Missing Pieces (22 page)

“What the hell is going on?” Dean asked once the sheriff and his deputies had left. “A body?” Dean turned to his father. “Do you have any idea who could have been buried there?”

Hal shook his head numbly.

“We should get you back to the house,” Celia said with concern. “Hal, you have to get some rest.”

Sarah was struck by Jack's gentle ministrations as he helped his uncle to his feet. “Try not to think about what's happening back at the house right now,” he told him. “Look at all the people who came tonight. I think the whole town showed up.”

As a group they moved outside and all Sarah could think about were the remains found at Hal's farm. She had so many questions, but the sheriff had cut her off, not willing or able to give them any details.

“Sarah,” a voice said from behind them, and Sarah and Jack turned to see Margaret sitting on a bench, brightened by a streetlamp just outside the funeral home.

“I told Margaret I'd help her take the desserts she made to the church for the funeral tomorrow,” Sarah explained.

“I really appreciate Sarah's help with this,” Margaret said. “My mom was going to, but her back's been bothering her.”

“Can I help?” Jack offered.

“No, I can do it,” Sarah said. “You should go with Hal. He seems really shaken up.”

“Okay, see you back at Dean's.” Jack leaned in to kiss Sarah, but she turned her face and his lips landed near her ear. He tried to mask his hurt at her rebuff with a smile directed at Margaret. “Thanks for helping with the funeral dinner. I know it's a big job.”

“Glad to do it,” Margaret assured him.

Sarah watched as her husband climbed into the truck next to Hal. He didn't even glance back at her.

“What was that all about?” Margaret asked, seeing the strained interaction between Sarah and Jack.

“It's a long story.” Sarah dropped down onto the bench, the cold from the wrought iron seeping through her dress. “And besides, all hell just broke loose. Did you know they found a
dead
body
at Hal's?”

Margaret's eyes widened. “A body? Who is it?”

“They don't know or aren't saying.”

Sarah followed Margaret to Saint Finnian's. When they arrived, Margaret pulled out a key to the church and together they unloaded the desserts that the Women's Rosary Guild had made for Julia's funeral dinner.

Back in the parking lot, Sarah opened the trunk of her car and the two of them stared down at the box.

“So did you get all your questions answered?” Margaret asked.

Sarah shook her head. “Somehow I've ended up with more questions than answers. I don't know what it is. But there's something that just doesn't seem right.”

“Do you want me to take a look? Maybe I'll notice something you missed.”

“Sure,” Sarah said, shining her cell phone light over the box.

Margaret removed the lid, and thumbed through the contents until she came across the stack of photos. Slowly, she began flicking through the pictures, examining each carefully. “I'm just not sure what I should be looking for.”

“Wait,” Sarah said. “What's that?” Together they looked at the photograph of Lydia on her back, one arm outstretched, a bloody cloth covering her eyes, her mouth contorted into a frozen scream.

Revulsion skittered across Margaret's face but she continued to inspect the photo. “What is it? What do you see?”

“What does that look like to you?” Sarah pointed to a shiny glint of silver on the floor next to Lydia.

“Maybe a coin or a piece of jewelry.” She looked up at Sarah. “Is that what you're thinking?”

“Yes. It's a little hard to see, but it looks like a bracelet charm to me.”

Sarah turned the photo and took note of the number written on the back. “I'm not sure yet. But the other day at the hospital, Amy was carrying around a silver charm similar to this.”

Margaret shrugged. “Maybe it belonged to her mother, a kind of memento.”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “Amy said she found it on the floor next to Julia when she discovered her at the bottom of the stairs. She thought it belonged to her.”

“That is a little odd,” Margaret conceded, “but a lot of people wear bracelets with charms on them.”

“It's more than odd,” Sarah insisted. “Two women from the same family, both bludgeoned, both dead, and now both with a silver charm found near them. Look.” She tapped the photo. “Lydia isn't wearing a bracelet or jewelry of any kind. Where's the broken bracelet?”

“Maybe John took it after he killed her,” Margaret offered.

