By the time she arrived back at Celia’s, the men had returned from making final preparations for the funeral, had changed into their suits and ties, and were just getting ready to leave for the wake. Sarah went upstairs to change and when she came back downstairs, Celia was rushing around, putting together a variety of salads for the funeral dinner.
“Do you want to ride with us?” Jack asked Sarah hopefully. He looked almost boyish or maybe just a little bit lost in his ill-fitting suit and wearing the bewildered expression of someone who had been blindsided by tragedy or had been caught in one too many lies.
Dean looked at his watch impatiently while Hal struggled to button his suit coat across his wide belly with his thick fingers.
“I was hoping Sarah could help me with a few things around here,” Celia interjected. “I’ve got to finish putting together this potato salad for tomorrow and get this cake out of the oven.”
“I can stay and help.” Sarah reached for the apron that Celia held out for her.
“Okay,” Jack answered. Did he look disappointed? Sarah wasn’t sure. Maybe he was just nervous that Sarah and Celia would be alone for a length of time. Plenty of opportunity for Sarah to quiz Celia about his past. Maybe Jack didn’t want Celia to spill any more of his secrets.
“We’ll be there by two forty-five, I promise,” Celia said, giving each man a tight hug in turn before they headed out the door.
“Can you mix together the potato salad?” Celia asked, pulling a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator and setting it on the counter.
“I thought the Women’s Rosary Guild was in charge of the food?” Sarah asked as she opened the lid and stirred the dressing into a bowl of boiled potatoes.
“They are,” Celia said, reaching into a cupboard for powdered sugar. “But I like to cook and it helps me keep my mind off things.” Tears filled her large eyes. “Except that cooking reminds me of Julia. She loved to help out this way. Julia was always the first one to volunteer to make a salad or bake a cake for a funeral dinner. I remember when Lydia died—I swear, Julia made five pies. Can you believe that? Her sister-in-law is just murdered, her brother accused, and she makes all those pies.” Celia went to the oven and turned on the light to peek inside.
“You know,” Sarah said as she added mustard to the bowl, “this is the first time someone has actually spoken out loud about what happened to Jack’s mom and dad. Why is that?”
Celia twisted a hand towel embroidered with fall leaves between her fingers. “I guess it’s just too hard. You know Hal’s generation—stoic and no-nonsense. Bad things happen and you need to just put your head down and forge onward.”
Sarah thought about this and had to agree it was true. Her own parents had a similar philosophy of life.
“Is it hard living here?” Sarah asked, changing the subject. “With all that happened, doesn’t it ever scare you?”
Celia slid the bowl onto the base of the electric mixer and turned it on. “You mean is the house cursed?” she asked over the whir of the beaters.
“Of course not,” Sarah said, and felt her cheeks redden. “It just must be very strange living in the home where a murder occurred, especially since you know the family.”
“Not really. When Dean and I decided to move in, we vowed to make new memories here. Happier ones.” She straightened and glanced at the basement door.
Sarah followed her gaze. She couldn’t imagine living in a home where a murder took place. “Do you use the basement? I mean, that’s where it happened, right?”
“Actually, we don’t go down there much,” Celia explained. “Nothing but dust, cobwebs and a few boxes of junk. We’re just grateful that Julia let us rent it from her.”
“Rent it? Why?”
“Yes, the house has been in the Tierney family forever. When Lydia died and John disappeared, it went to Julia. We’ve rented the house for the past eighteen years and farmed the land. It’s worked out perfectly for us.”
Celia walked over to Sarah’s side. “Looks good,” she said, eyeing the potato salad. She pulled a roll of plastic wrap from a drawer and covered the bowl. “God, I remember that day. It was horrible. My mom came home from work sobbing. When she finally told me what happened I came right here. They wouldn’t let me come in. They wouldn’t tell me anything. It was an hour before someone told me Jack and Amy were okay, but they wouldn’t let me see them.”
“When did you finally get to talk to him?” Sarah moved to the sink to wash her hands.
“Not until the next afternoon. He looked terrible.” Celia shook her head at the memory. “And he was never the same again.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel that Celia had handed to her.
“Before he had been so happy-go-lucky, so funny. And after...well, he wasn’t. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. Went to school, then came home and stayed up in his bedroom.”
From what Sarah read in the case file, Jack wasn’t particularly a happy-go-lucky kid. On the contrary, he was described as sullen and angry. Was he so different around Celia? Sarah looked down at the dish towel, hand embroidered with leaves of brown, red and yellow thread. Her mind flashed to the image of Lydia lying on the cement floor with a bloody dish towel covering her eyes. “Lydia embroidered that,” Celia said. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Sarah nodded. “I’ve got a whole drawer of them, if you’d like to take back a few with you.”
“That’d be nice,” Sarah managed to say.
Celia looked up at the clock on the wall. Two fifteen. “I should go and get dressed. Will you be all right if I head upstairs for a bit?”
“Go right ahead,” Sarah assured her.
