Missing Pieces (8 page)

“Nice to meet you, too,” Sarah said.

He turned to a woman sitting on the other side of him. “See you at the office, Margaret.” Gilmore propped his hat back on his head and walked away.

“You're Jack's wife?” the woman asked from across the empty stool.

“Pardon me?” Sarah asked, still thinking about the sheriff's inadequate response to her question.

The woman scooted over to the stool next to Sarah. “I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with the sheriff. I'm Margaret Dooley, one of the dispatchers at the sheriff's department.” She was a stout woman of around fifty with red hair.

Sarah nodded and took a sip of her coffee. She was just about to excuse herself, anxious to get back to the articles on her phone, but Margaret continued. “Did I hear you say that you're Jack Quinlan's wife?” Margaret fingered the reading glasses that she wore on a chain around her neck. “I used to babysit for Jack and Amy when they were little.”

“Really?” Sarah asked.

“Really,” Margaret said with a pleasant smile. “I wasn't all that much older than Jack. He must have been six and I was twelve. Amy was just a baby, maybe two.”

“What were they like?” Sarah leaned toward Margaret, eager to know more. “God, I would have liked to have known Jack back then.”

“They were nice kids. Easiest dollar fifty an hour I ever made. All Jack wanted to do was play outside and Amy would follow him around like a puppy. She was the sweetest little thing.”

Sarah laughed at the thought of Jack and Amy running through the tall grass together as children. Laughing and carefree, no knowledge of what one day would befall their family.

“You really don't know what happened to Jack's mom?”

“It's embarrassing to admit,” Sarah said, “but I don't know the details. For some reason he's been less than forthcoming with me.” Sarah didn't know why she was pouring her heart out to this stranger, but it felt right, and a weight seemed to lift from her chest.

“He's probably just trying to protect you,” Margaret said, and pushed her empty plate aside. She checked the chunky gold watch on her wrist. “I've got some time before I have to go into work. We could talk.”

The two moved to a corner booth for privacy. “I'm sorry to hear about Julia,” Margaret said soberly, her eyes filled with sympathy. “She was a nice woman.”

“Thanks. I'll tell Jack you said so. It was all very sudden. I wish I would have gotten to know her better.”

“You don't know anything about what happened to Jack's parents?” Margaret asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Believe me, I've tried talking to Jack about it. I've gotten nowhere. It's like hitting a brick wall. All I know is that Jack's mom died in the house he grew up in, that Jack found her and that his dad was wanted for questioning. That's it. That's all I know.”

Margaret looked over her shoulder, and when she was sure that no one was lurking she leaned forward in the booth, the stack of brightly colored bangles on her wrist clanking together as she propped her elbows on the tabletop. “I couldn't believe it when I heard that. There'd never been a murder in Penny Gate before. We were all shocked. My mother and Lydia Tierney were best friends. Let me tell you, she was absolutely devastated. Cried for weeks. She still isn't over it.”

Sarah fought the urge to hurry Margaret along in her story. She had an almost feverish gleam in her eyes and Sarah got the feeling that she enjoyed being the center of attention, of having a rapt audience.

“Jack came home from school one day and found his mother down in their cellar beaten to death. They searched high and low for Jack's dad but never found him. They found his truck sitting in a cornfield, but there was no sign of John Tierney. There was even a statewide manhunt. It was as if he just disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“But why?” Sarah asked, wanting more details. “Why did he do it?”

“That's the million-dollar question,” Margaret said, tapping one manicured nail against the table to emphasize her point. “No one was sure why John would kill Lydia. They were a nice couple. I never saw any problems between them and I babysat for them for years.”

“But what do you think?” Sarah pressed. “Do you think he did it?”

Margaret shrugged. “It sure looks that way. Why else would he have run away? Besides, you know small towns. Everyone had a theory as to why he would have killed her. Lydia was having an affair, John was having affair, they were having money problems.”

“So that's it?” Sarah asked. “Case closed?” This made Sarah immeasurably sad and even more bewildered by Jack's secrecy. Why did he feel as though he needed to make up some big story about his parents dying in a car accident? Did he think she was too fragile and couldn't handle the truth? Did he think she would judge him, not want to marry him because his father was a murderer?

