“I hope he understood.”

“He didn’t.” But she waves it off. “Such is the life of an artist.”

“Mrs. Rutledge—”

“Call me Jules, please.”

“Jules,” I repeat. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but a Painters Mill man by the name of Dale Michaels was murdered a couple of days ago.”

“I heard about it at the gallery today. Just … awful.”

Though she doesn’t actually move, she seems to curl in on herself. Then without a word, she crosses to the nearest end table and snags a pack of cigarettes. I watch as she taps one from the pack and lights up. That’s when I notice the Beretta on the lower shelf of the end table, within easy reach from the sofa.…

I wait, wondering if she’ll mention the call he made to her the night he was killed.

“I’d been talking to him about a painting he wanted to buy,” she tells me. “He told me he’d walked by my gallery one evening after hours and saw it in the window.”

“When was that?”

“I think it was the day before he was killed,” she tells me.

“Were you and Dale friends?”

She shakes her head. “I knew him in high school, but then everyone knew everyone in high school back then. Until that night, I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

“Do you always take late-night calls from people you don’t know?”

Her eyes sharpen on mine. “That particular call came in on the gallery number. I had forwarded calls to my cell and just happened to pick up.”

I nod. “Did you talk about anything besides the painting?”

“I don’t think so. He mainly wanted to know if it was for sale and how much I wanted for it.”

“Do you know Blue Branson?” I ask.

“I see him around town on occasion.” She considers me a moment. “We went to high school together.”

“What about Jerrold McCullough?”

“What about him?”

“You went to school with all three of those men, didn’t you?”

“Painters Mill is a small town, Chief Burkholder. If you have a point, I’d appreciate it if you’d make it.”

“Did you keep in touch with any of them after high school?”

“No.”

I nod. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us figure out who killed Dale Michaels?”

“If I think of something, I promise I’ll let you know.”

I hold her gaze for a moment. She doesn’t look away. She’s got pretty eyes, I think. But there’s something in their depths I can’t quite put my finger on. Secrets? Fear?

I motion toward the pistol on the lower shelf of the coffee table. “Any particular reason you keep that so handy?”

“I’m not breaking the law, am I?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m just curious.”

“With news of this murder … I was feeling uneasy, I guess.”

I nod. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Rutledge.”

I reach for the knob and open the door. Skid and I step onto the front porch. Jules Rutledge follows as far as the doorway. “I hope you find the killer.”