Missing Pieces (7 page)

No wonder Amy called this place a house of horrors. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She didn't know if she should cry for Jack or be angry with him for keeping this from her. A million more questions flittered through her mind.

“Sarah.” Celia's voice floated in front of her. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she murmured.

“I know this is a shock to you.” Celia watched her carefully.

“They never caught him?” Sarah asked numbly. “Jack's dad?”

“No.” Celia shook her head. “It's like he disappeared off the face of the earth. You know, there was a time when Jack couldn't say enough nice things about his dad. At school, it was always
my dad said this
or
my dad did this
. The house was built board by board by his great-grandfather. When we were kids I told him how I wanted to move away from here, go to college, see the world. He said he never wanted to leave—everything he could ever want was right here.

“That all changed after the murder. Jack spent the next three years trying to figure out how to get out of Penny Gate.” She smiled wistfully. “Kind of funny, isn't it?”

“What?” Sarah couldn't find anything humorous in what she had learned about Jack in the past twenty-four hours.

“Growing up, all Jack wanted to do was stay in Penny Gate, live in this house, farm this land. I thought we were going to get married, have a house filled with kids. Instead, he left, met you and now he only comes back for weddings and funerals.”

Get married?
Sarah thought. Jack had never even mentioned they had dated, let alone were serious enough for marriage. An ember of doubt ignited in Sarah's chest.

“I guess everything works out the way it's supposed to. Not the death of his mom, of course,” she quickly clarified. “But there was a time I would have given anything to be Mrs. Jack Tierney. Now I can't imagine having a different life and I'm sure Jack feels the same way. After all he's been through, though, I'm shocked he ended up getting married and having a family. He must really trust you.”

Sarah murmured her agreement but knew it wasn't true. Jack clearly hadn't trusted her at all.

“Where?” Sarah asked. “Where did it happen?” Did she die on the floor in front of the stone fireplace? Did Jack find her lifeless body on the kitchen floor or upstairs in her bedroom? She imagined Lydia's corpse in the barn, surrounded by the shrill squeal of goats. She suddenly had the urge to run from the dim barn.

“Sarah, I...” Celia said with uncertainty.

“Where?” Sarah pushed. “Please tell me.”

“In the basement,” Celia said.

Sarah was consumed with a morbid desire for Celia to show her the basement. Maybe if she saw the place where Jack's life was irrevocably changed, some of this—any of it—would make sense. But before she could press any further, they were interrupted by a shout from outside the barn.

“It's Dean,” Celia said. “We're in here,” she called back.

Sarah's mind was still reeling. She took a moment to collect herself, then followed Celia outside to where Dean, Jack and Hal were waiting, grim faced.

“What's going on?” Celia asked.

“The sheriff stopped by the hospital. We thought he came to offer sympathies.” Dean folded his arms across his chest. “Instead, he was there to talk to the doctors and nurses about Mom.”

Celia shoved her hands into her pockets. While the sun shone brightly, the wind had picked up, whipping her black curls around her face. “What did they say?” Celia asked.

“Let's go inside and talk,” Dean invited, and together they moved toward the house. Sarah kept stealing glances at Jack. He had lied to her for the past twenty years about his mother's death. Why?

Celia led Sarah up the porch steps. “Be careful,” she warned. “It's liable to collapse on us.” Sarah warily tested the first step with her foot. It creaked precariously but held, and she kept going.

Celia pushed open the door, and despite the weathered exterior and crumbling front porch, the living room was warm and inviting with rich oak floors, and an oversize sofa and love seat situated in front of a large stone fireplace. This was where Jack grew up. He ran across these floors, looked out these windows, and climbed up and down these steps to his childhood bedroom. “I'll make coffee,” Celia said, leading them to the kitchen.

Jack's face, Sarah noticed, was a pasty white. His hands were jammed in his pockets and his eyes were pinned to the lace curtains above the kitchen window. She realized that this was probably the first time Jack had stepped foot in this house in decades.

“I've known Sheriff Gilmore for years.” Hal was indignant. “I can't believe he seriously thinks that one of us could have hurt Julia.”

Jack's gaze went to the kitchen counter where Celia had tossed a dish towel hand embroidered with fall leaves.

“I don't think he really does,” Celia said diplomatically. “But he has to investigate. It's his job.”

“I'd just like to know who reported such nonsense,” Hal said, annoyed.

Jack walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up the dish towel to examine the intricate stitching.