“Well, not officially closed. They never made an arrest. What little evidence they had pointed to John Tierney. But they did check out other suspects—vagrants in the area, an escapee from a work-release program in Cedar City. And, if you can believe it—” Margaret leaned in even closer toward Sarah and whispered “—Jack was even the top suspect for a time.”

“Jack?” Sarah asked. Jack was the last person in the world she could imagine as a murder suspect. She thought about how loving he was with the girls, how gentle he was with his physical therapy patients. It made absolutely no sense. “Why would Jack be a suspect?”

Seeing the stricken look on Sarah's face, Margaret backpedaled. “No, no. He was the one who found her. The person who finds the victim is always a suspect.” All of Margaret's earlier relish in sharing the details of Penny Gate's most famous murder had disappeared. “I really didn't mean to upset you. Of course I don't think Jack murdered his mother. That's ridiculous. Now I wish I hadn't said anything.”

“No, no,” Sarah said, trying to muster an encouraging smile. “I really appreciate that you would even talk to me. I want to know what happened. I
need
to know,” she added with force.

Margaret glanced down at her watch wistfully. “I do have to get to work. I wish we could talk more, though. I have so many great stories about Jack and Amy growing up.”

“I'd love to hear more about Jack and Amy as kids, and I'm sure Jack would get a kick out of seeing his babysitter again,” Sarah said, though she wasn't quite sure if this was true. It seemed that Jack had done everything in his power to avoid reminders of his past.

“I'm so sorry to hear about Julia.” Margaret jotted a phone number on a napkin and slid it to Sarah. “Call me or just stop by the sheriff's department.” Sarah watched as Margaret paused to greet the other café patrons on the way out the door, her buoyant laughter echoing through the room.

Sarah lingered over her coffee, not wanting to return to Dean and Celia's home. She couldn't face Jack, who now seemed like a complete stranger to her. And she didn't want to take part in idle chitchat with Dean and Celia after seeing their violent encounter.

Sarah's phone vibrated and reluctantly she answered.

“Sarah,” Jack said. His once-familiar voice now seemed different, laced with worry. “We still haven't been able to get ahold of Amy and I'm starting to get worried. How close are you to coming back to Dean's farm?”

“Actually, I'm in Penny Gate. I stopped at a coffee shop and ran into the sheriff. He said he needed to talk to Amy, too.”

It was nearing supper time, and the café was quickly filling and growing loud with chatter.

“Do you think you could do a favor for me since you're in town?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” Sarah said, expecting Jack to ask her to stop at the florist or the funeral home to help with arrangements for Julia's funeral.

“Can you swing by Amy's house and see if she's there? We've been calling and calling, and she's not picking up. I'm getting a little worried about her.”

“Do you think something's wrong?” Sarah stood and wove around small round tables, acutely aware of the curious glances people were giving her. She was a stranger in a small town.

“I'm not sure,” Jack admitted. “It's probably nothing. Amy's probably upset and not answering her phone. I'd feel better if someone would check on her. I can drive into town, but it would take me twenty minutes. Would you mind?”

“Okay,” she said grudgingly. She wasn't sure how Amy would react when she found the sister-in-law she barely knew pounding on her front door. “What's her address?” Sarah asked, stepping outside and digging into her purse for a pen and scrap of paper.

“She lives on Oleander. It's just two blocks off Main.” Sarah heard the murmur of a female voice in the background. “Celia says it's on the corner. The only blue house on the street.” Of course Celia was right there, Sarah thought to herself.

“Okay,” Sarah said, shoving the pen and paper back into her purse. “I'll call you after I get there.” She hung up the phone, wondering if Celia had told Jack about Dean grabbing her wrist, about slapping him. She imagined Celia crying on Jack's shoulder, an intimate moment where she would look up at him with her big doe eyes and all the memories of their past together would come rushing back. Sarah cringed and wiped the vision from her mind.

She considered walking the two blocks to Amy's house. It was a nice evening. Cool but pleasant. But for some reason she felt an almost inexplicable urgency, a need to move quickly. She climbed into the rental car and found Oleander Street in less than a minute.

