I try to reach Norm on his cell phone twice on my way to the Painters Mill City Building, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. When I call his office line directly, I’m informed by the administrative assistant that he called in sick this morning.
“Shit,” I mutter, and make a quick turn into the Dairy Dream, which is closed for the season, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. Worry nips at my heels as I head toward the Maple Crest subdivision where he lives, and I crank the speedometer up to sixty. The lighted waterfall cascading from atop a stone wall greets me as I make the turn into the subdivision. The homes are spacious and new here, the oversize lots professionally landscaped. My tires hiss against the wet blacktop as I look for Walnut Hill Lane. Another left, and I spot the stucco-and-stone ranch three houses down.
I park in the driveway, where rain beads on a Lexus with the dealership sticker still in the window, letting everyone know he’d laid down sixty thousand dollars for it. Or maybe that’s just my less-than-affectionate feelings for Norm shining through. Rain patters against my head and shoulders as I get out and start toward the door. I use the brass knocker, aware that my pulse is up and that I’m suddenly terrified I’ll find something inside besides an unpleasant conversation. I’m keenly aware of my hair getting wet. Damp soaking through my jacket to chill my shoulders and arms.
Relief slips through me when I hear the security chain and bolt lock disengage; then the door swings open. Norm Johnston stands just inside, frowning at me as if I’m some vagrant off the street, looking for a handout.
“I tried to reach you at the office and your cell,” I tell him.
“I called in sick,” he tells me. “There’s a security company coming out to install an alarm system.”
I nod. “I need to talk to you about those notes.”
“Why? Has something happened? Did you figure out who’s sending them?” His expression is frightened and grave as he ushers me into a foyer with a high ceiling from which a chandelier dangles. To my right, a glass-and-iron console table holds a porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers. Norm and his wife divorced shortly after their daughter’s death. Carol got the bank account and moved to Pittsburgh, where her parents live. Johnston got the house and the opportunity to live up to his reputation as a womanizer. I’m reminded that when it comes to murder, the deceased is rarely the only victim.
I follow him to a comfortable living room with leather furniture and an oversized wood coffee table. The flat screen is tuned to a morning television program out of Columbus.
“Have you received any more notes?” I ask.
“No. Why?”
“Jules Rutledge was murdered a few hours ago.”
“Wh—what?”
“She’d been receiving notes, Norm. Just like the ones you showed me.”
He stares at me, blinking, the color draining from his face. “But … Jules? Dead? How?”
“Stabbed to death. In her home.”
“Oh my God. Ohmigod.” He sets his hands on either side of his temples. I can’t tell if he’s trying to block out my voice and the news I’ve just relayed or deny that it’s happening.
“Norm, did you know them? Jules Rutledge and Dale Michaels?”
“No,” he says defensively.
“There’s got to be a connection. At least between you and Rutledge,” I say. “The notes you showed me are exactly the same as the ones I found at her gallery.”
“Oh Jesus,” he says. “Jesus.”
The pattern of denial is clear. Blue Branson. Julia Rutledge. Jerrold McCullough. And now Norm Johnston. Each of them adamantly denied being friends with the others. Why?
“Norm, if you knew them, now would be a good time to tell me,” I press. “Two people are dead and there’s no doubt in my mind there’s some connection to you.”
He tries to cover his discomfiture with a laugh, but this time the sound that squeezes from his throat more resembles a whimper. “Look, I may have had a beer or two with them, but I didn’t run with them. We weren’t friends.”
“You mean recently?”
“No. When we were young. High school, for chrissake.”
“So then, what’s the connection?”
“I don’t know. Maybe all of this is … random.”
“This is not random.” I take a breath, ratchet back my impatience with him, and soften my voice. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”
“What do you want from me?” he cries.
“The truth. All of it.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
I pause long enough to let him absorb everything that’s been said. “Norm, I haven’t put all of this together yet, but I think these two murders may be related to a cold case from back in 1979,” I tell him. “The Hochstetler case.”
“I remember it. That Amish family. But I was only a teenager at the time.”
“Did you know the Hochstetlers?”
He hesitates. “No.”
“Do you know anything about what happened the night that family was murdered?”
“Of course not.” He makes a sound of disbelief. “What the hell are you insinuating?”