Jack rubbed a hand over his face and nodded.
Jack and Sarah said a quick goodbye to Hal, Dean and Celia, and told them they would see them back at the house in a little while. Gilmore allowed Jack and Sarah to drive separately to the sheriff’s department. Wordlessly, Jack passed the car keys to Sarah with shaking fingers.
“Jack,” Sarah said as soon as they were in the car, “what’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and Sarah almost believed him. They drove in silence to the sheriff’s office, both lost in their own thoughts.
When they arrived at the station, the sheriff escorted them into the waiting area.
“Sarah, come on back with me,” he said, and Sarah looked pleadingly at Jack.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be right here waiting.”
Sarah followed the sheriff down the hallway to his office. “Now, tell me how you got this watch.” He pulled the watch, now safely ensconced within a plastic bag, from his pocket.
“There isn’t much more to it than what I told you over at the church. After the wake last night, Margaret Dooley and I dropped off a bunch of desserts in the church basement. When I came back out to my car, Margaret noticed the watch on my windshield.”
“You didn’t think that was strange?”
Sarah raised her eyebrows. “Honestly, nothing much surprises me about this place anymore. But yes, I did think it was a little bit odd. I put the watch in my purse and forgot about it.”
Gilmore rubbed his chin. “You didn’t notice anyone hanging around the church or the parking lot? Anything suspicious at all?”
“No, nothing.” Sarah shrugged. “I know I’m not much help, but I can count on one hand the people I know in Penny Gate. I didn’t notice anything unusual.”
“Well, someone certainly knows who you are,” Gilmore said, setting the watch on a stack of file folders atop his desk. “You were run off the road last night. My deputy made it sound like you thought you were purposely targeted. Is that what you think?”
Sarah thought about the blinding headlights and how the truck came out of nowhere. “Last night it sure seemed that way. In the light of day it doesn’t seem quite as ominous,” Sarah said. “But now I don’t know. It could have been a drunk driver.”
“We’ll keep looking into it,” the sheriff promised. “Officially, the Lydia Tierney murder investigation is closed. But now we have a watch, purportedly belonging to John Tierney, and you were run off the road after someone placed it on your windshield. Raises some questions, am I right?” Gilmore asked.
“But that makes sense if John Tierney was the murderer. He comes back, kills his own sister—you have to admit the two cases bear some striking similarity. Maybe he leaves the watch on my car, sends...” Sarah stopped abruptly.
Gilmore looked at her curiously. “Sends what?” he asked.
Sarah wasn’t quite ready to share the emails with Gilmore. Not just yet. “Sends Jack back into this nightmare.”
“I have to agree with you on a few points, Sarah. There are similarities between Lydia’s and Julia’s deaths, but I don’t believe that John Tierney committed either of them.” He pointed to the Baggie on his desk. “And I think that watch, where it’s been for the past thirty years and your husband just might hold all the answers.”
“Now you think Jack killed both his mom and dad?” Sarah asked.
“Come on now, Sarah.” Gilmore stood and walked to the closet. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. Just the other day you were standing here asking me if you could take a look at Lydia’s case file.” He placed his hand on the doorknob and Sarah held her breath. Had Margaret had time to return the box to its original spot?
Gilmore opened the closet door, reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a box and set it gently on top of his desk. It was labeled LYDIA TIERNEY 1985. Sarah tried to conceal her relief, trying not to think about what would have happened if the box hadn’t been there. “Now I have two active murder cases to investigate. I’m afraid you and Jack won’t be leaving Penny Gate just yet.” He walked to his office door and waited for Sarah to join him.
Numbly, Sarah walked back to the lobby, Gilmore at her elbow. Jack stood when he saw them. “Jack, come on back,” Gilmore said, and Jack looked at Sarah warily.
“I’ll wait here,” Sarah said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t wait,” Gilmore said. “This could take a while.”
“Why’s that?” Jack asked. “I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you.”
“The thing is, Jack,” Gilmore said. “The watch left on Sarah’s car? It looks like it goes with those remains found on your uncle’s farm.”
Jack blankly stared at Gilmore for a moment and then realization spread across his face.
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, still not comprehending. “What’s the watch have to do with what you found in the cistern?”
“We found a wallet.” Gilmore’s voice was grave. “We still have to wait for the test results, but we believe the bones in the cistern belong to your dad.”
“What?” Jack said, blanching. “That’s impossible. He killed my mom. He ran away years ago.”
Gilmore shook his head. “It doesn’t quite look that way anymore, Jack. It looks like we’re back to square one again.”
Jack turned to Sarah. “Go ahead. I’ll call you when I’m finished here,” Jack urged.
“Jack,” Sarah said in exasperation. “I already know that you were the first suspect in your mother’s murder. You don’t have to hide that from me anymore.” To the sheriff she said, “That’s what you mean by square one, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Gilmore said almost apologetically.
