“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “But I think they know more than they’re letting on.” I consider that a moment and repeat Rutledge’s dying words. “I think she said something like: ‘We didn’t mean to kill her.’”

Maloney cuts me a sharp look. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “When I asked her who did that to her, I’m pretty sure she said ‘ghost.’”

The words hang suspended, as if no one knows how to respond.

I break the silence with, “The peg doll we found in Dale Michaels’s mouth was made by Willis Hochstetler.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Glock says. “Willis Hochstetler has been dead for over thirty years.”

“But it’s a link,” Maloney says.

“Something had Julie Rutledge running scared,” I tell them.

Maloney laughs. “Fucking ghosts.”

I look from man to man. “Did either of you happen to run across any keys here at the scene?”

“There’s a ring of keys on the kitchen counter,” Glock tells me.

I go to the kitchen, pick up the keys, and go back to the living room, where Glock is standing. “Will you keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives?”

“No problem.”

“Get photos of everything. A sketch if you can manage. And see if you can pick up some prints or footwear tread. Plenty of blood in that bathroom.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” he says. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to take a look around Rutledge’s gallery.”

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

The horizon is awash with Easter egg hues of lavender and orange when I park in front of the small boutique art gallery Jules Rutledge had owned and operated. It’s not yet 8 A.M., and around me, Painters Mill is opening for business. The lights are on in the bakery across the street, and the aroma of fresh-baked apple fritters rides the breeze. At the end of the block, I see Steve Ressler, the publisher of the Weekly Advocate newspaper, hightail it toward the front doors of his offices, a newspaper tented over his head in an attempt to stay dry.

I look at the darkened storefront of The Raspberry Leaf Gallery and I can’t help but think Julia Rutledge should be here instead of me, making coffee and preparing for another day. Instead, her body is on its way to the morgue and I’m here looking for clues that might tell me who hated her enough to murder her.

Grabbing my umbrella and my canvas equipment bag off the seat, I get out and jog to the sidewalk, where the striped overhead canopy shields me from the rain. I set down the bag, open it, and pull out shoe covers, gloves, and a disposable gown. Before going inside, I put on the protective gear, then pull the key chain from my pocket. The second key I try fits the door and I let myself in.