“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.
“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.”