“It must have been the doctors or nurses who reported it.” Dean paced the kitchen. “What a nightmare.”

“Has anyone talked to Amy?” Celia asked. “Where did she run off to?”

Jack brought the dish towel to his nose and Sarah realized the embroidered dish towel was once his mother's.

Jack lowered the towel from his face and his eyes went to the basement door. He seemed to be in a trance.

“Jack? Are you okay?” Sarah asked with concern. She could see the small muscle in his jaw working. “Jack? What's the matter?”

Before he could respond, he rushed past Sarah and out of the kitchen. Sarah followed him as he raced down the hallway and into the bathroom. He slammed the door and she heard his knees striking the tile floor and then the retching. The sound of deep, heaving spasms spilled out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Jack, are you all right?” Sarah rapped on the door and pressed her face against the cold wood. “What's wrong?” she called.

But Sarah knew perfectly well what was wrong. There were too many memories here. Too much pain. Long-buried secrets. She couldn't help but think it was a bad idea for them to come back to Penny Gate. They should have stayed home in Larkspur and let the family handle Julia on their own. It was all too much—for Jack, and for her—and yet she feared that this was only the beginning.

6

“JACK,” SARAH CALLED
through the door again. “Are you okay?” The door opened and Jack emerged, sallow faced. “What's going on?”

“It's been a terrible day. I'm sure it's just the stress,” Celia said as she handed Jack a glass of water.

Sarah bit back a sharp response. Sarah knew her husband, or at least thought she did. Returning to this house, to where his mother had died, had been murdered, that's what had made him so violently ill.

Jack took a sip of water. “I'm better now, really.”

“Let's go sit down,” Celia said, leading them all to the living room. Sarah noticed that Jack kept his eyes down as if purposefully trying to avoid catching sight of anything else that might trigger a memory.

“Has anyone heard from Amy?” Jack asked, settling into an armchair. Celia patted the love seat where she took a seat, inviting Sarah to join her.

“No, but she's the one who found Mom,” Dean said. “I'd like to talk to her and I know the sheriff does, too.”

“They had their differences, but surely Amy wouldn't do anything to hurt Julia,” Celia insisted.

Dean held up his hands. “Maybe, maybe not. But you have to admit the way she was acting today was downright strange. Christ, she practically attacked the nurse.”

“I've never seen her act that way,” Jack said. “She's done some crazy things but...”

“That's not fair,” Celia interjected. “Of course Amy is upset. Julia was the only mother that Amy has known since she was eleven.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. “I'll keep trying to call her. I'm sure she'll show up.”

“So what happens next?” Sarah asked.

“The sheriff says he wants to talk to each of us,” Dean explained. “In the meantime—” Dean's words snagged in his throat “—they'll do the autopsy.”

“Well, I'd like to talk to Gilmore here and now,” Hal said defiantly. “I might just call him up myself right this minute. I want to know if he really thinks one of us hurt Julia. He knows us. He knows no one in the family is capable of this!”

“Look,” Jack said. “We obviously need to get to the bottom of this, but right now, we need to focus on Aunt Julia.”

“Jack's right,” Celia added. “We still need to call everyone and start making funeral arrangements. I can stop at Saint Finnian's and meet with Father Gordon if you'd like, Hal,” Celia offered.

He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears again, and he swiped them away.

“What can I do?” Sarah asked, knowing she had very little to offer. She didn't know Julia well, didn't know her friends or community.

“I guess we'll need clothes for the wake and funeral,” Jack said, holding out the keys to the rental car. “Could you take care of that while we talk to the funeral home? Maybe run into Cedar City to pick up a few things?”

“Sure,” she said, grateful for the chance to extract herself from the heavy sadness that had settled over the house.

Once to the car, Sarah realized that she had left her purse in the Bronco. She trudged through the tall, wet grass, the ground spongy beneath her feet, to the vehicle that Celia had parked near the outbuildings. Sarah opened the passenger's-side door, retrieved her purse and just as she was shutting the door, heard indistinct voices. No words were intelligible, but the tone was earnest. Without thinking, Sarah crouched down next to the Bronco so that she was just able to peek through the windows but remain unnoticed by the source of the heated conversation.

