“Sure.”

I put the Explorer in gear. “Maybe Julia Rutledge can shed some light.”

CHAPTER 10

Julia Rutledge lives in a stately home surrounded by mature trees in an established neighborhood of Painters Mill. I pull into the driveway and park behind a green Jaguar XJ6.

“Nice wheels,” Skid says as I shut down the engine.

“A little above your pay grade,” I say. “So is she.”

“A guy can hope.”

“Are you referring to the car or the woman?”

At his grin, I get out and slam the door. We walk in silence to the well-lit front porch, where baskets of pansies and asparagus ferns hang from freshly painted eaves. It’s raining again, but I can hear the television inside. I knock and a moment later a female voice comes at me through the door. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Ms. Rutledge.”

“Would you mind showing me your ID?”

“No problem.” Surprised by her vigilance, I glance at Skid as I reach for my badge. He looks back at me and shrugs. I hold my ID a foot or so from the peephole. A moment later the bolt lock snaps open. I hear the security chain disengage. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a striking woman with wavy blond hair that falls well past her shoulders and perfectly arched brows that frame eyes the color of lake ice. At fifty-three years of age, Julia Rutledge is attractive with a slender, athletic build and cheekbones any runway model would pay a year’s salary to possess. She’s wearing a pale blue linen blouse with black slacks. Bloodred toenails peek out of embroidered espadrilles.

“Julia Rutledge?” I show her my badge again.

Taking her time, she gives it another once-over. “Sorry about that. A single woman can’t be too careful these days.” She has the deep and melodic voice of Lauren Bacall, but with a touch of the South. Her gaze sweeps to Skid and her mouth curves. “Hello.”

Skid touches his hat. “Ma’am.”

“This is Officer Skidmore,” I tell her. “May we come inside? We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Please do. It’s awful out there.” She steps back and opens the door wider. “Weatherman says there’s more on the way.”

Skid and I step into a large, neat living room with gleaming hardwood floors covered with an Amish-made braided rug. An oil painting depicting an Amish woman standing in the middle of a wheat field, a woven basket in hand and a dog at her side is displayed on the wall next to the fireplace. The air smells of cigarette smoke that’s not quite masked by the otherwise-pleasant scent of vanilla.

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her.

“Thank you.”

I motion at the painting. “Are you the artist?”

She smiles at the painting as if it’s a cherished old friend. “A doctor up in Wooster asked me to paint that one for him.” She chuckles. “When I finished, I couldn’t part with it.”