“But that doesn't explain the charm that Amy found. Margaret, it can't be a coincidence. It just can't.”

“But John killed Lydia and all the evidence for Julia's death points to Amy. Amy was only eleven when her mother was murdered, so what, you think that
John
killed Lydia and then came back and killed Julia? That's impossible.”

“Is it?” Sarah asked, thinking of Jack's purported sighting of his father at the hospital. Maybe he really did see him there. “I've got to talk to Amy. I need to ask her about the charm she found.”

“That's impossible,” Margaret said. “At least at this time of night. It will have to wait until tomorrow during visiting hours.”

“I don't want to wait that long. I'm going to Amy's,” she said suddenly. “Do you want to come with me?”

“To Amy's house? Why?” Margaret asked.

Sarah hefted the box from her trunk and transferred it to the trunk of Margaret's car. “I want to see if I can find that charm in her house. Compare it to the one in the crime-scene photo.”

“How are you going to get in?” Margaret's brows knit together in dismay. “You're not going to break in, are you?”

“Not if I don't have to, but I could use a lookout.” She looked at Margaret hopefully.

“That isn't a good idea. Just wait until morning. Nothing bad is going to happen between now and then,” Margaret said firmly as she made her way to the front of the car, then stopped abruptly. Something had caught her attention, and she rose on her toes to get a better look. “What's that?” she asked.

“What?” Sarah peered into the darkness, but saw nothing.

“That.” Margaret pointed to an object tucked beneath the windshield wiper on Sarah's car.

Sarah leaned forward and squinted. “I don't know. Hold on a sec.” She moved to the front of the car and lifted the wiper, retrieving the item from beneath. “It's a watch,” she said, handing it to Margaret. “At least, part of one.”

Margaret shone her cell phone light on the object. It was the face of a watch attached to half of a grimy stainless-steel band. It was a Seiko with a silver face and black hands with the day of the week and the date where the Roman numeral III should have been. “God, my dad used to have a watch like this.”

Sarah leaned toward her. “My dad did, too. I bet every father from the '70s had a similar one. Why would someone put an old, broken watch on my car?”

Margaret shrugged and handed the watch back to Sarah. “Maybe someone found it on the ground by your car and thought it belonged to you. You didn't notice it on the drive from the funeral home?”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I'm sure I would have seen it. Someone must have put it there when we were down in the church basement.” Sarah eyed the parking lot. The street was obscured by a row of honey locust trees. Was someone watching from behind a lacy veil of leaves? It was dark and completely deserted except for their two cars. Behind the church lay the cemetery with its wrought-iron fence gate and acres of smooth ivory headstones rising from the earth. “It's pitch-black out here. How would someone even see the watch on the ground?”

Margaret inched more closely to Sarah and looked around warily. “And why would anyone be walking through the parking lot at this time of night? Maybe we should call the sheriff.”

“And say what? Someone put an old watch on my car? There's nothing criminal in that.” Sarah strained her eyes, trying to take in her surroundings to see if anyone was skulking nearby. “Compared with what he's dealing with right now, this is nothing. Besides, won't he wonder why the two of us are out here alone in a deserted parking lot?”

“We'd just tell him the truth, that we were delivering food for the funeral. But it still creeps me out,” Margaret said, drawing her jacket more closely around herself. “Where are you heading to now?”

“I guess I should go back to Dean's.”

“Well, text me when you get back to the house, so I know you got there safely. And go straight to Dean's,” Margaret ordered, pointing a red-tipped fingernail at her. “I'll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”

“See you,” Sarah said. “And thanks for all your help, Margaret.” Sarah quickly climbed into her car, locked the doors, tucked the watch into her purse and made sure that Margaret got into her car safely. Though Sarah had been avoiding going back to the house and didn't look forward to the tension that was sure to greet her there, she was curious to learn more about the remains in the cistern. It seemed, Sarah thought fearfully, that every time she went back to that house another secret was uncovered, another crack in her marriage appeared.

