Authors: Heather Gudenkauf
Three hours and about ninety dollars later, Sarah had scanned all the documents, including the photos and the transcripts of the audiotapes that Margaret had given her. She returned quickly to her car and was just placing the box back into the trunk when a sheriff's car drove slowly past. Sarah made eye contact with the driver, the same deputy who had taken Amy into custody. Sarah gave a half wave and slid the box the rest of the way into the trunk. Had the deputy seen what she was loading into the trunk? Had he been able to read Lydia Tierney's name written on the side of the box?
Sarah climbed into the car and closed her eyes, half expecting that he would turn his vehicle around and order her to open the trunk. When she was certain that he wasn't going to return, she doubled-checked that the thumb drive was tucked safely inside her purse and then pulled out her phone to call Margaret.
“I've been trying to call you,” Margaret said by way of greeting. “Where are you?”
Sarah debated whether or not to tell Margaret that she had just scanned the contents of the evidence box that Margaret had stolen for her, but decided against it. She didn't want to cause Margaret any more worry than she already had. “I'm in town,” she said vaguely. “What's going on?”
Margaret lowered her voice to a low whisper. “I'm at work, so I can't talk long. Something big has happened at Hal's.”
“Jack said that the sheriff's department wasn't finished with their search and that we weren't allowed to go back there just yet. Do you know what's going on?” Sarah glanced at the clock on the console. It was twelve thirty and the wake was set to begin at three. She needed to get back to Celia's house and change.
“No. The sheriff's not saying, but I do know that they called in a state forensic team from Des Moines. They're on the way over there now.”
“Why would they need a different forensic team?” Sarah asked, suddenly on alert. They must have found something more than the few droplets of blood that Sarah had seen on the steps. Did it have something to do with the fluoroacetate? “Margaret, do you have access to Julia's case file? I know the medical examiner released her remains back to the family. Is there any mention of the official cause of death?”
Margaret was quiet on the other end.
“I'm sorry,” Sarah said in a rush. “I shouldn't be asking you to do more than you already have.”
“No, no. I want to help, I really do,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. “Let me think a second. Hold on a minute,” Margaret said. “I'll see what I can find out.”
Sarah heard Margaret set the receiver down and the click of a keyboard. Had they found the poison at the farm? That wouldn't make sense if Amy had been the one to kill Julia. Wouldn't the poison have been found at her house? Jack had made it sound as if Gilmore wouldn't allow them to leave Penny Gate because of what they had found at Hal's farm.
“Are you still there?” Margaret asked breathlessly a few minutes later.
“I'm here,” Sarah said.
“I can't believe it,” Margaret said.
“What?” Sarah asked, urging her on but already sure she knew the answer. “What does it say?”
“It was poison. I can't believe Amy would do that.”
“The sheriff is sure that it was Amy, then?” Sarah asked, wondering how Jack's meeting with Amy's attorney had gone.
“He must,” Margaret said. “He arrested her. She was arraigned this morning. No bail.”
That meant that Amy would miss Julia's wake and funeral. As appalling as it was to think that someone would have beaten Julia at the top of the stairs in her own home, it seemed even more horrific that someone would deliberately poison her while she was lying in a hospital bed.
“I've got to go,” Margaret said in a hushed tone as if someone had come within earshot of her side of the conversation. “I'll see you at the wake tonight.”
Sarah disconnected and began the drive back to Celia's, trying to reconcile the fact that Amy had somehow poisoned Julia while they were at the hospital. Still, it didn't quite make sense. No one, it seemed, except Dean, could provide a reason that Amy would kill her aunt. An argument over Amy's drinking and lost job just didn't seem like it would lead to such violence, but people were killed over much less all the time. Stranger yet was the idea that Amy would go to such lengths to poison Julia. Was Amy afraid that Julia would wake up and identify her as the one who attacked her?
By the time she arrived back at Celia's, the men had returned from making final preparations for the funeral, had changed into their suits and ties, and were just getting ready to leave for the wake. Sarah went upstairs to change and when she came back downstairs, Celia was rushing around, putting together a variety of salads for the funeral dinner.
