I wait, saying nothing, reestablishing eye contact, looking for a chink in his righteous armor.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention the call,” he says, “but as you must know by now, I’ve got a past, too, and I’m not exactly proud of it. I didn’t want it dredged up and I didn’t want to involve the church. You know how folks are around here. They like their gossip, and they’ve got long memories when it comes to that sort of thing. Some people in this town still look at me like I’m a criminal.”
He’s right about the gossip. Having been the subject of many a malicious conversation when I was an Amish teen and left the fold, I know how painful it can be. But I’m not sure I believe the slew of explanations he’s so diligently thrown out for me, and I don’t cut him any slack.
“Are you?” I ask. “A criminal?”
“I did my time. Paid my due to society. And by the grace of God, I turned my life around.”
It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer my question. Rising, I extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”
He gets to his feet and we shake. “I’m a firm believer in that everyone gets their due, Chief Burkholder, even if they don’t get their day in court.”
“It’s my job to make sure they get that day in court.”
I feel his eyes burning into my back as I make my exit.
CHAPTER 9
Julia “Jules” Rutledge locked the gallery doors at 7 P.M. Usually at the end of the day, she liked to wind down with a glass of chardonnay in her small office at the rear. She should be feeling celebratory this evening, especially since she’d sold the most expensive painting of her career earlier in the day. It was an oil she’d aptly titled Nochmiddawks, the Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch word for “in the afternoon.” She’d completed it last summer and priced it well above market value. It was an Impressionistic style and depicted an Amish girl walking alongside a tree-shrouded dirt road, her feet bare, the strings of her kapp dangling down her back. It was one of the few paintings she’d done that she actually loved. One of the few in which she thought she’d captured the magical light of dusk. The softness of the summer air. The thin rise of dust in golden sunlight. And the heart of a girl whose life was straightforward and simple—two elements people seemed to long for these days. Jules certainly did.
The sale was a surprise since business was usually slow this time of year. Things didn’t pick up until summer, when tourists from all over the world flocked to Holmes County to ogle the buggies, savor the home-cooked food and locally made cheeses, and take in the beautiful countryside.
Ten years in the making, The Raspberry Leaf Gallery was a dream come true. A dream for which she’d made sacrifices and worked like a madwoman to achieve. It was the place where she was the woman she’d always wanted to be. An artist and lover of beautiful things. The gallery had always been a safe place the past could never sully.
But the past had found her, like a monster capable of gaining entry by seeping under doors and through the cracks of the windowsills, like a vicious winter wind. She’d found the most recent note upon her return from lunch. It was taped on the alley door. A single word scrawled on a sheet of lined notebook paper in blue ink. Murderer.
The sight of it had shaken her so thoroughly, she’d nearly closed early and gone home. But Jules knew there was no running from this. No escape. Someone knew she’d been there that night; someone knew what they’d done. And she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.
How do you stop a ghost?
For the dozenth time, she thought about Dale, what had happened to him, the atrocity that was his death. And she knew that even locked away in a place where she’d always felt safe, she wasn’t. None of them were. She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who to turn to or who to trust. She thought about calling the police, but knew that would raise too many questions. Questions she had absolutely no desire to answer.
On impulse, she picked up the landline and called the only person she could think of. “It’s Jules,” she said. “I received another note this afternoon. Here, at the gallery. I’m scared.”
A too-long silence on the other end. “You’re calling from the gallery?”
“Yes.”
“The police know about Dale’s phone calls to us.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I know that’s … dangerous at this point. I just … This is serious. For God’s sake, someone murdered him. I’m fucking scared.”
He sighed. “Do you want to meet? Same place?”
“I thought maybe we could talk. See if we can come up with … a plan or something.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “I don’t know what to do.”
“All right. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks. See you then.” Grabbing her bag off the credenza behind her desk, she took a final look at her gallery and left through the back door.