonight.