“My presence?” Sarah asked in confusion. “By who? Is it Jack?” He hadn’t returned to the sheriff’s office as far as she knew unless there was an alternate entrance.
“No, it’s Amy,” Gilmore said carefully, watching her reaction with his gunpowder-gray eyes.
“Amy wants to talk to me?” Sarah thought she must have misheard him. “Why?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, now isn’t it, Mrs. Quinlan? Why would your sister-in-law choose to speak to you and not anyone else? Not to us, not to a lawyer, not even her brother. Just you.”
“I don’t know,” Sarah answered honestly. She couldn’t fathom why Amy would want to talk with her unless it was to give her hell for calling for help when Sarah couldn’t rouse her from the couch the night before. “You’ve had her in custody for the past eighteen hours and she hasn’t told you anything?”
“Amy’s not in custody. She’s free to leave at any time. She keeps saying she wants to help us and we’ve been asking her a lot of questions that she doesn’t seem to have any answers to.”
“Maybe because she doesn’t know the answers,” Sarah said.
The sheriff, not looking convinced, stood. “Shall we?”
“Right now?” Sarah’s fingers tightened around the metal slats that made up the bench seat.
“She really wants to speak with you. I think it’d be best if we went right now.”
Reluctantly, Sarah stood and together they walked back to the main entrance. “Got a call from the medical examiner. He’s finished his work and Julia’s remains will be transported to the funeral home tomorrow. The family can go on and finalize funeral arrangements.”
“What did he say?” Sarah’s heart started to gallop as she thought of the covert peek of the report she had gotten in Gilmore’s office.
Gilmore fingered his mustache. “Cause of death is pending. Results won’t be shared until his final report is ready.”
“He must have told you something. What do you think?” she asked.
“I think I’ll wait until I see the final report before weighing in on it,” Gilmore said cryptically.
Sarah let this sink in as they entered the lobby where Hal, Dean and Celia sat waiting.
“Sheriff, can we wrap things up here?” Dean asked. “We have a lot to do to get ready for my mom’s funeral.”
“Sure thing. Just let me get Mrs. Quinlan squared away here.” He signaled to the female deputy who came to his side. “Tess, please take Mrs. Quinlan down to see Amy. You can put them in the small conference room.”
“Why would Amy want to talk to Sarah?” Hal asked, and then hearing his own bluntness, softened his tone. “I just didn’t realize you two were close.”
“We’re not,” Sarah admitted.
“I’m sure that Amy has good reason to want to talk to Sarah,” Celia spoke up from her seat. The pale, delicate skin around her eyes was swollen and blotchy, and the sleeves of her sweatshirt were pushed up, revealing a bracelet of bruises ringing her forearm. Sarah suddenly realized what toll Julia’s death had taken on her. Celia had been the one to fill Julia’s hospital with photos and the quilt from home. She had spoken so fondly of her mother-in-law but never mentioned her own parents or immediate family. Who was she left with? An explosive husband, her husband’s flighty cousin, a grief-stricken father-in-law and an ex-boyfriend who lived a thousand miles away.
“Hal, why don’t you come on back to my office. I promise I won’t keep you long. You, either, Dean. I know you have a lot of arrangements to make.”
From behind the front counter Margaret spoke up. “Mrs. Quinlan, you’ll have to leave your purse here.”
“I can hold it for you, Sarah,” Celia offered. “We’ll wait here for you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Sarah said. “Just tell me where you’re going to be and I’ll meet you there.”
“We’ll probably get something to eat at the Penny Café and then head to the church. We have to settle some funeral arrangements. If you’re here longer than we are, I’ll give your purse to Margaret to keep behind the counter and we’ll text you where we’re going.”
“Thanks.” Sarah handed Celia her purse and followed the deputy down the long hallway, her mind racing in a million different directions. What could Amy possibly have to say to her, and could she really be a murderer? She thought of the ring of bruises on Celia’s arm and knew that there were probably more. She thought of Margaret and her promise to get copies of the files from the murder of Jack’s mother. It was all too much. Focus, she ordered herself. One thing at a time.
The deputy led her down a short flight of stairs and down another corridor with walls painted an institutional green. Sarah wasn’t sure what she expected to see in a county jail, but figured that there would be jail cells and a phone where she could talk to Amy through a thick-paned window. She saw none of these.
“You can sit right here. I’ll go get Amy and you two can talk,” the deputy said, pushing open the door of a small conference room that held a scarred wooden table and two mismatching chairs. Sarah chose the seat facing the door.
There was no two-way mirror that someone on the other side could use to eavesdrop on a conversation, no security camera mounted to the wall recording her every move. So Amy hadn’t been arrested or officially charged with any crime. Yet. If she had been, there was no way that Sarah would be allowed to talk to Amy in such a casual, unsecured setting. Why would Amy still be here, then? She would be free to leave. It would seem, then, to Sarah, that Amy was cooperating fully with the sheriff, answering any questions that he had about Julia’s death. Would a guilty person do this? Sarah wondered. A guilty person trying to appear innocent might.