Jack turned to Sarah with desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t do this,” he said. “I promise you. Please call Art Newberry for me. He can help clear this up. Sarah, you have to believe me.” His voice was earnest, pleading.
Sarah knew the words that Jack wanted her to say. That she believed him, that she knew there was no way he could have killed his parents. But she couldn’t. “I’ll call Arthur,” was all she could manage.
Sarah walked out of the sheriff’s office without a backward glance. He did it, she said to herself. He killed his mother in the cellar of their home, and he killed his father and dumped him in an old cistern. How was she going to tell Elizabeth and Emma?
She checked her watch. Two thirty. She pulled out her phone and made the call that Jack asked her to. Most likely the last thing she would ever willingly do on his behalf again.
20
SARAH DROVE DIRECTLY to the library. If Jack was the one who had been sending her the emails, maybe there would be some record of him using one of the library computers.
The young library director was standing behind the checkout counter. “You’re back,” he said. “Do you have some more scanning that you need to do?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not this time. I was wondering if you have any computers for public use.”
“Of course,” the man said as he stepped from behind the counter. He led her past a cozy children’s section where a small boy sat on his mother’s lap reading a book, his pudgy fingers struggling to flip the pages. There was a wall of DVDs and a table where two elderly men were playing chess. Tucked away in the back of the library was a room that housed three circular workstations. Each held four computers. None were being used at the moment.
“Do I need to have a library card or sign a sheet or something?” Sarah asked as she pulled out a chair.
“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “If a visitor wants to check out a laptop, then yes. But the desktops are first come, first served. Once in a while I have to kick someone off who feels the need to spend six hours binge watching videos.”
“So you have no way of ke
eping track of who’s working on a particular computer at a certain time?”
“We have everything on safety mode if that’s what you mean. Kids can’t access dangerous sites. We have employees cruise through here to keep an eye on things. Are you worried about your kids?”
“What if someone sent an anonymous email from one of these computers? Is there a way to find out who sent it?”
“That’s a bit beyond my expertise,” the man said. “I’m sure someone could figure it out. But anyone can set up an email address.”
Sarah thought about this for a moment. “What about cameras?” She looked around the room in search of any sign of a security system.
He cocked his head. “Who did you say you were again?”
Sarah laughed self-consciously. “You must think these questions are odd. My daughter received some weird anonymous emails. I’m trying to figure out a way to find out who sent them.”
“Can’t you call the police?”
“Just being an overprotective mom. But just in case, what about security cameras? Do most libraries have them?”
The man shrugged. “I guess it depends. We have cameras at the entrances.”
“What about this man?” she asked, pulling out her phone and showing him a picture of Jack. It was one of her favorites of him. He was sitting in one of their Adirondack chairs next to the lake, a soft, easy smile on his face. “Have you seen him in here the past few days?”
“Is he the one you think was sending the emails to your daughter?” He peered closely at the photo. “No,” he said almost regretfully. “I haven’t. But he could have come in when I wasn’t working or I might have missed seeing him.”
Sarah thanked Max and took a few minutes to wander around the stacks of books. She wasn’t sure why she lingered. Whoever was sending those emails might have left a trail somewhere.
On a whim Sarah sat back down at one of the computers and navigated to her and Jack’s online banking site. She logged in and skimmed through Jack’s credit card purchases over the past month. There was nothing to indicate that he had bought a burner phone, but that didn’t mean anything. He could have paid for one in cash.
She sat staring at the computer screen for several minutes, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally, she typed the word Seller85 into the search engine. Sarah clicked on the first link that appeared and it took her to an online auction site and Seller85’s profile page. Immediately a series of pictures of items for sale popped up. Sarah scrolled through the items. The first picture showed an old brass-and-iron water pump.
The next photograph showed an object that looked similar to a wrench and was described as a “primitive iron tool for notching the ears of pigs and hogs. Measures about ten inches long and has a patina of age and old red paint.” There were dozens of more pictures of items that Seller85 had for sale: a set of dishes made of pink Depression glass, a primitive-looking Pennsylvania Dutch wooden trunk hand painted with vines, strawberries and other flowers. Sarah clicked on the image and zoomed in to get a closer look. It was a lovely piece. Nothing on the page seemed nefarious.
Next, Sarah phoned Margaret Dooley. She didn’t know who she could trust in Penny Gate, but Margaret was the closest thing to a friend she had here.
“Sarah,” Margaret said when she picked up the phone. “What happened? You and Jack left the dinner so quickly we didn’t even get to talk. I heard that the sheriff asked you to go to the station.”
In a low whisper Sarah gave Margaret a condensed version of the events that had happened since they parted ways in the church parking lot the night before: the car accident, John Tierney’s remains in the cistern, the emails she was receiving, the strange photos on the online auction site. On the other end Margaret went quiet. “Margaret, are you still there?”
“The body in the cistern is John Tierney’s?” she asked in disbelief.
“That’s what the sheriff said.” Sarah twisted around in her chair to make sure no one could overhear her. “Margaret, what if Jack is the murderer? What am I going to do?”
