Missing Pieces (16 page)

Sarah lifted the cardboard lid. Inside were dozens of file folders, each labeled and dated. “This is the entire case file?” Sarah looked at Margaret. “Really?”

“Not the entire file,” Margaret amended. “There's no physical evidence in there. They keep that in the basement under lock and key.”

“But still, all these documents. How did you get them?”

“I have my ways,” Margaret said cryptically.

“No, really, Margaret,” Sarah said with concern. For the first time, Sarah noticed how tired Margaret looked. Her eyes were framed by dark circles and she was pale, though she tried to camouflage her exhaustion with heavy makeup. “You could get in big trouble for this. You could lose your job. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure,” Margaret said with feeling. “You only live once, right? Besides, I've seen what Lydia's death has done to my mother. If there's anything I can do to help my mom, I'll do it. Now, this is the one file that the sheriff keeps in his office. He was down on the jail side talking to Amy so I just went in and grabbed it.”

Sarah's eyes widened in alarm. “You broke into the sheriff's office? Oh, my God, Margaret, you could have been caught. I thought you would just go down into some storage area to find it.”

“Not with this case file,” Margaret said, tapping the lid of the box. “The sheriff keeps it in the closet in his office. He pulls it out once in a while and looks through it.”

“But why?” Sarah asked. She itched to pull the lid off the box and start perusing through the contents. “The case is closed. Why would the sheriff care so much?”

Margaret leaned in close to Sarah even though no one was near. “Rumor had it that Sheriff Gilmore and Lydia might have been having an affair. My mom said that was ridiculous, that they were just friends, but you know how people talk.”

“No one in the audiotapes mentioned anything about an affair. Everyone interviewed said Lydia and John had a good marriage. Why wouldn't something like an affair come out?” Sarah asked.

“Look at who was interviewing them. Gilmore.” Margaret's eyes shone with excitement. “They wouldn't have said anything, at least not on the record.”

“I don't know,” Sarah said doubtfully. “It seems a little far-fetched.”

A truck crept by and Margaret hurriedly closed the trunk. “I told you my mom was best friends with Lydia, right? She thought something wasn't quite right about the whole thing since the start.”

“She doesn't think that John killed her?”

“No, I'm not saying that. She just believes there's a lot more to the story than folks know or are saying. Can you pull your car up and we'll put the box in your trunk?”

Sarah trotted to her car. She still needed to stop by Arthur Newberry's office to pay the retainer; she hoped she hadn't missed him for the day. She climbed inside, checked her phone and found that she had several voice mails from Jack. She didn't even bother to listen to them. She knew she needed to touch base with him, at least let him know where she was, but she was still so angry. She pulled her car up next to Margaret's, stepped out and went around to the other side to open the passenger's-side door.

“You don't want it in the trunk?” Margaret asked.

“This is fine for now. I can't look through it at Dean's or Hal's house. I'll probably have to sit in my car somewhere and go through it.”

Margaret hefted the box draped with her jacket from the trunk and transferred it to the passenger's-side seat of Sarah's car. “I'd invite you over to my house, but my mom will be there and it's best if she didn't know what we are up to.”

“Thanks again for getting this for me,” Sarah said gratefully. “When do you need it back?”

“As soon as possible. What about tomorrow or the next day?” Margaret nibbled on a manicured nail. “God, I can't believe I'm doing this. I must be crazy.”

“We can stop—you don't have to...” Sarah began.

“No.” Margaret shook her head. “I want to. For my mom, for Lydia.” Margaret took a deep breath as if to bolster herself and continued. “The sheriff is pretty busy with Amy and the search at Hal's house. So we should be okay until at least then.”

“They're still searching Hal's house?” Sarah asked. “I didn't think it would take that long—it's not that big of a home.”

“They're searching the outbuildings, too. It looks like they might have found something on the property.”

“Evidence?” Sarah asked curiously. Did the sheriff find something that would further incriminate Amy? Exonerate her?

“I don't know,” Margaret said, “but from what Tess said, they're going to be there for a while. I'll keep my ears open, though. Do you think you'll be able to go through the whole thing in the next day or two?” Margaret nodded toward the box.