A few minutes later the deputy appeared in the doorway with Amy at her side. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything,” the deputy said, and then shut the door behind her, leaving Sarah and Amy alone. For a brief moment, Sarah wished she had chosen the seat nearest the door in case she needed a quick escape. Amy was, after all, the number-one suspect in a murder. And if the report she got a glimpse of was correct, a particularly ruthless one.
The woman standing in front of her, however, looked incapable of committing such a horrific crime. Thankfully, someone had allowed her to change into unsoiled clothes and wash the vomit from her hair. But still she looked brittle, as if she might shatter at any moment. Her skin was pallid, her lips a bloodless white. Her eyes had a haunted, hunted look.
“Amy, are you all right?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Sit down. Have you gotten any sleep? Anything to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” Amy said hoarsely, and slowly lowered herself into the chair as if her bones ached. “Listen, Sarah.” She got right down to business. “I need your help.”
“My help?” Sarah narrowed her eyes in confusion. “I’m not sure how I...”
“They’re going to arrest me for killing Aunt Julia. I know they are.” Amy swallowed with effort and her eyes swam with tears. “But I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I didn’t.” Amy’s hands trembled and her fingers kept going to her pockets as if searching for something. A cigarette, Sarah figured.
“Do you have a lawyer? Is there someone I can call for you?”
Amy propped her elbows on the tabletop and lowered her face into her hands. “No, I don’t have a lawyer. I haven’t been charged. Yet. And there’s no way I can afford one.”
“I’m sure that Hal or Dean will help pay...” Sarah trailed off. Why would Hal or Dean pay for an attorney for Amy if they thought she had killed Julia? “Jack and I can help you,” she said before she could stop herself. What if Jack thought Amy was the one who hurt Julia? Would Jack really want to pay for a lawyer to defend the person who had killed the woman who was like a mother to him?
Amy lifted her head. “Dean and Hal won’t help me,” she said matter-of-fact
ly. “And Dean won’t let Celia help me, either. I don’t want your money, even if Jack would be willing. He’s got his own ghosts to deal with. But I do need your help.” Her brown eyes were pleading and filled with what Sarah realized was fear. “I didn’t do this to Julia. I loved her. I think I may have loved her even more than my own mother. Julia’s been like a mother to me three times longer than my own mom.” The tears that had been gathering in Amy’s eyes finally spilled.
“What do you mean, Jack has his own ghosts?” Sarah asked, but Amy just shook her head and brushed away the moisture from her cheeks.
“The deputy will be coming back in soon. The sheriff will have a warrant for my arrest, I just know it. I don’t have much time. I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill Julia. That box with that thing in it...” A shiver of revulsion fluttered across her face. “That wasn’t mine. I’ve never seen it before.” Amy moved toward Sarah and lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “I swear I didn’t do it, but I know who did.”
Sarah leaned toward Amy so that their noses were nearly touching. “Who?” Sarah asked, transfixed by the fear etched on Amy’s face.
“Dean brought a bunch of stuff over the other day. Just after Julia fell. Said they were things that once belonged to my mom. He stuck them in the corner with all the other boxes. He did it. I don’t know why, but Dean killed his mother and is trying to make it look like I did it.”
“Amy...” Sarah began doubtfully.
“Sarah, no one else will believe me.” She grabbed Sarah’s hands, her thin, bony fingers digging into her skin. “He did it. I know he did. He’s got a temper. He’s the only one who could have hit her and knocked her down the stairs like that and then blame me for it.” There was a knock at the conference room door, but Amy kept her eyes locked on Sarah’s. “You believe me, right? You’ll help me?”
Sarah didn’t. She tried to extract her hands from Amy’s grip. “I think we need to get you a lawyer. But whatever you do, Amy, don’t say anything more to the sheriff or to anyone else. The best way you can help yourself is to just stay quiet. I’ll talk to Jack, and we’ll get you a lawyer.”
There was another knock on the door. “About finished up in there?” came the deputy’s voice.
“Jack won’t hang around to help me. He can’t wait to get the hell out of here. He’s got his own secrets chasing him.”
“What does that mean?” Sarah asked as the door opened and the deputy peeked her face around the jamb.
“Hate to interrupt you, but the sheriff would like to talk some more with you, Amy.”
Amy released Sarah’s hands, leaving behind half-moon indentations on Sarah’s skin, her face falling in resignation. “Here we go,” she murmured.
“We’ll get you a lawyer,” Sarah promised as she stood. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you.” Impulsively, she bent down and hugged Amy; her thin shoulders sharp and unyielding let her know that she didn’t believe her.
Sarah followed the deputy from the room. Gilmore, file folder in hand, came down the hallway. Sarah thought she knew what was in that folder—the report from the medical examiner describing the poison. Amy didn’t mention anything about poison. But why would she? Amy didn’t know that the sheriff was aware of the possibility that Julia had been poisoned.
The sheriff nodded to Sarah as he brushed past her without a word, a look of grim determination on his face. Amy was right. The sheriff was going to arrest her for Julia’s murder. Sarah quickened her pace, eager to get back upstairs to find Jack, to tell him what Amy had told her about her suspicions about Dean, about her impending arrest, her need for an attorney. By the time she had climbed the steps and made the journey down the long hallway, she was out of breath and sweating. The lobby was empty except for Margaret and a weary-looking middle-aged woman leaning against the counter.
