“She’s not answering her door,” Sarah explained. “Is her car here?”
“Who’s wants to know?” the woman asked, looking at her suspiciously from behind grimy trifocals.
“I’m Amy’s sister-in-law, Sarah Quinlan. We’ve been having trouble getting ahold of her, and we’re getting a little worried.” Sarah held out her hand in greeting.
“You got some ID?” the woman asked, ignoring Sarah’s outstretched fingers.
“Yes, of course.” Sarah dug through her purse until she found her driver’s license and then handed it to the woman. The woman flicked her eyes back and forth between the license and Sarah’s face until she seemed satisfied.
“I’m Cora Berry,” she introduced herself, and handed the ID back to Sarah. “That’s Amy’s car there.” The woman pointed to a two-door red hatchback with a dented front fender parked beneath the buckeye tree.
“I wonder why she’s not answering the door?” Sarah said.
“My guess is that she probably doesn’t want to talk to you,” the woman said archly.
Sarah retreated down the steps and sidled between the overgrown boxwood hedges that edged the home’s foundation. Using her hands to block the glare of the evening sun she pressed her face against the front window and peered through the narrow opening between the drawn curtains. Gradually the contents of the sparsely furnished room came into focus as her eyes became accustomed to the dim interior.
Directly in Sarah’s field of vision was a flimsy particleboard cabinet that supported an old box television airing what appeared to be a local news program. Sarah’s eyes landed on a wooden coffee table that was covered with the detritus of someone who lived alone: a bottle of vodka, dirty cereal bowls, an overflowing ashtray, an orange prescription bottle tipped on its side. To the right of the coffee table, positioned at an angle, was a grungy taupe sofa draped with a large blanket crocheted in greens and blues.
Cora crowded in next to Sarah. With effort she lifted her heels and placed her hands on the windowsill. Sarah saw that they were speckled with age spots and gnarled by arthritis. “I could have sworn she was home,” Cora said more to herself than to Sarah.
“The TV’s on and her car is here,” Sarah observed. “Maybe she’s in the bedroom taking a nap or maybe she’s taking a shower.”
Cora pressed her nose to the window to get a better look. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Where?” Sarah tried to follow Cora’s line of vision but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“There, on the couch.”
Sarah squinted, trying to get a better look. “Oh,” she said with surprise. What she had thought were the lumpy cushions of an old sofa was, Sarah realized, a small, slight figure covered in a blanket. “Is she sleeping?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know,” Cora said doubtfully. “She’s not moving.” From their vantage, Sarah could see what looked to be the pale skin of Celia’s foot peeking out from beneath the blanket. “Amy,” Cora said loudly, pounding on the window with surprising strength. “Amy, wake up!”
She didn’t stir. Sarah stared intently at the form, hoping to see the rise and fall of her back, any evidence of breathing. Nothing. Sarah joined Cora in rapping on the window and calling Amy’s name. A neighbor peeked out to see what all the ruckus was.
“I’m going to see if the door’s unlocked,” Cora said breathlessly, lowering her feet to the ground. Sarah continued to peer through the window, once again noting the vodka and pill bottle on the coffee table. Had Amy, in her grief over Julia’s death, her guilt over not finding her sooner, decided to swallow a combination of drugs and alcohol? But to what end?
Cora jiggled the doorknob. “It’s locked.”
“I’m calling 9-1-1,” Sarah said, already reaching into her pocket for her phone.
“My sister-in-law isn’t moving,” she said when the emergency dispatcher answered the phone. “I’m outside and I can’t get in, but I can see her.” She tried not to panic as the woman on the line asked her a series of questions.
“I’ve got help on the way,” the woman said calmly. Her voice remained calm and businesslike. “What’s your sister-in-law’s name, ma’am?”
“Amy Quinlan,” Sarah said, keeping her eyes on Amy, hoping, praying, for some sign of life.
“Is this Sarah Quinlan?” the voice asked.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Sarah said, confused as to how the 9-1-1 dispatcher would know this. “My husband asked me to come check on his sister.”