17

SHE TURNED ON
her phone after having silenced it for the wake and immediately it buzzed. It was Gabe, her editor.

“Sarah,” Gabe said shortly.

Sarah was startled by his sharp tone. “What's wrong?”

“I tried to call you, sent you emails and texted you. I was getting worried.”

“I had my phone turned off. I've been at Julia's wake,” Sarah explained as she watched Margaret pull away from the parking lot. “Were you able to find out where the emails are coming from?”

“No, not yet. I've got one of our tech guys checking on it. But I did a little digging.”

“What kind of digging?” Sarah asked.

“After you told me about Jack not telling you how his mom really died, I checked it out. I have a contact at the Cedar City
Gazette
, Burt Wenstrup, who did an in-depth exposé on the murder back in the day.”

“I read his articles. I found them online.”

“I called Burt yesterday. He runs the newsroom now but has never forgotten this case. He had lots of theories about what really happened to Lydia Tierney, but most of what he learned was small-town gossip and couldn't be corroborated. So of course he only wrote the facts, but he's never been fully satisfied with the outcome.”

“No one's satisfied with the outcome,” Sarah said. “Is there a way you can send me his notes electronically?”

“Yeah, but let me give you the highlights. Burt talked to a lot of people. Only a few could come up with names of anyone who may have wanted to kill Lydia Tierney and the last person on the list was her husband.

“Burt interviewed just about everyone in Penny Gate. Jack's uncle Hal is in here, so is a Deputy Sheriff Gilmore and his wife, Delia. The priest, the coroner, even the mayor.”

“Wow, that is really thorough,” Sarah said, impressed. The case file didn't have that many interviews.

“Burt is a great reporter. He really knows how to get people to talk to him, trust him. He could also be the most ethical journalist I've met. He never included something in an article just because it was shocking or would sell papers. He could get to the heart of a story, but made sure that he included facts, not idle gossip.”

“So Burt doesn't think that Jack's dad did it?”

“Like I said, most folks were shocked that John Tierney was the main suspect. At first, some thought it was a crazed drifter, though no one reported any strangers in the area around that time. Then they discovered John had disappeared and the general consensus was that he had to be the one who did it.”

“Listen, Gabe,” she said, putting the call on speakerphone, shifting the car into gear and pulling out of the parking lot and into the road. “I know that Jack was a suspect at one point. I heard the taped interview Gilmore had with him. Nothing in this file could be worse than listening to that.”

Still, Gabe hesitated before speaking. “Several people that Burt interviewed mentioned Jack as a possible suspect. At fifteen he was getting into all kinds of trouble. He hung out with an older crowd, was running around town, drinking and raising hell. A few people, though, said that Jack could be pretty aggressive. Got into quite a few bang-up fights at school.” Before today she would have said that this didn't sound like Jack at all. “There was one person who told Burt that Jack had once even struck Lydia.”

“I heard about that,” Sarah said softly. “Is there anything else?”

Gabe didn't answer. “There's more, but I think you should probably just read Burt's notes.”

“Gabe,” Sarah said impatiently, “just tell me.”

Gabe expelled a long breath.
“
Burt had a source that said Jack threatened to kill his parents. Over some girl. Said if they didn't leave them alone, he was going to kill them.”

“Who? Who said that?” Sarah demanded.

“It was Jack's aunt. Julia Quinlan.”

“I'm having a hard time believing Julia would say that about Jack,” Sarah said as she left Penny Gate and turned onto the quiet rural highway. “Why would she take him into her home, if she thought he was capable of violence, of hitting his own mother, let alone murdering her?”

“She never
actually
said she thought Jack was the murderer,” Gabe pointed out. “Just that he had a temper, that she had seen it a time or two.”

“Still, why would she bring this up to a reporter of all people? I didn't see anything about this in any of the police reports I looked through.”

“She made Burt promise to keep everything she said about Jack off the record. That the boy had been through too much, but she wanted someone to know what had happened just in case.”