“I'll have to. If I don't find out what happened to Jack's family thirty years ago in the next forty-eight hours, I probably never will.”

13

SARAH LOCATED THE
attorney's office, a narrow redbrick building sandwiched between a bakery and a hardware store. An ornate gold sign, engraved with an illustration of a blindfolded Lady Justice, read Arthur L. Newberry, Jr., Attorney at Law.

Sarah, making sure that the evidence box was completely concealed by the jacket, stepped from the car and peeked through the mullioned windows. A grandmotherly woman with tightly curled white hair sat behind a desk reading a novel. Sarah pulled open the door and a bell tinkled, announcing her arrival. The woman looked up from behind thick reading glasses and quickly slid the book into her desk drawer. “Hello, can I help you?” she asked, folding her arthritic fingers behind a nameplate that read Katherine Newberry. Sarah wondered if this was Arthur's mother.

Sarah explained who she was and asked if Arthur was available.

“Arthur is still at the jail meeting with Ms. Quinlan. I don't expect him back until a bit later. Would you like to wait?”

“I'll have to stop back tomorrow morning if he'll be in.”

Katherine referred to a large desk calendar. “I have Ms. Quinlan's arraignment down for 9:00 a.m. Will you be able to stop in beforehand?”

Sarah agreed, thanked her and turned to leave when Katherine cleared her throat. “Now there's just the little matter of fees. Mr. Newberry prefers payment up front.”

“Of course,” Sarah said, digging through her purse for her checkbook. She quickly scribbled out a check for the retainer and handed it to Katherine, who examined it carefully before stowing it into her desk drawer.

“Are you related to Arthur?” Sarah asked, nodding her head toward the nameplate.

“Oh, yes. Arthur is my grandson.” Katherine smiled proudly. “He just took over my husband's practice a few months ago after he graduated from law school.” Sarah's heart sank a bit and she hoped that what Arthur lacked in lawyerly experience he made up for in hard work and tenacity.

“So you've lived in Penny Gate for a while?” Sarah asked. If the Newberrys had been here for any length of time, Katherine certainly would have been familiar with Lydia's murder.

“Our whole lives,” Katherine said. “Born and bred here.”

“Then you might have known my husband's parents? John and Lydia Tierney.”

“Of course,” Katherine said. “You must be Jack's wife. It's nice to meet you, although these aren't the best of circumstances. I was hoping that Jack would have stopped by himself. I haven't seen that boy in decades.”

“You knew Jack, too?” Sarah asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was well after 6:00 p.m. Sarah was torn between wanting to hear more about Jack and wanting to dig into the case file.

“Oh, yes,” Katherine said with a smile. “Our youngest daughter went to school with Jack. We always liked him. Tragic, what happened to his family. My husband actually represented Jack for a short time during the whole mess.” She shook her head. “Poor boy. Imagine being suspected of your mother's murder when all along it was your dad who did it? And now all that's happening with Amy and Julia.” Katherine gave a sympathetic click of her tongue.

“Represented Jack?” Sarah repeated, not sure she had heard Katherine correctly. “Was Jack actually arrested?”

“He was arrested but never charged,” Katherine assured her. “Julia Quinlan called my husband once she learned the sheriff was focused on Jack as a suspect.”

Sarah's stomach flipped. Another lie from Jack. She contemplated getting back into the rental car, driving to the airport and heading back home to Larkspur without a backward glance. But something kept her there. The need to know the entire truth? Love for her husband? She wasn't sure anymore. “Do you have any of that old paperwork?” Sarah asked. “Any notes from when your husband met with Jack?”

Katherine gave her an uncertain look. “Why would you want anything from back then? It was a terrible, terrible time.”

Sarah thought fast. “Since coming back to town, lots of memories have been dredged up for Jack and he's been going over things in his mind. Asking a lot of questions, reading a lot of the old news articles.” Sarah couldn't believe she was lying so easily to this poor woman.

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt anything,” Katherine said more to herself than to Sarah. “I'll just go and see if I can find the file.” She rose and disappeared through a doorway in the back of the office and emerged a few moments later with a thin file folder in hand.