“Sarah, this is Margaret Dooley,” the dispatcher said. “I’ve got an ambulance and sheriff’s car on the way. Can you still see Amy?”
“Yes, I can see her.”
“Tell me what you see.”
“She’s lying on the couch, covered in a blanket. There’s a bottle of vodka and an empty pill bottle on the table next to her.” Sarah’s voice cracked with emotion and tears blurred her vision.
“What else do you see?” Margaret urged. Sarah swiped at the tears, trying to stay focused. What if Amy was dead? she wondered.
A thin, nearly invisible wisp of smoke rose from the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray on Amy’s coffee table. “I see a cigarette. A burning cigarette,” Sarah relayed with relief. The fact that the cigarette was still smoldering gave her hope that Amy hadn’t been unconscious for too long.
In the near distance Sarah heard the wail of sirens. “They’re here,” Sarah said as she turned from the window and hurried out from behind the shrubs, her shirt catching on the sharp branches.
“I’m going to hang up now, Sarah,” Margaret explained. “Call me if you need anything, you hear? You’ve got my number.”
“I will, thank you,” Sarah said gratefully as a sheriff’s vehicle turned the corner and came to a stop in front of the house. By now, most of the neighbors were outside and standing together in small clusters, with arms crossed and wearing worried expressions.
A young sheriff’s deputy leaped from the car. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Inside,” Sarah said, and pointed to the front door. “It’s locked. We can see her through the window, but she won’t wake up.” She wished he would hurry up and get inside.
The deputy, thickly built with a short marine haircut, tried the doorknob. “I’ll have to force my way in.”
“Where’s the ambulance?” Sarah asked. “Margaret said that an ambulance was coming.”
“It’s on its way,” he promised. “Now stand back.” Sarah and Cora stepped aside as the deputy gave the door a tentative shove, causing it to shudder on its hinges. He planted his feet and brought his hands in front of him, then threw his shoulder into the door. It swung open with such force that it bounced off the interior wall and flew back toward the deputy, who put out a protective hand to stop it from striking him in the face. The sound of another siren filled the air. The ambulance was near.
In seconds they were inside the house and Sarah was immediately assaulted with the unmistakable smell of vomit. The deputy pulled away the blanket to reveal Amy’s still form. She was lying on her back, her face turned and pressed against the couch cushions, which were soaked in vomit. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. One arm was tucked beneath her body, the other dangled limply at her side, her knuckles grazing the floor.
“Is she breathing?” Sarah asked.
The deputy placed two fingers against the nape of Amy’s neck. “I think I found a pulse.”
“Oh, thank God,” Sarah said with relief.
The EMTs rushed into the room, and Sarah and Cora stepped aside so they could attend to Amy. The deputy canvassed the room. It looked as if Amy had been packing up her meager possessions. Dean had mentioned that she had recently lost her job. Maybe as a result Amy had lost her home, as well. A jumble of boxes filled with DVDs, books, magazines and knickknacks sat in a corner.
/> “Looks like it could have been an overdose,” the deputy observed, picking up the empty prescription bottle from the coffee table. “Diazepam. Valium,” he clarified. “Do you know any reason why she would want to hurt herself?”
Sarah didn’t know where to begin. Amy had just lost her aunt, possibly to murder. She was jobless and according to her cousin, a drug addict. And, Sarah thought, on top of it all, Amy’s mother had been murdered by her father. It was easy to see how all these could contribute to a suicide attempt. “I’m not sure,” Sarah finally said. “I think you’ll need to talk to her family.”
The deputy narrowed his eyes at her. “I thought you were family.”
“I am,” Sarah blustered. “Technically. But Amy’s my sister-in-law.” The deputy had already started to move away from her, his attention on Cora, who was bending over, staring intently into one of the boxes piled in the corner.
“Ma’am, is everything okay?” he asked.