“In case what?” Sarah asked. She tried to keep her eyes focused on the road in front of her, but something caught her eye in the rearview window. “That makes no sense whatsoever,” Sarah finally said. “Unless Julia thought there might be some other evidence to show that Jack could have...” She couldn't bring herself to say the words.

“Sarah, I'm so sorry. I thought I was helping. I didn't mean to upset you or suggest that I think Jack had anything to do with his mother's death. I just thought you would want all the information.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes still flicking back and forth from the quiet country road to the rearview mirror. “I'm the one who called you. I asked for your help and I appreciate it. I just can't believe Julia would ever have allowed him to move into her home if she thought he was a murderer.”

“You could be right. Besides, whoever wanted Lydia Tierney dead had been planning it for quite a while,” Gabe said. “It wasn't just a heat-of-the-moment murder.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked. All along she had thought that Lydia's murder was due to an angry interaction that ended violently, and now Gabe was telling her otherwise.

Suddenly, from behind her, a vehicle appeared. Its headlights shone brightly through the rear window, causing her to squint against the light. “Gabe, I've got to go.”

“What's wrong?” Sarah could hear the worry in his voice.

“There's a pickup truck behind me driving really close,” Sarah said, twisting in her seat to get a better look. The headlights were blinding. “Gabe.” Sarah's voice rose in alarm.

“Just let him pass you,” Gabe urged. “Pull over to the side and let him pass.”

“I can't,” Sarah said, gripping the steering wheel more tightly. “There's nowhere to pull over, and if I go any slower, he's going to ram into me. I'm hanging up.” Sarah disconnected.

The vehicle crept closer and Sarah revved the engine and the car leaped forward with a roar. The truck followed suit, tapping the back bumper. Sarah screamed and overcorrected, causing the car to veer across the centerline. Her phone began buzzing incessantly. Gabe, she knew, calling her back. She struggled to get control and managed to pull back to the right side of the road. Again, the truck surged forward, this time crashing into her bumper, and then tore past her. Sarah screamed again, losing control of the steering, and the car careened off the road and bucked down a small embankment, plunging into a cornfield that had yet to be harvested. The sky above her disappeared and all Sarah could see were cornstalks whipping wildly against the windshield with a rapid
thunk, thunk
. She frantically pressed her foot down and the screech of the brakes filled her ears and her body strained against her seat belt as the car came to an abrupt stop.

Then all was still. Stunned, Sarah mentally checked her body for injuries. She was numb. Slowly she moved her neck, looking side to side. Sarah then tried to lift her arms. Pain pulsed through her right shoulder and she groaned, clenching her teeth against the pain.
What the hell just happened?
she asked herself.
Someone just ran me off the goddamn road
, she thought. But who? Why? Why would anyone want to hurt her?

She felt the passenger seat for her phone but couldn't find it. Was it safe to get out of the car? The truck had flown past her as she left the road but that didn't mean whoever was driving wasn't waiting for her up there somewhere. Sarah unclicked her seat belt and, with effort, pushed open the car door. Sarah winced at the pain in her shoulder as she stepped out onto the even soil.

Sarah reached back into the car and rooted around until she found her cell. She steadied herself against the open car door and dialed 9-1-1. A man's voice answered and with a trembling voice she explained that her car had been run off Highway 32 somewhere south of Penny Gate, and no, she didn't need an ambulance but a police officer would be helpful.

“Jesus, Sarah,” Gabe said when she called him back. “Are you okay?”

“A truck just ran me off the road,” Sarah said as she picked her way through the corn, trying to follow the path created by the car. “I'm okay, though. Just stay on the line with me until the police arrive.”

Though it seemed that she had traveled much farther, the road was only about a hundred yards from where the car was stranded. Sandpaper-rough stalks of corn brushed against her arms, her high heels sinking into the earth. Sarah thought of the two hunters she met on the gravel road. Had they somehow tracked her down and been the ones to send her into the cornfield? Sarah held her sore right arm close to her body as she tripped through the tall grass that ran along the side of the highway. By the time she reached the asphalt, she was breathing heavily and sweating despite the chill in the air.

