Since I’m not here to talk to the cat, I nod appropriately then get down to business. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Plank family murders.”

“I heard about it on the news, actually. I almost can’t believe something so horrible could happen here in Painters Mill.” Her brows go together. “Is that why you’re here?”

I nod. “Where were you Sunday night?”

Her eyes widen. “Me?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” I say easily. “I’m just verifying some information.”

“Oh, well . . .” She takes another sip. “I was here.” Her eyes sharpen. “Is this about Scott?”

I ignore her question. “Were you alone?”

“I was with Scott Barbereaux,” she says. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“What time did he arrive?”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” She bites her lip, thinking. “I made dinner for him—salmon, I believe—then we watched a movie. He probably got here about six-thirty or so.”

“What time did he leave?”

“About seven-thirty the next morning.”

“So he spent the night?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he leave at any time during the night?”

She gives me a distinctly feline smile. “No.”

“How long have you two been dating?”

“About six months now.”

“Do either of you date around?”

“We’re exclusive.”

“So you guys are pretty tight,” I state.

“Yes, I would say we’re tight.”

“Has he ever cheated on you?”

Her expression cools to just below the freezing point. “Look, is he in some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all. I just need to clear up a few things.”

“Well, your questions are kind of personal.”

“I apologize for that.” I pause. “Does he know a girl by the name of Mary Plank?”

“What?” She blinks at me. “The dead Amish girl? Are you serious?”

I nod to let her know I am. “Did he ever mention her?”

“I don’t even think he knew the Plank family.” She hesitates, an emotion I can’t quite identify clouding her features. “Did he?”

It’s an odd question coming from a woman who claimed just a moment ago that she and her lover were close, and I can’t help but wonder if Scott Barbereaux is one of those men who has a difficult time with monogamy.

“I believe he may have had contact with her through the shop where she worked,” I clarify.

Her eyes widen in a slightly different way, as if she’s deciphered some hidden meaning behind my answer, and I realize despite her beauty, her obvious talent and her lovely home, Glenda Patterson is a jealous woman.

“Contact?” she repeats. “What do you mean? What kind of contact?”

“I believe he delivers coffee to the shop.”

“Oh.” She looks at me as if I’ve played a dirty trick on her and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. “These questions don’t sound very routine, Chief Burkholder.”

“I’m just establishing an alibi.”