Sarah rinsed the dirty dishes in the sink and placed them carefully in the dishwasher, wiped down the counter and looked around the kitchen to see if there was anything else she could tidy up. She looked out the window over the sink, imagining Lydia on that day, doing the same. What was she thinking that morning when she awoke? Did she make a mental list of all the things she had to do that day? Did she stare out this window when she washed the breakfast dishes? Sarah knew from Jack’s taped interview that Lydia kissed her children goodbye before they left for school, told them she loved them. How sad, Sarah thought, that she had no idea that would be the last time she saw her children.
Sarah turned from the window and faced the basement door. Slowly she walked toward it, reached up to slide the lock open. She thought back to the crime-scene photos and the picture that showed a freezer standing open. Was Lydia going down there to get a pound of frozen hamburger or a package of pork chops for dinner?
Sarah cocked her head, listening to see if Celia was coming back down the stairs. All was quiet. She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted. The wood frame was warped and she pulled at the knob, but the door wouldn’t move. Sarah put one hand on the door frame, planted her feet and gave the knob a tug and it popped open, causing her to stumble backward a few step before she righted herself.
She kicked off her high heels and slowly approached the top of the steep wooden steps that disappeared into darkness. Sarah felt around for a switch and when she flipped on the light she was plunged back in time. She saw the same rickety handrail, the same wooden steps lined with roof shingles to make them less slippery. The same lightbulb swung from the ceiling.
Sarah took one step downward. She imagined Lydia taking the same step. Was she singing a song? Humming a tune? Or was she hesitant, just like Sarah was now? A feeling of dread slowed her steps. Again, she listened for Celia. How would she explain her descent into the basement? She had no excuse beyond morbid curiosity.
She alighted from the final step and the cement floor was cold and smooth beneath her bare feet. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes landing on a large deep freezer. The same one in the crime-scene photos? She felt a sudden urge to open the freezer, to peer insid
e just as Lydia had done years before. She took a tentative step forward.
Against one wall were shelves lined with dozens of jars of homemade preserves and pickles. Sarah ran one finger over the lid of one glass jar and came away with a thick layer of dust. She wondered if Celia had done all the jarring or if they were relics of the life Lydia had left behind. In a far corner of the large room were a stack of boxes and an array of what looked to be old farm and garden equipment.
Sarah felt a light tickle across her knuckles and she glanced down just as she saw the spindly legs of a daddy longlegs skitter across her hand and she frantically shook it away. Sarah’s elbow struck one of the glass jars and it shattered against the concrete floor. Sarah leaped back to avoid the splatter and the acrid smell of pickle juice filled the air. Quickly, she began picking up the shards of glass and deposited them into a small garbage can next to the freezer. Using an oily rag left on a bottom shelf she wiped up as much of the pickle juice that she could. As she scrubbed she thought of Lydia and the puddle of blood that lay beneath her broken skull. In the dim light, Sarah’s eyes swept the floor, searching for some remnant that Lydia had died here. Was that dark spot over there a stain where the blood pooled? Someone must have cleaned it up. Was it someone from the sheriff’s department or perhaps a family member? Was it Julia?
“Sarah?” Celia called from somewhere within the house.
Sarah rose to her feet, tossed the rag into the garbage can and quickly hurried up the steps and back into the kitchen; she closed the basement door and slid the lock into place as quietly as possible. She stepped back into her high heels and moved to the sink where she ran her hands beneath the tap, trying to wash away the smell of dill and vinegar from her skin and wondered if Lydia’s killer did the same? Had they stood in this exact spot, trying to scour away the bright red blood and its coppery cloying scent?
“Sarah?” Celia called again, this time from the living room. “Are you ready to go?”
“Ready,” Sarah called back, trying to keep her voice light and casual, her eyes darting toward the cellar door. Silly, she told herself. There was nothing down there anymore. Nothing to be afraid of.
16
SARAH AND CELIA drove separately, Sarah in the rental and Celia in Hal’s truck. Hal was hopeful that the sheriff would be finished searching the property and he would be able to go back home after the funeral. They arrived at the funeral home, a large Victorian structure, half an hour early, but already the townspeople of Penny Gate and the surrounding area were gathering. Sarah spotted Jack and Dean standing outside talking to a small group of mourners. As soon as Jack saw her, he came to her side.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow. The clothes that Sarah had bought for him to wear didn’t quite fit. The shirt cuffs were too long and the hem of his pants hung to the floor, the fabric pooling around his ankles.
“Did you get a chance to talk to Amy today?” she asked.
“Just for a few minutes.” He adjusted the knot in his tie. “She insists she has no idea where the bale hook came from, says that Dean was the one who brought it over in a box filled with other things.”
“Do you believe her?” Sarah asked, resisting the urge to help him with his tie. A small gesture she would have gladly performed just a few days before. Now she could barely look at him.
“I want to,” he said as they entered through a side door where the funeral director was waiting to escort them to the viewing room. “But right now everything’s pointing to Amy.” Situated throughout the room were dozens of pictures of Julia. Pictures of her as a baby in her baptism dress, as a child in a First Communion dress, as a young woman in her wedding dress. There were pictures of Julia with Hal and Dean through the years. Jack paused in front of one of the pictures and lingered for a long moment.
