“Back to Dean and Celia’s,” Sarah said, gathering up her things.
“Whoever is doing this is insane and for some reason he’s trying to pull you into it. Sarah, you have to go to the sheriff,” Margaret urged.
“I will, I promise. I’ll talk to him tonight. I just want to check on a few things.”
“Okay,” Margaret said anxiously. “But if you don’t call me in an hour I’m calling the sheriff.”
Sarah nodded and paused to give Margaret a quick hug. “I’ll be fine. I feel like we’re so close to figuring it all out.”
“But I don’t want you to die trying,” Margaret whispered in Sarah’s ear before releasing her. “Whoever is doing this has already killed two people, possibly three. I don’t want you to be next.”
“No way.” Sarah gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m the farthest thing away from a farmer’s wife. It’s Celia I’m worried about. Besides, I’ve got a pretty hard head and if they try I’ll take them down with me.”
21
ON THE DRIVE over to Dean and Celia’s house, Sarah debated as to what to do next. She had tried and tried to get ahold of Celia, but with no luck. It was after seven thirty and Sarah hadn’t heard from Jack and wondered if the sheriff was still interviewing him or maybe had even arrested him.
She checked her phone again for a message or a missed call from him. Nothing. Where are you? she texted him and waited for a response. When none came, she called. The phone rang several times before going to his voice mail and she hung up without leaving a message.
She pulled up in front of the house, hoping to see Celia’s car, but no other vehicles were in sight. The porch light gleamed brightly, but the rest of the house was dark.
Sarah pushed open the car door and stepped out into the cold night air. No movement or sound came from the shorn fields, but she felt as if she was being watched and hurried up the steps to the front door. She rapped on the door and waited, not expecting anyone to answer. Turning, she shivered and peered into the darkness. The silo stood sentinel straight, overlooking the farmyard. The door of the large barn was open, like a wide gaping mouth in the center of the property.
She was always amazed by how places had their own unique scents. In the fall, their home on Larkspur Lake smelled of mountain air and the spicy clove-like perfume of golden currant, and here, the unique dusty odor of recently harvested corn mixed with the sweet smell of alfalfa settled in her nose. Sarah cocked her head to listen. The inky night sky was pricked with starlight, but strangely the air was still and void of sound. No rustle of leaves from the treetops, no gentle murmurs from the cattle across the road, no dogs yipping, no earnest clucking from the hens. It was too quiet.
Sarah turned back toward the front door and knocked again. She knew that Celia would most likely think she was crazy, but it was better to be safe. Sarah needed her to know what she had learned.
She tried Jack again. Maybe she should call Arthur Newberry. Surely if Gilmore had arrested Jack, someone would have contacted her. But would anyone call her if he had been released? That was what she really feared. That she was too late. That the sheriff let Jack free and then he came here to finish what he started. In exasperation she pressed her back to the front door and sank to the porch floor. She tried Celia’s number again but the phone rang and rang. The faint trill of a ringtone seeped from behind the door. Sarah lowered the phone and rotated her head so that her ear was pressed against the scuffed wood. The ringing stopped. Shifting to her knees she pressed redial and listened. Again, the sound of Celia’s distinctive ringtone came from inside the house. She disconnected the call and the shrill ringing ceased.
If Celia was gone, why was her phone in the house? Sarah rose and knocked soundly on the door. “Celia,” she called. “Celia, it’s Sarah!” Maybe something had already happened to her. Sarah pounded on the door. “Celia, are you in there?” Panic flooded her voice. She turned the knob, shoved the unlocked door open and stumbled into the house.
The house was dimly lit and quiet. A low fire burned in the fireplace. Sarah’s eyes fell to an end table near the front door where a cell phone rested. Celia’s phone. “Celia?” she called out uncertainly. No response. Three more steps would take her past the foyer. To the right would be the steps leading upstairs. To the left, the kitchen and the steps leading to the cellar.