Cora looked up at them with a puzzled expression. “I think it’s blood,” she said, pointing toward the box. “And maybe hair.”
Sarah and the deputy joined Cora to see what she had found.
“She’s coming around,” said one of the EMTs. “She’s waking up.”
Sarah turned from the box toward Amy, but the EMTs were surrounding her in tight formation, making it impossible for Sarah to see Amy’s face.
She turned back toward the box, where she discovered a plastic grocery bag, whose edges were speckled with what appeared to be dried blood. Inside the bag was some kind of tool. A metal hook with a short shank attached to a wormwood handle.
“Don’t touch anything,” the deputy ordered.
“What is it?” Sarah asked, her stomach flipping dangerously. The smell of vomit mixed with cigarette smoke and the perspiration of many gathered in a small space left her feeling vaguely nauseated.
“What the hell?” came a slurred, groggy voice. Sarah turned. Amy slid her legs from the sofa and sat upright, swaying unsteadily as she got her bearings. Eyes half-closed and unfocused, she swatted ineffectually at the EMT who was trying to take her blood pressure. “Get off me,” she said, pulling at the Velcro cuff on her arm.
“Ma’am, stay seated,” the EMT ordered. “We need to make sure you’re okay.”
“Amy,” Sarah began, “you weren’t answering your phone. I came here to check on you and found you unconscious. We got scared and called an ambulance.”
“You let them in?” Amy abruptly stood, then wobbled, grabbing on to the nearest EMT to steady herself. She glanced at the front door, which was wide-open and hanging from one hinge. “You had no right,” she said with indignation. “You can’t just break into someone’s house.”
“Amy.” Sarah reached out for her hand. “Please sit down. Let them check you over.”
Amy slapped her away. “Get out. All of you, get out of my house. Now.”
“Are you refusing treatment, ma’am?” an EMT asked.
“Damn right, I am,” she said, bringing one shaky hand to her head and recoiling at the matted, wet mess she found. “I have the flu. That’s all. I didn’t make it to the bathroom.” Amy’s lips trembled as her outrage shifted to embarrassment. “Go, please,” she added softly.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am,” the deputy said. He snapped latex gloves over his hands. He lifted the box that contained the plastic bag and hooked metal object with a wooden handle, and tilted it toward Amy so she could view the contents. “We need to talk about what’s in this box.”
7
WHEN THE EMTS left and the crowd of neighbors dispersed and went home, Sarah and the sheriff’s deputy remained. Sarah realized she hadn’t called Jack like she told him she would and he must have been worried sick.
“I’m going to need to ask you some questions, Amy,” said the deputy.
“I want you to leave,” Amy said shortly. “Both of you. And I don’t have to talk to you,” she said to the deputy. “I’m sick and all I want to do is take a shower and go to bed.”
“I’m afraid that you’re going to have to talk to me,” the deputy said, his patience beginning to grow short.
Amy narrowed her eyes as she looked in the box. “Is that blood?” she asked in disgust.
Sarah came up behind Amy and peered over her shoulder into the box and her hand flew to her mouth. The metal hook was covered with a rusty-colored substance that looked very much like dried blood.
“And hair,” the deputy added, nodding toward the long, silvery filaments that clung to the hook.
“That isn’t mine,” Amy insisted.
“Well, it’s been found on your property,” the deputy said. “So unless you can tell me where it came from and how it got here, you’ve got a problem.”
Amy’s eyes darted back and forth between the deputy and Sarah. “It isn’t mine,” she repeated more forcefully.
“Amy, let me call Jack or Dean,” Sarah said earnestly. “Don’t say anything else.”
Amy shot her a look that told Sarah she didn’t want or need her help.
“Okay, then,” the deputy said, pulling out his phone. “I’m declaring this house a crime scene. You,” he said, pointing at Sarah, “need to leave the premises immediately. And you,” he said to Amy, who finally had the sense to look nervous, “need to take a seat.”
“Amy, don’t say anything until you get a lawyer,” Sarah advised. “Do you understand?”