Sarah parked in front of the shabby robin's-egg-blue house dwarfed by an ancient buckeye tree. Spiny hulls and glossy brown nuts covered the patchy lawn. Sarah paused to pick up one of the buckeyes and rolled the smooth golf-ball-size seed between her fingers, recalling from her childhood that they were meant to be good luck. She would need it, she thought to herself.

She followed the cracked, uneven pavement up three steps to the front door and knocked. She waited a moment and tried again. Still no response. She turned away from the door and surveyed the street. It was dead quiet.

Sarah walked around the property. She looked for a car, but there was no garage, and although there were several vehicles parked along the curb, any one of them could have belonged to Amy.

“I saw her come home earlier,” came a voice from out of nowhere, startling Sarah. She turned to find a wizened old woman dressed in a floral housecoat and tennis shoes.

“She's not answering her door,” Sarah explained. “Is her car here?”

“Who's wants to know?” the woman asked, looking at her suspiciously from behind grimy trifocals.

“I'm Amy's sister-in-law, Sarah Quinlan. We've been having trouble getting ahold of her, and we're getting a little worried.” Sarah held out her hand in greeting.

“You got some ID?” the woman asked, ignoring Sarah's outstretched fingers.

“Yes, of course.” Sarah dug through her purse until she found her driver's license and then handed it to the woman. The woman flicked her eyes back and forth between the license and Sarah's face until she seemed satisfied.

“I'm Cora Berry,” she introduced herself, and handed the ID back to Sarah. “That's Amy's car there.” The woman pointed to a two-door red hatchback with a dented front fender parked beneath the buckeye tree.

“I wonder why she's not answering the door?” Sarah said.

“My guess is that she probably doesn't want to talk to you,” the woman said archly.

Sarah retreated down the steps and sidled between the overgrown boxwood hedges that edged the home's foundation. Using her hands to block the glare of the evening sun she pressed her face against the front window and peered through the narrow opening between the drawn curtains. Gradually the contents of the sparsely furnished room came into focus as her eyes became accustomed to the dim interior.

Directly in Sarah's field of vision was a flimsy particleboard cabinet that supported an old box television airing what appeared to be a local news program. Sarah's eyes landed on a wooden coffee table that was covered with the detritus of someone who lived alone: a bottle of vodka, dirty cereal bowls, an overflowing ashtray, an orange prescription bottle tipped on its side. To the right of the coffee table, positioned at an angle, was a grungy taupe sofa draped with a large blanket crocheted in greens and blues.

Cora crowded in next to Sarah. With effort she lifted her heels and placed her hands on the windowsill. Sarah saw that they were speckled with age spots and gnarled by arthritis. “I could have sworn she was home,” Cora said more to herself than to Sarah.

“The TV's on and her car is here,” Sarah observed. “Maybe she's in the bedroom taking a nap or maybe she's taking a shower.”

Cora pressed her nose to the window to get a better look. “What's that?” she asked.

“Where?” Sarah tried to follow Cora's line of vision but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“There, on the couch.”

Sarah squinted, trying to get a better look. “Oh,” she said with surprise. What she had thought were the lumpy cushions of an old sofa was, Sarah realized, a small, slight figure covered in a blanket. “Is she sleeping?” Sarah asked.

“I don't know,” Cora said doubtfully. “She's not moving.” From their vantage, Sarah could see what looked to be the pale skin of Celia's foot peeking out from beneath the blanket. “Amy,” Cora said loudly, pounding on the window with surprising strength. “Amy, wake up!”

She didn't stir. Sarah stared intently at the form, hoping to see the rise and fall of her back, any evidence of breathing. Nothing. Sarah joined Cora in rapping on the window and calling Amy's name. A neighbor peeked out to see what all the ruckus was.

“I'm going to see if the door's unlocked,” Cora said breathlessly, lowering her feet to the ground. Sarah continued to peer through the window, once again noting the vodka and pill bottle on the coffee table. Had Amy, in her grief over Julia's death, her guilt over not finding her sooner, decided to swallow a combination of drugs and alcohol? But to what end?