mainly because I haven’t yet verified it. Glancing at my watch, I realize that’s something I might be able to get done yet tonight. Instead of making a left onto my street, I hang a U-turn and head east.
If you live in Painters Mill and you can afford it, the Maple Crest housing development is the epitome of location, location, location. The homes are spacious with large lots and lushly landscaped yards. A lighted waterfall cascading from a stone wall with the words
Glenda Patterson lives in a stucco-and-brick ranch with high, arching windows and a giant maple tree that must have cost a small fortune to have planted. A sleek red Volvo sits in the driveway. The lights are on inside, so I pull in and park behind the car.
Patterson has her own interior design shop in Millersburg. She must be doing well, because a house like this one isn’t cheap. I knock and try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me this is yet another exercise in futility.
A moment later the porch light flicks on. I sense someone checking me out through the peephole, so I face forward and give her a moment to identify me. An instant later, the door swings open and I find myself facing a petite blonde with huge baby-blue eyes and a mouth a lot of women would give a year’s salary to possess.
“Glenda Patterson?”
Those baby blues widen, and she cranes her head to look behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A case I’m working on.” I smile, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sorry about the late hour.”
She relaxes marginally and gives me a nervous laugh. “I’m not used to seeing the police on my doorstep.”
“I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“It’s okay.” She steps aside. “Come in.”
The house is warm and smells of eucalyptus and lemon oil. The living room is tastefully decorated with a minimalist style and bold colors that run to the avant-garde. Teal walls contrast nicely with a sleek, black leather sofa. Two matching turquoise chairs sit adjacent to a stainless-steel-and-glass coffee table. Pillows with metallic stitching draw the silver theme back to the sofa. It’s an open concept home, and I can see the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops of a state-of-the-art kitchen from where I stand.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Thank you.” She beams at the compliment. “This was my first big design project.”
I nod approvingly. “You’re good.”
“Thanks.” She flashes a professionally enhanced white smile. “I just opened my office six months ago.”
“Business must be good.”
“It is, after a bumpy start.” She motions toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit? I was just about to have a glass of pinot noir. Would you like one?”
I pat my badge. “Better not, since I’m on duty.”
“I understand.” She crosses to the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and pours wine into a stemmed glass.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask.
Nodding, she turns back to me and sips. “Just me and Curly.”
“I take it Curly isn’t a man.”
She laughs. “He’s an eighteen-year-old Siamese that’s going senile. He’s around here somewhere.”
Since I’m not here to talk to the cat, I nod appropriately then get down to business. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Plank family murders.”
“I heard about it on the news, actually. I almost can’t believe something so horrible could happen here in Painters Mill.” Her brows go together. “Is that why you’re here?”
I nod. “Where were you Sunday night?”
Her eyes widen.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I say easily. “I’m just verifying some information.”
“Oh, well . . .” She takes another sip. “I was here.” Her eyes sharpen. “Is this about Scott?”
I ignore her question. “Were you alone?”
“I was with Scott Barbereaux,” she says. “He’s my boyfriend.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” She bites her lip, thinking. “I made dinner for him—salmon, I believe—then we watched a movie. He probably got here about six-thirty or so.”
“What time did he leave?”
“About seven-thirty the next morning.”
“So he spent the night?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he leave at any time during the night?”
She gives me a distinctly feline smile. “No.”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“About six months now.”
“Do either of you date around?”
“We’re exclusive.”
“So you guys are pretty tight,” I state.
“Yes, I would say we’re tight.”
“Has he ever cheated on you?”
Her expression cools to just below the freezing point. “Look, is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I just need to clear up a few things.”
“Well, your questions are kind of personal.”
“I apologize for that.” I pause. “Does he know a girl by the name of Mary Plank?”
I nod to let her know I am. “Did he ever mention her?”
“I don’t even think he knew the Plank family.” She hesitates, an emotion I can’t quite identify clouding her features. “Did he?”
It’s an odd question coming from a woman who claimed just a moment ago that she and her lover were close, and I can’t help but wonder if Scott Barbereaux is one of those men who has a difficult time with monogamy.
“I believe he may have had contact with her through the shop where she worked,” I clarify.
Her eyes widen in a slightly different way, as if she’s deciphered some hidden meaning behind my answer, and I realize despite her beauty, her obvious talent and her lovely home, Glenda Patterson is a jealous woman.
“Contact?” she repeats. “What do you mean? What kind of contact?”
“I believe he delivers coffee to the shop.”
“Oh.” She looks at me as if I’ve played a dirty trick on her and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. “These questions don’t sound very routine, Chief Burkholder.”
“I’m just establishing an alibi.”
“Now you have it. He was with me. In bed. All night.” She motions toward the door with her empty wineglass. “It’s getting late.”
“Thank you for your time.” I start toward the door.
She trails me to the foyer. I open the door and step onto the porch. “Have a nice evening,” I say.
Glenda Patterson slams the door behind me without responding.
My house is tucked away on a good-size lot on the edge of town. It’s a small two-bedroom, one-bath ranch built back in the 1960s with hardwood floors and the original tile. A big maple tree stands like a sentry in the front yard. The backyard is shady with several black walnut trees. The grass needs mowing and the shutters could use a coat of paint. But this is my home, my refuge, and I’m unduly glad to be here tonight.
I park in the driveway and let myself in through the front door. The scents of candle wax, yesterday’s garbage
