My shoe covers crackle as I venture deeper into the gallery. In the corner to my left, several canvases are set up on easels, and I remember reading in the local paper that Julia gave art classes here at the gallery one evening per week. A divider upon which an artist has painted a mural of an Amish horse and buggy trotting past a cemetery separates the showroom from the rear of the gallery. I walk past the divider. While the front section of the gallery is sleek and stylish, the rear is dedicated to the business side of running things. Ahead and to my right is a sink with a fat roll of paper towels mounted above it. There’s a shelf jammed with painting supplies and a glass-front cabinet filled with brushes and jars. The faint scent of turpentine laces the air. An espresso maker and a dozen or so colorful demitasse cups sit on the coffee station to my right. A door that’s been painted glossy red bears a sign that proclaims OFFICE.

I cross to the door and try the knob, but it’s locked. I dig for the keys and try several before locating the one that fits. The door opens to a small, cramped office. The lighting isn’t as good as it is up front. A high-end vacuum cleaner for hardwood floors sits in the corner. A pair of sneakers peeks out from under a battered wood desk set against the wall. A Tiffany lamp adorns the corner of the desk. Two lavender-colored folders are stacked neatly in the in-box. I pick up the top file and find credit card bills, gas bills, and an invoice from a local hardware store. The second file contains receipts from recent sales and photos of artwork.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for. Chances are I won’t find a damn thing that will be helpful in terms of the case. But if I’ve learned anything in the years I’ve been a cop, it never hurts to look.

I decide to search the desk first, only to discover it’s locked, too. I go back to the key chain and try the smallest key, which fits. I tug open the pencil drawer. It contains a phone message pad. Yellow sticky notes. A roll of postage stamps. A tube of lip gloss. Letter opener in the shape of a Toledo sword. Finding nothing of interest, I go to the second drawer. I see a box of fine-point Sharpies. A tin of handmade thank-you cards. A small dictionary. Box of tissues. Hand cream. I’m about to go on to the file drawer when, tucked beneath a roll of utility tape, several pieces of lined notebook paper catch my attention.

I pull out the papers; there are four, each of them folded twice. Though I’m wearing latex gloves, I touch only the corners and unfold the first one. Scrawled in blue ink are the words: Dale sends his regards from hell.

Surprise rattles through me. Quickly, I go to the second note, unfold it, and read. I know you were there. I page to the next sheet. You could have stopped them. The final note contains a single word: Murderer.

The notes are cryptic, threatening, and frightening. Someone had been terrorizing Julia Rutledge. But who? And why?

I turn on the Tiffany lamp. Light rains down on the four letters lying side by side on the desktop. That’s when it strikes me that they’re similar to the ones Norm Johnston gave me earlier. They’re written on the same type of paper, the same color of ink, and I’m pretty sure that if that handwriting isn’t the same, it’s damn close.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.

The only answer is the pound of rain against the roof and the echo of anxiety in my voice.

*   *   *

I try to reach Norm on his cell phone twice on my way to the Painters Mill City Building, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. When I call his office line directly, I’m informed by the administrative assistant that he called in sick this morning.

“Shit,” I mutter, and make a quick turn into the Dairy Dream, which is closed for the season, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. Worry nips at my heels as I head toward the Maple Crest subdivision where he lives, and I crank the speedometer up to sixty. The lighted waterfall cascading from atop a stone wall greets me as I make the turn into the subdivision. The homes are spacious and new here, the oversize lots professionally landscaped. My tires hiss against the wet blacktop as I look for Walnut Hill Lane. Another left, and I spot the stucco-and-stone ranch three houses down.

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?

“Norm, if you knew them, now would be a good time to tell me,” I press. “Two people are dead and there’s no doubt in my mind there’s some connection to you.”

He tries to cover his discomfiture with a laugh, but this time the sound that squeezes from his throat more resembles a whimper. “Look, I may have had a beer or two with them, but I didn’t run with them. We weren’t friends.”

“You mean recently?”

“No. When we were young. High school, for chrissake.”

“So then, what’s the connection?”

“I don’t know. Maybe all of this is … random.”

“This is not random.” I take a breath, ratchet back my impatience with him, and soften my voice. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”

“What do you want from me?” he cries.