Missing Pieces

by Heather Gudenkauf

  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.”

  “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 th
e 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.