Glenda Patterson lives in a stucco-and-brick ranch with high, arching windows and a giant maple tree that must have cost a small fortune to have planted. A sleek red Volvo sits in the driveway. The lights are on inside, so I pull in and park behind the car.

Patterson has her own interior design shop in Millersburg. She must be doing well, because a house like this one isn’t cheap. I knock and try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me this is yet another exercise in futility.

A moment later the porch light flicks on. I sense someone checking me out through the peephole, so I face forward and give her a moment to identify me. An instant later, the door swings open and I find myself facing a petite blonde with huge baby-blue eyes and a mouth a lot of women would give a year’s salary to possess.

“Glenda Patterson?”

Those baby blues widen, and she cranes her head to look behind me. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“A case I’m working on.” I smile, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sorry about the late hour.”

She relaxes marginally and gives me a nervous laugh. “I’m not used to seeing the police on my doorstep.”

“I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“It’s okay.” She steps aside. “Come in.”

The house is warm and smells of eucalyptus and lemon oil. The living room is tastefully decorated with a minimalist style and bold colors that run to the avant-garde. Teal walls contrast nicely with a sleek, black leather sofa. Two matching turquoise chairs sit adjacent to a stainless-steel-and-glass coffee table. Pillows with metallic stitching draw the silver theme back to the sofa. It’s an open concept home, and I can see the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops of a state-of-the-art kitchen from where I stand.

“Nice place,” I say.

“Thank you.” She beams at the compliment. “This was my first big design project.”

I nod approvingly. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.” She flashes a professionally enhanced white smile. “I just opened my office six months ago.”

“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.”