“I don’t need a lawyer,” Amy said defiantly as the deputy ushered Sarah out of the house through the damaged front door.
Sarah pulled out her phone and saw that she had several missed calls from Jack. She pressed the call button and he picked up on the first ring.
“Sarah,” he said, relief flooding his voice. “I was getting worried. What’s going on?”
Sarah wasn’t sure where to begin. “Amy’s fine. Sort of. She’s alive.”
“Alive?” Jack exclaimed. “What happened?”
Sarah paced along the curb in front of Amy’s house, careful to stay off the property. “She’s not hurt and she’s at the house. But a sheriff’s deputy is questioning her.”
“Why? What for?” Jack asked in confusion. “Sarah, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” Sarah cried impatiently. “All I know is that the deputy found some kind of tool covered with dried blood and hair in a box in Amy’s living room. He’s declared the house a crime scene.”
Two more law-enforcement vehicles turned onto Amy’s street. Behind the wheel of one of them was Sheriff Gilmore. “Jack, I think Amy needs a lawyer. You need to come right away.”
Jack arrived at Amy’s house but the deputy wouldn’t let him inside. The house was a crime scene and Amy was being questioned.
Sarah and Jack sat in the rental car and waited. After an hour and a half, Sheriff Gilmore had the decency, Sarah thought, to come out to talk to them. He hunched over the side of the car, leaning his arms on the open window. “Amy says she doesn’t want a lawyer,” he said.
“Can’t you make her get one?” Jack asked.
“We’re not in the business of getting lawyers for the people we interview,” Gilmore said with amusement. “Just doesn’t work that way.”
“I mean,” Jack said in irritation, “Amy was drunk. Can she even be considered competent to answer questions in that state?”
“Amy may have been drinking and imbibing in certain pharmaceuticals, but as Sarah here can also attest to, most of it ended up on the sofa.”
“This isn’t funny, Sheriff,” Jack said in a low voice.
“I never meant to give you the impression that I thought this is funny. In fact, this is dead serious, Jack. A bloody bale hook was found in there—” Gilmore pointed to the house “—and your sister just happened to be the
one who found her at the bottom of the stairs. Your sister is free to ask for an attorney at any time but she has already told us she doesn’t want one.”
Though the sky had darkened, curious neighbors flipped on their outdoor lights and milled around on their lawns and front steps once they realized the earlier drama was going on long after they thought it was over. “I want to see her,” Jack insisted.
The sheriff lowered his voice so that only Sarah and Jack could hear him. “Your aunt is on her way to an autopsy in Des Moines. Your sister’s home is being searched and she is going to be questioned. She is now a suspect in the murder of your aunt. That’s how serious I am taking this.”
“After all that she’s been through, what we’ve been through, you think Amy would kill Julia? She loved her more than anyone,” Jack insisted.
“I just go where the evidence takes me. And right now it’s led me to your sister.” He stood upright and tapped the roof of the car with an open hand. “You can head on home now. Nothing more is going to happen here tonight.”
“Is she under arrest, then?” A muscle in Jack’s cheek twitched.
“No, but we’re taking her down to the sheriff’s department for more formal questioning. You can talk to her tomorrow.”
“I want to see her now. You can’t keep me from talking to her if she’s not under arrest.” Jack opened the car door and approached the sheriff until they were nearly nose to nose.
“The hell I can’t,” Gilmore said, holding his ground. Sarah watched Jack step past him and trot up to the house with the sheriff close behind. Though Gilmore was an elderly man, he moved lithely and with quick, purposeful steps.
“Amy, don’t say a word,” Jack was advising by the time Sarah had caught up with the both of them.
“Jack, don’t make me have to take you in, too, for interfering,” Gilmore warned.
“Stop, Jack,” Sarah said, inserting herself between Jack and Gilmore. The last thing they needed was for both Amy and Jack to be taken away in handcuffs.
Missing Pieces Page 9