Sarah took a deep breath, heart pounding, hand on her phone just in case she needed to dial 9-1-1. She stepped forward and looked to the right. She exhaled in relief. No body at the bottom of the steps.
She turned to the left, toward the kitchen, toward the cellar door, but stopped. She mentally kicked herself for being so spooked. Maybe Celia had been here but had to leave unexpectedly. Maybe the sheriff gave them permission to return to Hal’s house and Celia had inadvertently left her phone behind. She couldn’t bring herself to step into the kitchen, fearful of what she might find. Should she wait for Celia to return, or leave? Leave, she decided. Get into the car, call the sheriff, let them investigate.
Before turning to go her eyes swept the large open room. Everything seemed neatly in its place. The kitchen table was empty except for an expertly arranged glass jar of dried hydrangeas. An open bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the kitchen counter, and a red sweater lay in a puddle on the floor. Sarah’s eyes narrowed. Such a small thing, but in the short time she’d known Celia, dirty dishes and clothing left in the middle of the kitchen seemed incongruous. She walked over, bent down and lifted the sweater from the ground, and a black lace bra fluttered to the floor.
This is ridiculous, Sarah thought. Celia was probably upstairs with Dean, and Sarah had just barged into their home while they were obviously otherwise occupied.
She just needed to be done with this, drive over to the sheriff’s department and tell him everything she had learned. She turned to head back out into the chilly night.
“Sarah?” a voice asked from behind her. Startled, Sarah turned and her phone tumbled from her hand, clattered and slid across the wood floor, coming to rest beneath the barn-board coffee table.
“Jesus, Celia,” Sarah cried. “You scared me.”
Celia was standing halfway up the staircase that led to the second floor, staring in confusion down at Sarah. “You scared me,” she said, clutching the railing. Celia cast a quick glance behind her shoulder, then walked the rest of the way down the steps and moved past Sarah to close the front door. “It’s freezing. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“I knocked, but no one answered,” Sarah tried to explain. Celia looked at her dubiously and even to her own ears it sounded suspect. “I was worried about you.”
“Why didn’t you just come in?” Celia asked. There was no anger or accusation in her voice, just confusion, but still Sarah reddened with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, I thought...” Sarah stopped. She didn’t know what she thought anymore. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But I really need to talk to you.” Celia cast another look behind her and up the stairs. Sarah followed her gaze.
“Where’s Dean?” Sarah asked.
“He went with Hal back to his house. The sheriff said Hal could go home now. Dean is going to spend the night there with him tonight. He’s just so devastated, Dean didn’t want him there alone.” Celia drew the oversize flannel shirt she was wearing more tightly around herself. Her legs were bare.
Another thought had wheedled into her brain. Maybe Jack wasn’t at the sheriff’s department any longer. Had he come here? To do what? Had Sarah had it all wrong, and Celia and Jack were having an affair? “Are you alone?”
“Yes, of course,” Celia said. “Why?”
Sarah slipped past Celia and took the steps two at a time.
“Sarah, what’s going on? Where are you going?” Celia followed close behind but Sarah kept moving, checking each room. “What are you doing? Wh
at are you looking for?”
Sarah ignored her and moved toward the master bedroom. She flung open the door. The room was empty. A candle burned on a bedside table. One side of the queen-size bed was rumpled. A book lay open, spine up, atop the comforter. Sarah paused briefly and then stalked over to the closet, opened the door. Nothing but precisely hung blouses and trousers and shoes lined up neatly on the floor. Sarah pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and gave a sharp bark of laughter.
She felt Celia come up behind her. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
Sarah turned to face her, cheeks high with color. What could she say to Celia? That she thought Jack was there to murder her and then after seeing the pile of clothing thought that maybe the two of them were having an affair? “Nothing,” Sarah said, flushed with embarrassment. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a stupid misunderstanding.”
“Let me get dressed,” Celia said. “We’ll go downstairs and talk.” Celia pulled on a pair of jeans and stepped into her shoes before leading Sarah downstairs to the kitchen.
