I don’t know how to respond to that, so I go with, “Suspect at large.”

“Description?”

“No.” I peel off the glove and tuck it into my pocket. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here to the scene. Tell T.J. to set up a perimeter.”

“Copy.”

“Get Glock out here, too.”

“Will do.”

Keeping an eye on the door and the hall beyond, I shift the beam back to the tub. The shower wall is splattered with arterial spray. Julia Rutledge seems to stare at me from within that deathbed. I can’t meet her gaze. The wet-iron stench of blood is stifling in the small space, and my stomach jitters. The urge to leave the room is strong, but I don’t concede to it.

I shift my light to the faucets at her feet and see signs of a struggle. Several long smears of blood mar the tile, as if she’d lashed out with her feet.

“Sheriff’s Department! Sheriff’s Department!”

I startle at the shout, swing my beam to the door. “Back here!”

Another flashlight beam joins mine, and then a Holmes County deputy steps into the bathroom. “Chief?”

I recognize him as Deputy Frank Maloney, and I holster my .38. “I’m okay.”

He averts his beam to avoid blinding me, but there’s enough light for me to see his eyes widen at the sight of the blood before he pulls his cop’s mask into place. “Holy shit.” He takes a step back.

“Coroner’s on the way.” I let out a breath, surprised when it shudders slightly. “Frank, she was alive when I arrived.”

“She ID anyone?”

“I tried, but … I think she was out of it. Said something about a ghost.”

His gaze meets mine, but there’s no hint of a cop’s black humor in them. The hairs on my arms prickle, and for the first time in the course of my career, I feel threatened. Not by some crazy guy with a knife, but by something intangible and dark.

“Aw, hell.” He glances at the body. “You see anyone?”

“No.”

Head bent to his lapel mike, he sends out the code for homicide. “Unknown perpetrator at large.” He motions toward the body. “You know her?”

I nod. “Julia Rutledge.”

He edges closer to the bathtub, sets his beam on the body. “Damn.”

A macabre scene dances in the beams of our flashlights. I can’t help but think that just a few hours ago, Jules Rutledge was a lovely, vibrant woman who seemed to be enjoying her life. Now her mouth sags open, her lower jaw jutting slightly. Her head is cocked to one side, and from where I’m standing, I see a horrific wound high on her chest.

“What’s that?” Maloney points at the wound. “Knife handle?”

Leaning closer, I set my beam on her chest. The fabric of her gown is blood soaked. There’s a slit in the material, evidently from the blade. Something protrudes about half an inch from the wound.

“I don’t think it’s a knife,” I say.

“Coroner’s going to have to dig it out.”

But I can’t stop looking at the small foreign object. Deep inside, I already know what it is, and the knowledge is so disturbing, I have to withhold a gasp. “I think it’s a wooden figurine,” I whisper.

He gives me a sharp look. “Come again?”

“An Amish peg doll.” Quickly, I fill him in on the Michaels homicide. “We didn’t release that information to the public.”

A siren wails in the distance, but neither of us acknowledges it.

“BCI on the way?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He whistles. “Two major crime scenes in a single week. They’re going to start a running tab for you.”

Despite the grimness of the scene, I smile, and I’m glad there are no civilians around to notice. Cop humor is one of those things that can easily be misinterpreted and blown out of proportion, usually by someone who doesn’t understand that sometimes the only way to combat despair is through humor, even when it’s dark.

Concerned now with contaminating the scene, we carefully exit the bathroom and walk into the living room. The flash of emergency lights through the window draws my attention. I look over to see an ambulance pull into the driveway, followed by a fire truck that parks curbside. I see Glock on the front porch and motion him in.

“Anyone find a point of entry?” Maloney asks.

“Kitchen window is open,” Glock tells him. “Screen was cut and removed.”

“What about the lights?” Maloney asks.

“We’ll need to check the breaker box,” I say.

I brief both men on everything I know about the scene. “I’m pretty sure the foreign object in the wound is similar to the peg doll we found in Michaels’s mouth.”

“So this isn’t random,” Glock says.

I nod. “When Skid and I talked to her, she said Michaels had been in touch with her about a painting he wanted to buy.” I think about that a moment. “Skid and I both noticed she seemed nervous about her security. Bolt lock on the door. Security chain.” I shine my beam at the end table where I’d seen the Beretta earlier, but it’s gone. “She had a nine mil on the bottom shelf of that end table.”

“Guess she couldn’t get to it in time,” Glock says.

“We need to find it,” I add.

“Do you think Blue Branson or Jerrold McCullough are involved?” Maloney asks.

“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

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.

I find myself standing in a narrow space with gleaming hardwood floors and walls painted designer gray. Crisp white woodwork and wainscoting that looks original to the building. A good-size areca palm in a teal-colored pot sits near the window. The air smells the way an upscale art gallery should, with the faint aromas of bergamot and coffee and a hint of dark chocolate. In the far corner, a couple of sleek chairs with a retro ’60s-style fabric are grouped with a coffee table sporting an antique lamp. The long walls to my left and right are covered with paintings: There are a dozen or more oils on stretched canvas, a few photographs, and lots of acrylics in simple black frames. Each work of art has its own light. This morning, the lights are dark, as if in reverence to the absence of Julia Rutledge.