He blinks at me, his eyes darting, and it strikes me that Jerrold McCullough isn’t nearly as good a liar as Blue Branson. But why would he lie about his relationship with Dale Michaels? “Mr. McCullough, if you could just answer the question, I’d appreciate it.”

“He called me just to see how I was doing. That’s all. Just to say hello. You know.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“Did he happen to mention a meeting or say he was meeting someone later?”

“No, he didn’t say anything about a meeting.”

I spend fifteen minutes going through the same questions I posed to Blue Branson. McCullough seems to have settled into the idea of the police showing up at his door. He keeps his cool and his answers are consistent. Still, in those first few minutes, he’d seemed shaken and uncertain.

“Did Dale have any enemies that you know of?” I ask. “Anyone who didn’t like him or might’ve been holding a grudge?”

“I don’t know. He was a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to do him harm.” He shrugs. “Everyone liked Dale. He was a family man. A dad and a grandpa. Worked hard his whole life.” His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I get the sense his answer isn’t rehearsed. “He shouldn’t have met that kind of end. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“How well do you know Blue Branson?”

“Pastor Branson?” His hesitation is so subtle, I might have missed it if I hadn’t been anticipating it. He shakes his head and I notice him rubbing the stump of his right wrist. I wonder if it’s a nervous habit. I wonder what he has to be nervous about. “I know who he is, what with the church and all.”

“Are you friends?”

“No, but I knew him back in high school.”

“Were Dale and Blue friends?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen either of them in years.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find the person who did this?” I ask.

For an instant, his eyes search mine. Then he looks away. “That’s all I know.”

I hand him my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.” I catch his gaze again and hold it. “Day or night.”

“All right.”

Midway to the Explorer, Skid says, “That son of a bitch is a terrible liar.”

“I got the same impression.” I reach the vehicle and look at him across the hood, pleased I’m not the only one who noticed. “The question is, what is he lying about and why?”

“Gotta be hiding something.”

“Or he’s guilty of something.”

“You think he’s involved in the murder? Hired it out, maybe?”

“If he did, we don’t have a motive. And it sure doesn’t explain the Amish peg doll.” I think about that a moment. “But he’s hiding something.” I unlock the door and slide inside.

Skid does the same and I look at him across the seat. “You have time for one more stop?”