Once he moved on Sarah lagged behind to get a better look. It was a picture of Julia with Jack’s mother, their arms linked, beaming smiles on their faces. It looked as if it was taken at a family celebration, a birthday or graduation, maybe. They looked content, as if all was perfect in their worlds. Unexpectedly, there were also several pictures of Amy with Julia. Generous, Sarah thought, since Amy was sitting in jail for Julia’s murder. She was sure that Celia had a hand in making sure that Amy was included.
The casket Hal had chosen for Julia was a simple stained cherrywood casket, handmade in Dubuque. He had chosen a closed casket for Julia due to her many injuries. “I just wish I could see her one more time,” he kept saying over and over to anyone who would listen.
“I’m sure the funeral director can arrange that for you,” Sarah said, trying to console him. “I bet they do that all the time.”
The funeral director lined them just to the right of the casket that was surrounded with dozens of bouquets of flowers sent by friends and family: irises and roses, mums, ferns, potted plants and a small tree to plant in Julia’s memory.
Soon Sarah was shaking hands and accepting hugs from complete strangers who all had one thing in common: they had adored Julia. Such a sweet soul, one elderly woman said, holding on to Sarah’s hand for a long time. A good, good woman, said another.
The line seemed to stretch on forever. It extended the length of the large viewing room and snaked out a door and around a corner. Sarah felt a hand on her arm and she turned back to see Margaret, dressed all in black and accompanied by a woman with the same stalwart stature and red hair, who Sarah assumed was Margaret’s mother.
“Jack Tierney,” Margaret said softly. “Is that really you? I haven’t seen you since you were a boy.”
Jack squinted, trying to put a name to the face. “It’s Margaret McDowell,” Margaret said. “Now Margaret Dooley. You don’t remember me? I babysat you and Amy.”
“Of course,” Jack said, “Of course I remember you and your mother.” Jack turned to the elderly woman and embraced her. “Vivienne, it’s so good to see you again.”
“Jack.” The woman’s lips trembled with emotion. “I miss your mother every single day.”
“I miss her, too.” Jack blinked back the moisture that was collecting in his eyes. “Vivienne, Margaret, this is my wife, Sarah,” he said, clearing his throat.
Sarah extended her hand in greeting. “Margaret and I met the other day. Good to see you again,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual.
“I’ve got kids now,” Jack said, pulling out his phone. “Elizabeth and Emma. They’re freshmen in college.” Jack showed her his screensaver, a picture of the girls standing on the shore of Larkspur Lake.
“Beautiful.” Vivienne smiled. “They have Lydia’s smile, I think.”
Sarah stepped out of line to get a bottle of water from the small room where the family kept their personal belongings. Margaret followed close behind.
“I have the box in the trunk of the car,” Sarah said quietly, unscrewing the lid from the bottle of water and taking a drink.
“I can get it after the wake,” Margaret said.
“I’ve just got to figure out a way to get away from the others,” Sarah said, taking a sip of her water.
“You could tell them you offered to help me take some of the food for the funeral over to the church basement,” Margaret suggested.
“That should work,” Sarah said, glad to know that she would be getting rid of the box soon. “Did you hear anything more about what’s going on at Hal’s?”
“Just that the crime-scene team from Des Moines brought a dog with them,” Margaret explained.
“A dog? Like a drug dog or search dog?” Sarah asked, taken aback. “Why would they do that?”
Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. The sheriff didn’t say. He’s been trying to keep everything hush-hush so the newspaper doesn’t find out.”
Vivienne and Jack were still talking w
hen Sarah stepped back into the receiving line. “So good to see you, Jackie,” Vivienne said, placing a gnarled hand on his cheek.
Jack smiled. “No one’s called me that in years.”
Vivienne turned to Sarah. “Nice to meet you, Sarah. You take good care of this boy.”
Sarah nodded but couldn’t bring herself to answer out loud.
Margaret and Vivienne reiterated their condolences and moved onward with the promise of seeing them at the funeral the next day.
Twenty minutes later, just as Hal was shaking hands with the last guest, Sheriff Gilmore walked in with a deputy that Sarah didn’t recognize.
“Hal, boys, I can’t say how sorry I am about Julia. She was a fine woman.”
Hal nodded, his eyes welling with tears. “We appreciate that, Verne. Thank you.”
“Everything finally squared away at Dad’s?” Dean asked stiffly. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Well, that’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
“Can we go back to the house?” Hal asked. “Can’t you talk to us there?”
“That just isn’t going to be possible right now.” Gilmore’s face was unreadable, but Sarah sensed that something was terribly wrong. Why else would the sheriff show up at the funeral home on the eve of Julia’s funeral?
“Let’s take a seat,” Gilmore suggested.
“Just spit it out,” Dean said impatiently. “Can’t you see how tired my dad is?”
Celia put a hand on Dean’s arm. “Shhh,” she chided. “Let’s sit down. Your dad has been standing for over five hours.”
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