Missing Pieces

“Well, yes,” Sarah fumbled. “Sorry, I didn’t make the connection.”

“That’s Jack for you, a man of few words.” Celia shook her head. “After Jack left for college I mooned around after him, hung around Julia and Hal’s house like a little lost puppy.” She gave a halfhearted laugh at the memory. “One evening, Julia had me over for dinner and Dean had just moved back to the farm. I hadn’t seen him in a few years and it was like the sun came out. A couple of years later we got married, and the rest is history.”

Celia turned onto a narrow two-lane highway that ribboned through the countryside, speeding past gold-and-green patchworks of cornstalks and soybeans, punctuated by an occasional farmhouse. Cattle gnawed languidly on grass, their tails flicking at unseen insects, their soft eyes barely glancing as they passed. It was beautiful, Sarah had to admit.

Once again, the sky had cleared and Sarah knew what Jack meant when he said the weather in Iowa changed on a dime. The air was clean and crisp like freshly starched laundry and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue that reminded Sarah of a time when the girls were four and Elizabeth described the sky as “so blue it hurts.” A blue so big and beautiful that it causes your heart to ache.

The thought made her miss her daughters more than she thought was possible.

Celia parked the truck and Sarah took in the view of the farmhouse and outbuildings that made up the Quinlan farm. Patches of the house were scraped clean of the paint that had once covered it, and the roof was badly in need of new shingles. The front porch was in disrepair, the steps leaning dangerously to the left. The barn and machine shed weren’t in much better shape. Long stalks of grass and weeds grew wildly, scorched and dry like hay from the hot Iowa sun. The property clearly hadn’t been well maintained over the years. The place looked like it was right out of a scary movie, and it made Sarah think about Amy’s “house of horrors” comment and the article she found earlier about the death of Jack’s mother. What other dark secrets was this house keeping?

“The outside isn’t all that much to look at, but the inside is great. Dean hopes to start working on the exterior next spring.”

Sarah smiled but didn’t respond. She wondered what Jack would think about the deterioration of his childhood home.

“Come. I’ll show you around,” Celia said as they stepped from the Bronco. “I know I need to start making phone calls, but I can’t bear to tell people the news about Julia yet. I feel like if I can put off telling them I can almost make myself believe she really hasn’t died.” Celia closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “But first things first,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ll get you a pair of boots. What are you, a size seven?”

“Eight, but really these are fine,” Sarah insisted.

“Oh, no. They don’t call them shit-kickers for nothing. Believe me, you’ll want to put on a pair of boots.” Celia walked off toward the house and Sarah surveyed the farmyard. A soft wind spun the blades of a tall galvanized-metal windmill that sat among the swaying switchgrass. There were three outbuildings: a midsize A-frame barn, a large prairie barn with a low-hanging, sloped roof, and a small shed.

The farmyard was overgrown and weedy in some spots, and brown and bald in others. Poking up from the weeds were riots of color just beginning to brown at the edges: purple and white aster, rose-colored sedum and cheery goldenrod. Tired browned remnants of once-spritely hollyhock slumped among the glossy green leaves of the bushes nestled against the foundation of the largest barn. The door to a small shed was open, revealing a cluttered array of farm tools and cracked clay pots. Well away from the barn was a pile of partially charred remains of what appeared to be an odd pyre of dried leaves, barn board and broken furniture.

Everything felt too still, too quiet. It was unsettling and Sarah raised her face to meet the warmth of the sun while blackflies buzzed around her face.

Celia came back carrying a pair of green rubber boots and handed them to Sarah. They walked the final fifty yards to the midsize barn, and Celia wrenched open the door. “This is where we keep our meager little zoo.” They stepped into the dimly lit barn. The musty smell of hay filled her nose and bits of dust and straw danced in the streams of light that seeped through the narrow windows. Rusty farm equipment that clearly hadn’t been used in years leaned against the rough wooden walls. “We have lots of old stuff that was here before we moved in. As for the house, we’ve tried to restore as much as we could. The floors are original and some of the furniture has been in Julia’s family for generations. I have boxes of Jack’s mom’s embroidery work from over the years. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. I tried to give them to Amy, but she doesn’t want any. I thought about packing some things away for Jack, but he doesn’t seem very interested, either.”

“You’ve talked to him about it?” Sarah asked with surprise.

“Sure, over the years. I don’t want to push it, but I wanted him to know that he’s welcome to much of what’s in the house. After Lydia died, Julia packed everything away. Most of it’s down in the basement.”

Three small goats clambered over to them, their large, protruding black eyes wide with curiosity. Sarah knelt down into the soft straw and rubbed their coarse black-and-white coats. “Can I ask you a question?” Sarah asked tentatively.