“Are you still at the library?” Margaret asked.
“Yes.” She checked the clock on the wall. It was nearing four o’clock.
“I’ll be right there,” she said in a rush, and disconnected.
Sarah returned her attention to the computer screen. The profile had been created the year before and didn’t offer any other contact information for Seller85 than through the auction site. No city or state was listed, no phone number. There was no way to know if this was the same Seller85 as the one who was sending her the emails.
Her phone pinged, announcing a new text message. Sarah glanced down at the screen and her heart stopped. See how they run? it read, and there was an attachment. Before Sarah could click on it, another text came through.
You can’t catch me.
The person sending her the cryptic emails also knew her cell phone number.
With dread Sarah clicked on the attachment and a photo appeared. It took a moment for Sarah to realize what she was seeing: an elderly woman, her leg bent at an odd angle, lying on her back at the bottom of a familiar-looking staircase.
It was Julia.
Covering her eyes was some kind of cloth, soaked in blood.
Goose bumps erupted on her arms. Whoever had done this had taken a photo of their handiwork. Sarah’s stomach roiled. She quickly rang the sheriff’s office to ask if Jack Quinlan was still meeting with the sheriff and the voice on the other end of the line said she couldn’t share that information with her.
For all the lies and secrets Jack had told her, he appeared to have all his faculties. Wouldn’t someone capable of murdering his parents and covering it up for decades be insane, show some signs of being unbalanced? Yes, Sarah thought, unless, of course, he was a psychopath.
Had she been living with a psychopath all these years? Had she slept in the same bed and bore the children of a cold-blooded killer?
Fifteen minutes later, Margaret rushed in. Her skin seemed ashen, nearly stark white against her heavy makeup. She slid into the seat next to Sarah, and before she could even say hello, Sarah proceeded to show her everything.
“Sarah, you have to go to the sheriff with all of this,” Margaret said after they had reviewed the photo and the emails. “This is too dangerous. You could get hurt.”
“I know you’re right,” Sarah said, still shaken by the image of Julia at the bottom of the steps. “I just need to figure out what to hand over to the sheriff.”
“You have to give him everything,” Margaret urged. “And don’t worry about me,” she added. “We’re in this together. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to.”
Margaret’s eyes darted around the library. Only one other patron was nearby. “I started thinking about what you said earlier about the silver charm that Amy said belonged to Julia and the one in the picture next to Lydia’s body. This is the most horrible thing I think I’ve ever seen,” she whispered as she pushed a small envelope across the table. “It’s only a photocopy, but I figured it might help.”
Sarah carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper. Even though it was a photocopy of a photograph, the detail was frighteningly explicit. Sarah stared down at the autopsy photo, not one from thirty years earlier, but from earlier that week. A close-up of the catastrophic wound to Julia’s skull. “Where did you get this?” Sarah asked.
“It was surprisingly easy,” Margaret admitted.
Sarah clicked through the documents on her thumb drive until she found Lydia’s autopsy photos. The two women’s head wounds were somewhat similar.
“But there’s no way Amy could have killed her mother—she was only eleven at the time. Besides, she’s still in jail and couldn’t have just sent me the text with the picture of Julia. The only person I can think of would be Jack
.”
“But wait,” Margaret said, shaking her head back and forth. “You and Jack weren’t even in town when Julia was hurt. There’s no way he could have done it.”
Sarah sat back in her chair, dumbfounded. “Oh, my God, you’re right.” She allowed herself a small moment of relief. “But that just means we’re no closer to knowing who did. And what about Julia’s autopsy report that said her cause of death was poisoning? Remember?”
“But Jack couldn’t have been the one to hit her, so why would he poison her? Unless—” Margaret’s eyes widened “—Jack and Amy planned it together.”
“But why?” Sarah asked, running her fingers through her hair in frustration. “I just can’t wrap my head around all of this. Somehow Lydia’s and Julia’s deaths and these emails have to be connected.”
Sarah thought back to what the priest had said earlier at the funeral. That Julia was the consummate farmer’s wife.
A chill ran through Sarah. The consummate farmer’s wife. Those words seemed to fit Jack’s mother, as well. She was active in her church and her community. By most accounts she was an attentive mother and wife. What did the emails say? Three blind mice, two blind mice, one blind mouse. See how they run. How did the nursery rhyme go? She thought back to when the girls were little, the way they giggled over the silly lyrics. Wasn’t there mention of a farmer’s wife?
Lydia Tierney, farmer’s wife. Dead.
Julia Quinlan, farmer’s wife. Dead.
Both women had cloths covering their eyes—blind mice.
Sarah thought of Celia—beautiful, capable. The perfect farmer’s wife. A cold sweat erupted on her skin.
One blind mouse.
She needed to get to Celia. Sarah quickly ejected the thumb drive and handed it to Margaret. “Can you hold on to this for me?”
“Sure, where are you going?” Margaret asked in confusion.