“Just let me find the form,” Margaret told the woman. She went over to a battered file cabinet and with difficulty bent down on one knee to reach the bottom drawer. “We don’t get a whole lot of missing-persons reports. Usually the person is found before the first forty-eight hours, but once or twice a year...” She yanked on the drawer three times before it opened with a metallic screech.
“Last summer, we had a six-year-old get lost in a cornfield.” Margaret glanced up at Sarah. “I’ll be right with you, Mrs. Quinlan,” she said, her tone impersonal, almost dismissive. She returned her attention to the woman. “It happens more than you think and not just to kids, but elderly folks, too. Usually we find them in just a few hours no worse for wear, but this kiddo...” She shook her head at the memory as she fingered through the files. “He was autistic. Afraid of the searchers shouting his name. That boy spent three days in that cornfield. It was near ninety degrees during the daytime and there were thunderstorms at night. Ah, here we go.” Margaret held up the form in triumph.
With effort she pushed herself up from the floor and trundled back to where the woman stood at the counter and laid the form in front of her along with a clipboard and a pen.
“Was the boy okay?” the woman asked, wanting to hear the rest of the story.
“Oh, sure. He ate the corn right from the stalk and drank water from the puddles left behind by the storm. He was just fine—scared his parents half to death, though. You can go ahead and sit over there and fill out the form. Try not to worry. They all show up sooner or later, especially the teenagers.”
The woman sniffled and wandered over to the bank of chairs.
“Now, Mrs. Quinlan,” Margaret said. “Your husband wanted me to let you know that he and the others were going to get something to eat and then head on over to the church to work on funeral arrangements.”
Margaret reached beneath the counter and pulled out Sarah’s purse. “Celia gave me your purse before she left, and Jack left the car keys for you and asked you to call him when you were finished talking with Amy.”
Sarah was still taken aback by Margaret’s standoffish bearing when she spoke again. “I put that recipe you asked for in your purse.”
“The recipe?” Sarah asked in confusion.
The young deputy who had escorted Sarah down to see Amy stepped into the lobby. “Is Margaret giving you her recipe for lemon squares? They are the best in town, but don’t tell my mom I told you that.”
“You’re too kind, Tess. Sarah wanted a recipe to make for Julia Quinlan’s funeral dinner and I was happy to share. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Margaret said, nodding to the both of them. “I’ll just check on how this lady’s doing with that missing-persons report.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said to Margaret’s retreating form, still baffled by her odd behavior. She lifted her purse from the countertop, taken aback by its heft. She peeked inside to find a thick envelope. She looked to Margaret, who gave her a sharp shake of her head, then returned her attention to the woman and her form.
“I hope you like the recipe, Mrs. Quinlan,” Margaret said as Sarah pushed her way out the glass doors. “Let me know what you think.”
10
THE ENVELOPE, TUCKED safely in her purse, weighed heavily on her shoulder and her mind. She couldn’t wait to open it and see what was inside, but wasn’t sure where she should go to read about the undoing of her husband’s family.
She immediately dismissed Hal’s house as an option. As far as she knew, they were still conducting a search of the home. The Penny Café or Dean and Celia’s house were also out—there was too much of a chance of someone walking in on her while she read.
In the end she decided to drive out into the country and find some lonely out-of-the-way road. She drove outside Penny Gate about ten miles and turned onto a gravel road that appeared to lead to nowhere. No homes, no barns, no other cars, just miles and miles of cornfields. Sarah pulled off to the side of the road in a spot that allowed her to see if any traffic approached both from the front or the rear.
Sarah slid the earphones over her ears, pushed the play button and nothing happened. She removed the corroded batteries from the Walkman, replaced them with a fresh set and was immediately plunged back in time to the year her husband was fifteen and the day he found his mother’s bludgeoned body. The audio was scratchy and slightly muffled. Sarah turned the small wheel on the side of the player, increasing the volume.
Gilmore: This is Deputy Sheriff Verne Gilmore. Seven thirty-five p.m. on May 30, 1985. Interviewing Jonathan Paul Tierney, known as Jack, fifteen years of age. Jack?
Jack Tierney: (Inaudible.)
Gilmore: Speak a little more loudly, son. Right into the recorder here.
Jack Tierney: Sorry.
Sarah gasped at the sound of her husband’s voice at fifteen. A little higher pitched, but it was Jack. Her Jack.
Gilmore: That’s okay. I’m going to ask you a few questions about the events of today. We can stop at any time. Just let me know if you need a break, okay?
Jack: Okay.
Gilmore asked Jack a series of simple questions. His address, his age, birthday, the names of his parents and his sister. Jack, his voice initially tight with nervousness, relaxed with Gilmore’s gentle, casual probing. He was even able to get Jack to laugh a little, remembering the time when Gilmore, Jack and his father went fishing together and all three ended up falling into the pond.
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