With the sprawling fields behind her and the wide-open road in front of her, Sarah felt too exposed. She stepped back into the shadows of the field, afraid that whoever was driving the truck might come back, but fearful of what might be lurking in the shadows of the corn.

Gabe maintained a steady stream of chatter, trying to calm her nerves, but Sarah could only respond briefly, her attention drawn to each rustle of leaves, to every movement caught in the corner of her eye. It was with relief when fifteen minutes later she saw the flashing lights of a sheriff's car approaching.

The deputy pulled up to the side of the road, stepped from his vehicle and approached Sarah cautiously. He was heavyset and middle-aged and he walked toward her sluggishly, as if dragging his own weight. “He's here, Gabe. I'll call you later,” Sarah said, and then hung up.

“Are you the one who called in the accident?” the deputy asked.

“Yes, thank God you're here. Someone ran me off the road,” Sarah said frantically. “They came out of nowhere. My car's down there.” He shone his flashlight in the direction that Sarah was pointing, illuminating the flattened corn that disappeared into the darkness.

“Are you okay? Are you sure you don't need an ambulance?”

Sarah rotated her shoulder; it ached, but she didn't think anything was broken or torn. “No, I'm fine, but I think someone did this to me on purpose.”

“Why don't you take a seat in here,” the deputy invited, walking her back to his car and opening the back door, “get you warmed up.”

She gave her statement to the deputy, though she didn't have much to offer. She couldn't give him a description of the vehicle that had run her off the road, except that it was probably a pickup truck, and couldn't describe the driver. “Uh-huh,” the deputy said in a way that Sarah was sure meant that he didn't quite believe her version of events.

“Have you been drinking tonight, ma'am?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I just came from a wake,” Sarah insisted.

“Do you have any idea who would want to run you off the road?” he asked, looking down at her over the top of his glasses.

Sarah thought about telling him the truth. That she had been secretly investigating the murder of her mother-in-law and had found a connection, thin as it might be, between that murder and the death of Julia Quinlan. And now someone had just tried to kill her. The deputy would think she was out of her mind. No, she needed to wrap her head around all of it before she dared to utter her suspicions out loud to someone besides Margaret or Gabe.

The deputy looked at her expectantly.

“No.” She shook her head. “I don't know who would do this.”

“Maybe just some kids out joyriding or someone who had one too many drinks tonight,” the deputy said congenially. “But without a description of the truck or a license plate number, it will be pretty tough to find them. How far back do you think your car is?” he asked, nodding toward the field.

“Not far,” Sarah said. She needed to call someone. If the deputy couldn't retrieve the car, someone would probably need to come get her. Jack came to mind first. Funny, she thought, even with all the suspicions and distrust, he was still the first person she thought of calling in an emergency. “Can I call my husband?” Sarah asked. “He'll be worried that I'm not back yet.”

“Go right ahead. You stay here and I'll go see if I can drive your car out. Hopefully we won't need a tow truck.” Sarah handed the deputy her car keys and he shut the door, locking her in the back of his car.

Sarah watched as the deputy was swallowed up into the cornfield. A fist of anxiety planted itself firmly in her chest. What if whoever ran her off the road was still nearby? What if the deputy didn't come back out? She made three attempts at reaching Jack with no luck. In frustration she left him a message. “Jack, please call me. I've been in an accident. I'm fine. I'm not hurt, but I need you to call me. Please, it's urgent.”

Relief poured through her when the deputy finally emerged from the field and managed to maneuver her car through the ditch and back up onto the road. He stepped from the vehicle, circled the car, examining it for damage, and snapped a few pictures using a digital camera that he pulled from his car.

He opened the car door, releasing Sarah from the confines of the backseat, and handed her the keys. “Looks like you got quite a bit of damage to your back bumper, but it drives just fine. I doubt there was much if any damage to the truck that did this to you, though. I'll call the farmer whose field this belongs to, let him know that a few ears of corn won't make it to harvest.”