“I think you’re in danger,” Sarah said, going to the kitchen window to peer outside. All was still. She turned back to Celia.
“Danger?” Celia said, laughing. She saw the distress on Sarah’s face and her smile fell away. “Why? You’re starting to scare me.”
“I think someone is killing the women in Jack’s family.”
“That’s not news, Sarah. Everyone knows that John Tierney killed his wife. As for Julia—” she shook her head regretfully “—as hard as it is to come to terms with, I think it was Amy.”
“But why?” Sarah asked. “What possible reason would she have for killing her aunt? It doesn’t make sense. Ever since I arrived in Penny Gate I’ve been getting strange emails. Cryptic messages referencing Lydia’s and Julia’s murders. Amy’s been in jail and there’s no way she could have sent them. I just got another one with a photo. The sender quoted the rhyme ‘Three Blind Mice.’ Here let me show you.” Sarah patted her pocket for her phone. It wasn’t there.
“You know how crazy this sounds,” Celia said. She went to the coffeemaker and poured them each a cup of coffee. She was beginning to sound impatient and Sarah knew she was losing her.
“The emails started out with three blind mice, then when Julia died I got one that said two blind mice and then one with one blind mouse.” Sarah raised her hand to her face. “And the photo shows Julia at the bottom of the steps. Both Lydia and Julia were found with something covering their eyes. They’re the blind mice.”
Celia carried her mug to the kitchen counter. “I just don’t buy it. It sounds insane.”
“Celia, someone just sent me a picture of Julia just after she was hit over the head and pushed down the stairs. Do you know where Jack has been all afternoon?” Sarah went to Celia’s side, ready to shake her in frustration. “At the sheriff’s department. I found an old broken watch on my windshield last night and Jack is sure that it belonged to his father.”
Celia turned to Sarah. “You think Jack’s dad put the watch there?”
“Not anymore. Gilmore says that the body in the cistern belongs to Jack’s dad.”
“Jack’s dad? But he’s the one who killed Lydia and ran away.”
“No, that’s not the way it happened,” Sarah said. She went to the back door and flipped the lock. “Keep your doors locked. You’re not safe.”
Celia shivered and crossed her arms across her chest. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the last farmer’s wife.”
“Oh, my God.” Celia brought her hands up to her mouth as if in prayer and began pacing around the kitchen.
Celia abruptly stopped walking. “But who? Who would do this?”
“For a while I thought maybe it was Jack, but now I’m not so sure. He couldn’t have been the one to hurt Julia. We weren’t even in Penny Gate when it happened.”
“Jack?” Celia said doubtfully. “None of this makes any sense at all. Why would Jack hurt Julia?”
“Maybe Amy and Jack planned it together? I don’t know. I know it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. The only thing I can think of is that maybe Julia found out that Jack had something to do with Lydia’s death and Amy was trying to protect him. We came back to Penny Gate and he finished the job. And now that his dad’s body has been found, it looks even worse for him.”
“I just don’t believe it,” Celia said.
“Come on, Celia, even you tried to give him an alibi back then, when you told Gilmore that you had seen Jack at school at around the time of the murder. For a minute you even doubted him.”
“How do you know all this?” Celia asked warily. She slowly backed away from Sarah as if she was afraid of her.
Sarah shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, but I know. And I also know that Julia didn’t actually die from her head injuries. She was poisoned.”
“Listen to yourself, Sarah. Beatings and poisoning, three blind mice. It sounds insane. You honestly believe that Jack is a murderer?”
Sarah struggled to speak. “Yeah, I do,” she finally said.
Remarkably, Celia didn’t react with the shock or indignation that Sarah expected. She just looked immensely sad. “What else did the emails say?” Celia leaned against the counter in resignation.
Sarah scanned her memory for the details. “They talked about a beautiful spring morning, laundry on the line, a yellow dress. Something about iron, cold and hard.”
“Iron? Like something made of metal?”