“This is all I could dig up,” she said, thumbing through the pages. “Like I said. Arthur represented him only for a very short time. Once the sheriff realized that John Tierney had disappeared all the focus went away from Jack. There's just a few pages of handwritten notes here.” She handed a file to Sarah. “Here, I made a photocopy for you. Tell Jack to stop in and say hello while he's in town.”

“I will and thank you,” Sarah said, sliding the folder into her purse. “And I'll be in tomorrow morning at eight to talk with your grandson.”

The sun was slowly dipping behind the tree line, tingeing the clouds pink and gold. Daylight was fading fast. Jack had sent her several more texts giving her updates and asking where she was. The sheriff's department was still at Hal's farm. They hadn't finished the search yet. The wake was scheduled for the next evening and the funeral for the following day. He had tried to go and visit Amy at the jail but she was meeting with her attorney at the time. Was something wrong? Please call.

Is something wrong?
Sarah began to text.
How about finding out your husband was the main suspect in the murder of his mother and was arrested? You forgot to tell me that part. Yeah, something is wrong.
Sarah exhaled in frustration and then hit Cancel. She thought for a moment and then typed again.
Just have had a lot to think about. I'll be back soon.
At least Jack had made the effort to go see his sister. That was something the Jack she thought she knew would do.

She climbed back into the car and tried to figure out where she could read the case file without interruption. A hotel? That was certainly appealing. She hated the thought of returning to the house where Jack's mother died, hated facing her liar of a husband. In a hotel room she could spread out the entire contents of the box and go through each document thoroughly, take notes and try to fit the pieces of her husband's early life together. Somehow this seemed wrong, though, deserting Jack the night before his aunt's wake. She was hurt and possibly irreparably angry with Jack, but she couldn't completely abandon him, not here, not now. Not yet.

Sarah found herself back on the same stretch of gravel road where she first listened to the audiotapes. She had only seen the one vehicle with the hunters here earlier in the day and hoped that it would be equally deserted now. The sun was dipping below the horizon and she knew she had only a few minutes of daylight left to use as light to read by. She pulled off to the side of the road, put the car into Park, turned on her hazard lights and turned off the ignition. She didn't want to be rear-ended by a car coming up unexpectedly behind her.

Sarah locked the doors, rolled down the windows a few inches and felt a cool light breeze brush across her skin. The road was empty for as far as she could see. A cornfield that had yet to be harvested sat to her right and a meadow filled with long grass and clover sat to her left. No homes rose up in the distance, no silos stood sentry. She was all alone. The only sounds were the rustling of grass and crickets announcing autumn with weary, almost melancholy chirps. She fought the urge to start the car again and turn on the radio just for the noise—she didn't want to miss hearing a car approaching.

Sarah flipped on the overhead light and pulled out the file folder that Katherine Newberry gave her. She skimmed the handwritten notes, learning nothing new. Young Jack maintained his innocence just as he did in his interview with Gilmore.

Next she slid Margaret's jacket from atop the evidence box, removed the lid and pulled out the first file folder.

Inside the musty manila folder she found a thick pile of photographs, bound together by a frayed rubber band, all labeled in black permanent marker with the date, case number and location. The rubber band snapped when she tried to slide it from the stack. She braced for what she was about to see. After hearing the audiotape of Jack's account of the discovery of his mother's body, she knew that the photos were going to be graphic, a harrowing step-by-step visual chronicle of a brutal murder. The first few photos were benign enough. Snapshots of the house, Dean and Celia's house, Jack's childhood home. The photographer documented his journey into the house. The mudroom with an array of shoes and boots neatly lined up against one wall. The kitchen, sun shining incongruously through the window, splashing colorful prisms of light onto the floor. The door to the cellar, slightly ajar, smudged with blood. Jack's fingerprints according to the audiotapes. The steps leading downward into the darkened cellar.

Sarah's fingers stopped. In the distance she heard the lowing of cattle, a mournful and lonely sound. Her heartbeat quickened and she glanced up, aware of how alone she was. The sun had finally set and except for the car's overhead light she was enveloped in darkness. No stars dotted the sky; there was no sliver of moon, no streetlights. She almost wished she had gone to a hotel. At least there would have been people around. With shaking fingers she continued to thumb through the photos, finally coming to the pictures she dreaded seeing.