Dean and Celia were moving toward the smaller of the two barns. Dean's mouth was moving rapidly, and he gesticulated wildly. Celia, walking a few paces in front of him, stared straight ahead, her expression set in defiance. With one large hand, Dean grabbed Celia's arm to stop her, his thick fingers encircling her forearm. A squawk of pain erupted from Celia. She tried to wrench free, but he held tight. Sarah opened her mouth to call out, to intervene, when Celia's hand shot out and connected with Dean's cheek with a resounding crack. Taken off guard, Dean dropped Celia's arm and she made a dash back toward the house. Even from her distant vantage point, Sarah could see the rage on Dean's face, as well as the fear that overcame Celia once she realized what she had just done.

Sarah crouched down behind the Bronco, her heart beating madly against her chest. She tried to hold completely still, hoping that Dean wouldn't look her way.

What was that all about?
she wondered, trying to steady her breathing. She thought back to the conversation in the house. Had Celia said something that would anger Dean? Celia had defended Amy when Dean suggested that she might know more about Julia's fall than she had let on, but was that enough to enrage him?

Maybe Celia had told Dean that Sarah had been asking questions about Jack's parents and their deaths. Maybe he was angry that Celia would share such private family matters with Sarah. But that didn't seem to be a good enough reason to evoke such violence, either.

Cautiously, Sarah peeked around the Bronco. Dean had moved toward a mud-splattered pickup truck, climbed in and roared away. Once he was out of sight, Sarah hurried toward the rental car, grateful that Dean had chosen to leave in his truck rather than the Bronco. She didn't know what she would have done if he had caught her cowering behind his wife's vehicle.

Once in the car, she drove quickly away, eager to leave the farm and all its violence, past and present, behind her. The way Dean had manhandled Celia left her feeling uneasy. He outweighed Celia by nearly one hundred and fifty pounds. He could have snapped her arm in two. Even more surprising, however, was Celia's reaction. She had slapped Dean squarely on the cheek with no indecisiveness, no hesitation. The regret came after the blow had met its mark. But the question was, was Celia sorry that she had hurt her husband, or was she sorry that she'd have to face Dean's wrath for fighting back?

She should tell someone. But who? She could tell Jack, but at the moment she had her own questions for Jack about his own secrets. And somehow she knew that he would just tell her to mind her own business. Dean and Celia could handle their own marital spats without the two of them butting in. Besides, she was ashamed to admit, what if she told Jack and he went to comfort Celia? Would Sarah be inadvertently pushing her husband into the arms of his first love? She tried to shake the thought away.

She began to second-guess herself. What had she seen, really? She couldn't hear what Dean and Celia had been saying; she didn't know how hard Dean had actually grabbed Celia's arm. Neither of them looked any worse for wear.
Coward
, a small voice inside her head scolded.

Right now, there was nothing she could do, and there were important preparations for Julia's funeral that needed tending to. All of this would have to wait.

As she drove to Cedar City, the largest nearby town, her heartbeat returned to a normal cadence.

Sarah mentally ticked off the days in her head. Hopefully Julia's autopsy would only take a few days and then her remains would be released. There would be a wake, the funeral and maybe a few days to help Hal put Julia's affairs in order. Five days, a week at the most.

She pulled into a strip mall that included a clothing store where she was able to find some clothes for them to wear to the wake and the funeral. She then stopped into a big-box store and quickly ran through the store aisles, tossing some basic items that she and Jack would need for their extended stay in Penny Gate into her cart. She paid for her purchases, stowed them in the trunk of the car and collapsed into the front seat. A few minutes outside of town she tried to call Jack to see where she should meet him—at Hal's or Dean's. No answer.

She rubbed her eyes and checked the clock. It was only five thirty, but she felt as if it could be midnight. Her head ached with too much caffeine or maybe not enough.

Consulting the rental car's GPS, she began the drive back to Penny Gate. She wasn't quite ready to head back to Dean's, and she decided to go in search of coffee. She pulled into an empty parking spot in front of a small redbrick building with a faded sign that read The Penny Café.

As she opened the café door a bell tinkled announcing her arrival and Sarah felt as if she had stepped back into the 1950s. She walked across the grimy black-and-white checkered floor to a counter that was surprisingly clean. Sarah sat down on an orange stool, careful not to catch her sweater on the torn vinyl. She read the offerings printed neatly on a large chalkboard, then ordered a cinnamon latte.

While Sarah waited, she pulled out her phone. She was eager to get back to the article about Jack's mother she had found earlier, but when the screen lit up she saw that she had new emails. She was sure there was nothing urgent, but she opened up the mail app just to make sure.