“I know, it doesn’t make sense. I think that maybe it could have been the murder weapon.”
Celia’s eyes went wide. “I have to show you something.” Celia went to the basement door and slid open the lock.
“What? What is it?”
“Someone left it on our front step.” Celia pulled on the doorknob but it wouldn’t open. “I came home last week and found it. I asked Dean about it and he said he had no idea what it was, but said something like, ‘It sure would make a good murder weapon, though, wouldn’t it?’” Celia yanked on the knob again and the door popped open. She flipped the switch on the wall and started the slow descent.
Sarah followed close behind. Her thoughts went to a fifteen-year-old Jack making this same trek down the stairs. “Celia, slow down. What is it?” With each step downward the temperature seemed to drop. The air was cool and damp. The air smelled vaguely of mildew.
The basement was immersed in darkness. The only light came from the top of the stairs. Next to her, Sarah heard Celia fumbling for something and then the click. Immediately they were bathed in the weak light of a naked bulb hanging from the unfinished ceiling.
Sarah flashed back to the crime-scene photos. She thought of Jack standing in this exact same spot and finding his mother wearing a sunny-yellow dress, lying on the concrete floor, arm outstretched, a bag of half-thawed strawberries just out of her reach, a bloodied dish towel covering her eyes.
“Sarah, here,” Celia said, and Sarah dragged her eyes from the cracked cement floor to where Celia was pointing to a dark corner of the basement.
Sarah stared at the foot-long wrench-like tool made of cast iron. Though she wanted to erase the images from Lydia’s autopsy photos, they kept flashing through her mind. Compared to the crime-scene pictures, while gruesome and bloody, the autopsy photos were more clinical but just as horrific.
“Don’t touch that,” Sarah ordered.
Celia pulled her hands back as if burned. “Why?”
“Because I think this could be the murder weapon.” Sarah’s heart was thumping in her chest.
“What do we do?” Celia asked, now seeming more panicked. “Oh, my God, do you think it was Dean? Do you think Dean did all this?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah patted her pocket for her phone to call the police. “Dammit, I dropp
ed my phone upstairs.”
“I don’t have mine, either,” Celia said.
Sarah turned on her heel and in three long strides was at the foot of the stairs when something caught her eye. Her eyes shifted to a large wooden trunk intricately painted with strawberries and vines and flowers. The hair on the back of Sarah’s neck stood up. Sitting on the trunk was a box filled with hand sickles and corn knives. Something clicked in her mind. Exactly the same items that were in the photos on Seller85’s auction site. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Seller85. Cellar 1985.
Behind her Celia spoke.
“What did you say?” Sarah asked. She slowly inched toward the stairs, lifted one foot onto the first step, laid one hand on the rickety railing.
“See how they run,” Celia whispered.
From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw a flash of movement, felt the searing pain of metal on bone and then nothing.
22
WITH EFFORT, Sarah opened one eye and found herself on her back, staring up at the unfinished basement ceiling. Pain throbbed through her skull and a wave of nausea swept over her. Celia’s beautiful face appeared in her field of vision, staring down at her, a bemused expression on her face.
“Why?” Sarah managed to say, blood pooling in her mouth.
“It took you long enough to put the pieces together, Sarah. I thought for sure you were going to go back home to Montana without figuring it out.”
Sarah struggled to sit up, her elbows digging into the rough concrete.
“Oh, no, stay put, Sarah,” Celia ordered. “I don’t want to have to hit you again.”
Sarah willed herself to stay conscious, but the blessed escape of sleep kept pulling her one functional eye shut. Think of Elizabeth, think of Emma, she told herself. “Why?” Sarah asked again.
Celia knelt down next to her, careful to avoid the blood that had trickled onto the floor. “Why, why, why,” she mocked. Sarah’s eyes glanced toward the door. “Aw, waiting for your Jackie boy to come save you? You can scream if you like, but no one will hear you. Nobody heard Lydia, you know. She screamed and cried like a scared little baby.”