“Do you want to ride with us?” Jack asked Sarah hopefully. He looked almost boyish or maybe just a little bit lost in his ill-fitting suit and wearing the bewildered expression of someone who had been blindsided by tragedy or had been caught in one too many lies.
Dean looked at his watch impatiently while Hal struggled to button his suit coat across his wide belly with his thick fingers.
“I was hoping Sarah could help me with a few things around here,” Celia interjected. “I've got to finish putting together this potato salad for tomorrow and get this cake out of the oven.”
“I can stay and help.” Sarah reached for the apron that Celia held out for her.
“Okay,” Jack answered. Did he look disappointed? Sarah wasn't sure. Maybe he was just nervous that Sarah and Celia would be alone for a length of time. Plenty of opportunity for Sarah to quiz Celia about his past. Maybe Jack didn't want Celia to spill any more of his secrets.
“We'll be there by two forty-five, I promise,” Celia said, giving each man a tight hug in turn before they headed out the door.
“Can you mix together the potato salad?” Celia asked, pulling a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator and setting it on the counter.
“I thought the Women's Rosary Guild was in charge of the food?” Sarah asked as she opened the lid and stirred the dressing into a bowl of boiled potatoes.
“They are,” Celia said, reaching into a cupboard for powdered sugar. “But I like to cook and it helps me keep my mind off things.” Tears filled her large eyes. “Except that cooking reminds me of Julia. She loved to help out this way. Julia was always the first one to volunteer to make a salad or bake a cake for a funeral dinner. I remember when Lydia diedâI swear, Julia made five pies. Can you believe that? Her sister-in-law is just murdered, her brother accused, and she makes all those pies.” Celia went to the oven and turned on the light to peek inside.
“You know,” Sarah said as she added mustard to the bowl, “this is the first time someone has actually spoken out loud about what happened to Jack's mom and dad. Why is that?”
Celia twisted a hand towel embroidered with fall leaves between her fingers. “I guess it's just too hard. You know Hal's generationâstoic and no-nonsense. Bad things happen and you need to just put your head down and forge onward.”
Sarah thought about this and had to agree it was true. Her own parents had a similar philosophy of life.
“Is it hard living here?” Sarah asked, changing the subject. “With all that happened, doesn't it ever scare you?”
Celia slid the bowl onto the base of the electric mixer and turned it on. “You mean is the house cursed?” she asked over the whir of the beaters.
“Of course not,” Sarah said, and felt her cheeks redden. “It just must be very strange living in the home where a murder occurred, especially since you know the family.”
“Not really. When Dean and I decided to move in, we vowed to make new memories here. Happier ones.” She straightened and glanced at the basement door.
Sarah followed her gaze. She couldn't imagine living in a home where a murder took place. “Do you use the basement? I mean, that's where it happened, right?”
“Actually, we don't go down there much,” Celia explained. “Nothing but dust, cobwebs and a few boxes of junk. We're just grateful that Julia let us rent it from her.”
“Rent it? Why?”
“Yes, the house has been in the Tierney family forever. When Lydia died and John disappeared, it went to Julia. We've rented the house for the past eighteen years and farmed the land. It's worked out perfectly for us.”
Celia walked over to Sarah's side. “Looks good,” she said, eyeing the potato salad. She pulled a roll of plastic wrap from a drawer and covered the bowl. “God, I remember that day. It was horrible. My mom came home from work sobbing. When she finally told me what happened I came right here. They wouldn't let me come in. They wouldn't tell me anything. It was an hour before someone told me Jack and Amy were okay, but they wouldn't let me see them.”
“When did you finally get to talk to him?” Sarah moved to the sink to wash her hands.
“Not until the next afternoon. He looked terrible.” Celia shook her head at the memory. “And he was never the same again.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel that Celia had handed to her.
“Before he had been so happy-go-lucky, so funny. And after...well, he wasn't. He wouldn't talk to anyone. Went to school, then came home and stayed up in his bedroom.”
