The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  “There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell her. “Who did this to you?”

  A clawlike hand reaches for me. Fingers grasping air. Eyes beseeching me to help. Panic on a face that already knows it’s too late. Her bloody mouth opens and whispers, “We didn’t … mean for it to … happen.”

  I try to pull away, but she clenches my jacket lapel with surprising strength. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?” I ask.

  Her lips move. A bubble of red-tinged saliva between them. “Kill … her.”

  I stare at her, not sure if I heard correctly, not sure if she’s cognizant of what she just said. I hear gurgling in her chest and throat. Part of me wants to tell her not to speak, to save her strength. But the part of me that is a cop wants her to name the son of a bitch responsible.

  “Tell me who did this,” I press.

  “… ghost…”

  The hand at my lapel falls away. Her body sinks more deeply into the tub. Her head lolls.

  “Julia,” I say. “Julia. Stay with me.” But I know it’s too late.

  “Goddammit.” I tug a latex glove from a compartment on my belt, slip my right hand into it, and reach over to check her carotid artery for a pulse, but she’s gone. “Shit. Shit.”

  “Chief?” Mona’s voice scratches over the radio.

  Uneasy with my back to the door, I snatch up my Maglite and get to my feet. “Ten seven nine,” I say, requesting the coroner.

  “Ten four.” Another short hiss of static. “You okay?”

  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 r
oom, 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.

  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 ra
rely 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.”