She clicked and the email popped open.

Dear Astrid,

Three blind mice.

A beautiful spring morning.

Laundry on the line.

Strawberries.

See how they run?

Sarah shook her head. Nonsense. She deleted the message and quickly scanned through her other emails. To think that so many people looked to her for advice when sometimes she felt as though she had no answers and in fact could use some advice of her own.

“I've got my own problems,” she murmured with a sigh.

A gray-haired man sitting on the stool next to her turned in her direction. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“What?” Sarah asked, startled by the intrusion.

“You said you have your own problems. I'm no therapist, but I'm a darn good listener.”

A sharp quip formed on her tongue, but she swallowed her words. The man was well into his seventies with deep-set, wary eyes, closely cropped silver hair with a matching mustache tucked below a prominent nose, pocked and purple veined. He wore a dun-colored sheriff's uniform and held a matching hat in his thin fingers.

“S-sorry,” Sarah stammered. “I didn't realize I was talking out loud.”

“Been known to do it myself. Verne Gilmore,” the man said, and held out his hand.

“Sarah Quinlan,” Sarah replied. She set her phone on the counter and took his hand. It was warm and rough. The waitress set Sarah's latte in front of her.

“Refill, Sheriff?” asked the waitress, a young woman with a nose ring and a sleek red ponytail. She tilted the coffeepot over his empty cup.

Gilmore looked down at Sarah's latte. “You know, I think I'll have what she's having. Always wanted to try one.” The waitress raised one penciled-on eyebrow and walked away. “I know a lot of Quinlans, but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you.” He looked at her expectantly.

For some reason, Sarah felt defensive. “I'm married to Jack Quinlan,” she said, stirring her latte with a cinnamon stick. “He used to live here.”

Gilmore nodded. “I saw Jack just a little while ago at the hospital. I'm sad to hear that his aunt Julia passed away. She was a nice woman.”

“Yes, she was,” Sarah agreed. “But Jack said that the doctor doesn't think Julia died because of the fall. Why?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” the sheriff said neutrally. “In fact, I've been trying to get ahold of Amy. Any idea as to where she is?”

“No, but she was very upset when I saw her earlier. She probably just needs a little time to herself.”

The waitress set the latte in front of the sheriff and he took a cautious sip. “Not bad,” he said, white foam clinging to his mustache.

“That'll be four fifty.” The waitress held out her hand.

“Really?” Gilmore asked. “For this? It's all foam and air.” The waitress smiled mischievously at him, hand still outstretched. Gilmore sighed and reached into his pocket for his billfold and slapped a five-dollar bill into her hand.

He had to be around the same age as Hal and Julia, and Sarah wondered if he had been with the sheriff's department when Jack's mother died. “So you knew Jack when he was growing up?” she asked.

“Sure did. Knew the whole family. Must be hard for Jack to come back home. Lots of memories.”

“Jack doesn't really like to talk about it,” Sarah admitted.

“Understandable.” Gilmore pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped it across his mouth.

“I wish he would. Talk about it, I mean.” Sarah fiddled uncomfortably with her cup. “We've been married for twenty years, but it's like everything is before and after, you know? Before his parents died and after. He doesn't talk much about the before and definitely not about what actually happened to his mother or father.” Gilmore was quiet and Sarah winced inwardly. She felt her face redden, embarrassed that she was revealing so much about her private life to a complete stranger.

The sheriff waited until the curious waitress moved away from them. “What is it you'd like to know?”

“I know Jack's mom died in the house he grew up in and I know his father was a suspect. Beyond that, I don't know anything.”

“Jack never told you what happened?” The sheriff narrowed his eyes, trying to unsuccessfully mask his surprise. Sarah didn't answer. “Well, in the end it was all pretty straightforward. The husband did it. I'm not sure what more I can tell you about it.” Gilmore blew into his coffee before taking another sip.

“But why?” Sarah asked. “What was so bad that he had to kill her?”

Gilmore shrugged. “Sometimes the reason is cut-and-dried. An affair or greed. Sometimes the motive isn't so easy to identify and this was one of those cases. We don't know for sure why John Tierney killed his wife. It looks like he just snapped.”

The sheriff looked at his watch. “Well, duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Quinlan. I'll be calling on the family in the next day or so. If you talk to Amy, tell her to check in with me. I want to follow up on some questions about Julia's fall.”