From what Sarah read in the case file, Jack wasn't particularly a happy-go-lucky kid. On the contrary, he was described as sullen and angry. Was he so different around Celia? Sarah looked down at the dish towel, hand embroidered with leaves of brown, red and yellow thread. Her mind flashed to the image of Lydia lying on the cement floor with a bloody dish towel covering her eyes. “Lydia embroidered that,” Celia said. “Pretty, isn't it?” Sarah nodded. “I've got a whole drawer of them, if you'd like to take back a few with you.”
“That'd be nice,” Sarah managed to say.
Celia looked up at the clock on the wall. Two fifteen. “I should go and get dressed. Will you be all right if I head upstairs for a bit?”
“Go right ahead,” Sarah assured her.
Sarah rinsed the dirty dishes in the sink and placed them carefully in the dishwasher, wiped down the counter and looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything else she could tidy up. She looked out the window over the sink, imagining Lydia on that day, doing the same. What was she thinking that morning when she awoke? Did she make a mental list of all the things she had to do that day? Did she stare out this window when she washed the breakfast dishes? Sarah knew from Jack's taped interview that Lydia kissed her children goodbye before they left for school, told them she loved them. How sad, Sarah thought, that she had no idea that would be the last time she saw her children.
Sarah turned from the window and faced the basement door. Slowly she walked toward it, reached up to slide the lock open. She thought back to the crime-scene photos and the picture that showed a freezer standing open. Was Lydia going down there to get a pound of frozen hamburger or a package of pork chops for dinner?
Sarah cocked her head, listening to see if Celia was coming back down the stairs. All was quiet. She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted. The wood frame was warped and she pulled at the knob, but the door wouldn't move. Sarah put one hand on the door frame, planted her feet and gave the knob a tug and it popped open, causing her to stumble backward a few step before she righted herself.
She kicked off her high heels and slowly approached the top of the steep wooden steps that disappeared into darkness. Sarah felt around for a switch and when she flipped on the light she was plunged back in time. She saw the same rickety handrail, the same wooden steps lined with roof shingles to make them less slippery. The same lightbulb swung from the ceiling.
Sarah took one step downward. She imagined Lydia taking the same step. Was she singing a song? Humming a tune? Or was she hesitant, just like Sarah was now? A feeling of dread slowed her steps. Again, she listened for Celia. How would she explain her descent into the basement? She had no excuse beyond morbid curiosity.
She alighted from the final step and the cement floor was cold and smooth beneath her bare feet. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes landing on a large deep freezer. The same one in the crime-scene photos? She felt a sudden urge to open the freezer, to peer inside just as Lydia had done years before. She took a tentative step forward.
Against one wall were shelves lined with dozens of jars of homemade preserves and pickles. Sarah ran one finger over the lid of one glass jar and came away with a thick layer of dust. She wondered if Celia had done all the jarring or if they were relics of the life Lydia had left behind. In a far corner of the large room were a stack of boxes and an array of what looked to be old farm and garden equipment.
Sarah felt a light tickle across her knuckles and she glanced down just as she saw the spindly legs of a daddy longlegs skitter across her hand and she frantically shook it away. Sarah's elbow struck one of the glass jars and it shattered against the concrete floor. Sarah leaped back to avoid the splatter and the acrid smell of pickle juice filled the air. Quickly, she began picking up the shards of glass and deposited them into a small garbage can next to the freezer. Using an oily rag left on a bottom shelf she wiped up as much of the pickle juice that she could. As she scrubbed she thought of Lydia and the puddle of blood that lay beneath her broken skull. In the dim light, Sarah's eyes swept the floor, searching for some remnant that Lydia had died here. Was that dark spot over there a stain where the blood pooled? Someone must have cleaned it up. Was it someone from the sheriff's department or perhaps a family member? Was it Julia?
“Sarah?” Celia called from somewhere within the house.
Sarah rose to her feet, tossed the rag into the garbage can and quickly hurried up the steps and back into the kitchen; she closed the basement door and slid the lock into place as quietly as possible. She stepped back into her high heels and moved to the sink where she ran her hands beneath the tap, trying to wash away the smell of dill and vinegar from her skin and wondered if Lydia's killer did the same? Had they stood in this exact spot, trying to scour away the bright red blood and its coppery cloying scent?