I look at the darkened storefront of The Raspberry Leaf Gallery and I can’t help but think Julia Rutledge should be here instead of me, making coffee and preparing for another day. Instead, her body is on its way to the morgue and I’m here looking for clues that might tell me who hated her enough to murder her.
Grabbing my umbrella and my canvas equipment bag off the seat, I get out and jog to the sidewalk, where the striped overhead canopy shields me from the rain. I set down the bag, open it, and pull out shoe covers, gloves, and a disposable gown. Before going inside, I put on the protective gear, then pull the key chain from my pocket. The second key I try fits the door and I let myself in.
I find myself standing in a narrow space with gleaming hardwood floors and walls painted designer gray. Crisp white woodwork and wainscoting that looks original to the building. A good-size areca palm in a teal-colored pot sits near the window. The air smells the way an upscale art gallery should, with the faint aromas of bergamot and coffee and a hint of dark chocolate. In the far corner, a couple of sleek chairs with a retro ’60s-style fabric are grouped with a coffee table sporting an antique lamp. The long walls to my left and right are covered with paintings: There are a dozen or more oils on stretched canvas, a few photographs, and lots of acrylics in simple black frames. Each work of art has its own light. This morning, the lights are dark, as if in reverence to the absence of Julia Rutledge.
My shoe covers crackle as I venture deeper into the gallery. In the corner to my left, several canvases are set up on easels, and I remember reading in the local paper that Julia gave art classes here at the gallery one evening per week. A divider upon which an artist has painted a mural of an Amish horse and buggy trotting past a cemetery separates the showroom from the rear of the gallery. I walk past the divider. While the front section of the gallery is sleek and stylish, the rear is dedicated to the business side of running things. Ahead and to my right is a sink with a fat roll of paper towels mounted above it. There’s a shelf jammed with painting supplies and a glass-front cabinet filled with brushes and jars. The faint scent of turpentine laces the air. An espresso maker and a dozen or so colorful demitasse cups sit on the coffee station to my right. A door that’s been painted glossy red bears a sign that proclaims OFFICE.
I cross to the door and try the knob, but it’s locked. I dig for the keys and try several before locating the one that fits. The door opens to a small, cramped office. The lighting isn’t as good as it is up front. A high-end vacuum cleaner for hardwood floors sits in the corner. A pair of sneakers peeks out from under a battered wood desk set against the wall. A Tiffany lamp adorns the corner of the desk. Two lavender-colored folders are stacked neatly in the in-box. I pick up the top file and find credit card bills, gas bills, and an invoice from a local hardware store. The second file contains receipts from recent sales and photos of artwork.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for. Chances are I won’t find a damn thing that will be helpful in terms of the case. But if I’ve learned anything in the years I’ve been a cop, it never hurts to look.
I decide to search the desk first, only to discover it’s locked, too. I go back to the key chain and try the smallest key, which fits. I tug open the pencil drawer. It contains a phone message pad. Yellow sticky notes. A roll of postage stamps. A tube of lip gloss. Letter opener in the shape of a Toledo sword. Finding nothing of interest, I go to the second drawer. I see a box of fine-point Sharpies. A tin of handmade thank-you cards. A small dictionary. Box of tissues. Hand cream. I’m about to go on to the file drawer when, tucked beneath a roll of utility tape, several pieces of lined notebook paper catch my attention.
I pull out the papers; there are four, each of them folded twice. Though I’m wearing latex gloves, I touch only the corners and unfold the first one. Scrawled in blue ink are the words: Dale sends his regards from hell.
Surprise rattles through me. Quickly, I go to the second note, unfold it, and read. I know you were there. I page to the next sheet. You could have stopped them. The final note contains a single word: Murderer.
The notes are cryptic, threatening, and frightening. Someone had been terrorizing Julia Rutledge. But who? And why?
I turn on the Tiffany lamp. Light rains down on the four letters lying side by side on the desktop. That’s when it strikes me that they’re similar to the ones Norm Johnston gave me earlier. They’re written on the same type of paper, the same color of ink, and I’m pretty sure that if that handwriting isn’t the same, it’s damn close.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.
The only answer is the pound of rain against the roof and the echo of anxiety in my voice.
*