The first shot of Lydia's body was taken from above. She was lying faceup on the concrete floor, the lid to the freezer still open, her yellow hair, dark and sticky with blood, fanned out on the floor around her. A piece of fabric obscured the top half of her face, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream.

One hand was outstretched and Sarah wondered if she was trying to protect herself or reaching out for someone, pleading for them to stop. Her dress, the color of lemon drops, was hiked up around her waist, revealing long, pale legs.

The next photos zeroed in on her injuries. The fingers on one hand were bloodied and bent at odd angles, broken, Sarah thought, when Lydia must have tried to ward off the blows. Dark purple bruises bloomed across her arms. Next, the camera focused on Lydia's head wound. A deep gash, four inches long, ran at the edge of her hairline just above her ear, exposing paper-white bone. Sarah had to look away; her stomach flipped dangerously. Who could have inflicted such horrific injuries? Someone very angry or very evil, she thought. Or both. Could Jack have wielded the weapon that did this and then watched his mother die? Not the Jack she knew, the Jack she thought she knew, anyway. But she also would never have believed that Jack could have lied to her so blatantly.

The temperature in the car had dropped and goose bumps erupted along her arms. She reached for Margaret's jacket and threaded her arms through the sleeves, grateful for the warmth. The next photo was a close-up of the fabric covering her eyes, a dish towel embroidered with flowers, already stiff with blood. At first Sarah wondered if perhaps a police officer had placed it over Lydia's face to cover up her gruesome injuries, but quickly realized that wasn't the case. It was part of the crime scene. Jack mentioned on the audiotape that his mother's eyes had been covered with a cloth of some kind. Had Lydia had the towel in her hands when she was attacked and it had fallen across her eyes when she tumbled to the ground? Or had it been placed there by a killer, too ashamed to look into the eyes of the woman he had murdered?

Suddenly nauseous, Sarah dropped the photos onto the seat next to her, and pushed open the car door, nearly tumbling to the ground as she hurried out. She stumbled to the side of the road and bent over, hands on her knees, willing herself not to vomit, but certain she would feel better if she did. She could taste remnants of the hamburger she had eaten earlier in the back her throat. Something scurried near her through the tall grass, causing her heart to skip a beat. On shaky legs, Sarah stood and made her way back to the car. She held on to the door frame, taking deep breaths until the queasiness passed.

Sarah looked at the passenger's-side seat. The photos were strewn across the seat and onto the floor in a jumble. She left them where they lay.

She considered packing up the box, driving directly back to the sheriff's department and handing it over to Margaret.
No
, Sarah told herself. She got back into the car and reached into the box to pull out another folder. This one chronicled the findings of the medical examiner who conducted Lydia's autopsy. Cause of death: blunt force trauma.

Though she wanted to turn away, she was compelled to keep looking at the autopsy photos. Lydia was stretched out upon a metal table, a white sheet pulled up over her chest. Someone had rinsed the blood from her hair and it was slicked back away from her face, now peaceful, the earlier terror smoothed away. Her eyes were closed and except for the ugly gash along her hairline she could have been sleeping.

A close-up of the injury to Lydia's head revealed a curved laceration. Whatever Lydia had been struck with had a rounded, sharp edge.

Since the murder had taken place in 1985, Sarah knew it was a little early for the wide use of DNA testing, but several sets of fingerprints had been found at the scene. Jack's, Amy's, Lydia's and John's fingerprints, identified from his military record. No murder weapon was ever found, but both Amy and Jack in their interviews with the sheriff's department said the cellar had been home to many old farm tools over the years. Something from the cellar could easily have been used as a weapon.

A note from the medical examiner stated that the injury was consistent with a blow from a heavy object with a curved, sharp edge.

The subsequent files offered little new information, just a rehashing of the scant facts and a jumble of suppositions from the people of Penny Gate who, as the public support of John Tierney faded, shared glimpses of the darker side of their friend and neighbor.
Quiet, kept to himself. Had a bit of a temper. Waved his shotgun around at deer hunters who came on his property without permission.