I park in the driveway, where rain beads on a Lexus with the dealership sticker still in the window, letting everyone know he’d laid down sixty thousand dollars for it. Or maybe that’s just my less-than-affectionate feelings for Norm shining through. Rain patters against my head and shoulders as I get out and start toward the door. I use the brass knocker, aware that my pulse is up and that I’m suddenly terrified I’ll find something inside besides an unpleasant conversation. I’m keenly aware of my hair getting wet. Damp soaking through my jacket to chill my shoulders and arms.

Relief slips through me when I hear the security chain and bolt lock disengage; then the door swings open. Norm Johnston stands just inside, frowning at me as if I’m some vagrant off the street, looking for a handout.

“I tried to reach you at the office and your cell,” I tell him.

“I called in sick,” he tells me. “There’s a security company coming out to install an alarm system.”

I nod. “I need to talk to you about those notes.”

“Why? Has something happened? Did you figure out who’s sending them?” His expression is frightened and grave as he ushers me into a foyer with a high ceiling from which a chandelier dangles. To my right, a glass-and-iron console table holds a porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers. Norm and his wife divorced shortly after their daughter’s death. Carol got the bank account and moved to Pittsburgh, where her parents live. Johnston got the house and the opportunity to live up to his reputation as a womanizer. I’m reminded that when it comes to murder, the deceased is rarely the only victim.

I follow him to a comfortable living room with leather furniture and an oversized wood coffee table. The flat screen is tuned to a morning television program out of Columbus.

“Have you received any more notes?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“Jules Rutledge was murdered a few hours ago.”

“Wh—what?”

“She’d been receiving notes, Norm. Just like the ones you showed me.”

He stares at me, blinking, the color draining from his face. “But … Jules? Dead? How?”

“Stabbed to death. In her home.”

“Oh my God. Ohmigod.” He sets his hands on either side of his temples. I can’t tell if he’s trying to block out my voice and the news I’ve just relayed or deny that it’s happening.

“Norm, did you know them? Jules Rutledge and Dale Michaels?”

“No,” he says defensively.

“There’s got to be a connection. At least between you and Rutledge,” I say. “The notes you showed me are exactly the same as the ones I found at her gallery.”

“Oh Jesus,” he says. “Jesus.”

The pattern of denial is clear. Blue Branson. Julia Rutledge. Jerrold McCullough. And now Norm Johnston. Each of them adamantly denied being friends with the others. Why?