“Sure, go ahead,” Celia said, gently nudging one of the goats away.

“I found a news article that said that a woman was bludgeoned to death in the house that Jack grew up in.” Sarah tipped her head in the direction of the house.

Celia froze for a moment, then bent down to pick up a large tabby cat that was circling her ankles. “You didn’t know?” she asked.

She shook her head.

“Don’t you think you should talk to Jack about this?” The cat purred loudly, a content rumble, as Celia stroked her back.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Sarah thought. Everyone was telling her to talk to her husband about the strange, mysterious things that none of them could speak of. But Jack wasn’t talking, either.

Sarah stood and brushed straw from the front of her pants. An old, long-dormant need was growing inside her. She hadn’t felt this way since she was a young journalist on the trail of an intriguing news story. The need to uncover the facts that more often than not became an obsession to know the truth. This was different, though. The stakes were much higher in this case. This was her husband’s life. Her life.

“I know you’re right,” Sarah said. “But losing Julia has been such a shock for him. I don’t want to probe and make him relive the past. Not now.”

Celia bit her lip as if trying to decide what to do. Finally she nodded. “I’ll tell you what I can.” Celia paused again. “For the record, I’m uncomfortable talking to you about Jack’s parents, but I understand why you need to know. I just can’t believe he never told you about this before.” Another jolt of jealousy coursed through Sarah. Celia knew things about her husband that Sarah probably never would. “What is it you’d like to know?” Celia asked.

Sarah knew that Jack would be arriving at the house at any moment and she needed to gather as much information from Celia as quickly as she could.

“How did Jack’s mom die?” she asked, inwardly wincing at the bluntness of her words.

“She was murdered,” Celia said uncomfortably.

“Bludgeoned to death?” Sarah asked, thinking of the newspaper headline.

Celia nodded. “Jack was the one who discovered her body,” she said. “It was horrible.”

“Who did it?” Sarah asked, her heart pounding.

“At the beginning, no one knew. At first everyone thought it might have been a stranger, someone looking for a house to rob and accidently came upon Lydia.” The cat squirmed, Celia released her and she landed soundlessly on the barn floor. “Jack’s dad disappeared before anyone could even question him. No sign of him anywhere. There was a statewide manhunt—his picture was all over the news. But he never surfaced.” Celia shook her head at the memory. “It was bad enough that Jack came home and found his mom bludgeoned to death, but then to learn that it was his father who did it...” Celia shuddered.

No wonder Amy called this place a house of horrors. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She didn’t know if she should cry for Jack or be angry with him for keeping this from her. A million more questions flittered through her mind.

“Sarah.” Celia’s voice floated in front of her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

“I know this is a shock to you.” Celia watched her carefully.

“They never caught him?” Sarah asked numbly. “Jack’s dad?”

“No.” Celia shook her head. “It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth. You know, there was a time when Jack couldn’t say enough nice things about his dad. At school, it was always my dad said this or my dad did this. The house was built board by board by his great-grandfather. When we were kids I told him how I wanted to move away from here, go to college, see the world. He said he never wanted to leave—everything he could ever want was right here.

“That all changed after the murder. Jack spent the next three years trying to figure out how to get out of Penny Gate.” She smiled wistfully. “Kind of funny, isn’t it?”

“What?” Sarah couldn’t find anything humorous in what she had learned about Jack in the past twenty-four hours.

“Growing up, all Jack wanted to do was stay in Penny Gate, live in this house, farm this land. I thought we were going to get married, have a house filled with kids. Instead, he left, met you and now he only comes back for weddings and funerals.”

Get married? Sarah thought. Jack had never even mentioned they had dated, let alone were serious enough for marriage. An ember of doubt ignited in Sarah’s chest.

“I guess everything works out the way it’s supposed to. Not the death of his mom, of course,” she quickly clarified. “But there was a time I would have given anything to be Mrs. Jack Tierney. Now I can’t imagine having a different life and I’m sure Jack feels the same way. After all he’s been through, though, I’m shocked he ended up getting married and having a family. He must really trust you.”

Sarah murmured her agreement but knew it wasn’t true. Jack clearly hadn’t trusted her at all.

“Where?” Sarah asked. “Where did it happen?” Did she die on the floor in front of the stone fireplace? Did Jack find her lifeless body on the kitchen floor or upstairs in her bedroom? She imagined Lydia’s corpse in the barn, surrounded by the shrill squeal of goats. She suddenly had the urge to run from the dim barn.

“Sarah, I...” Celia said with uncertainty.

“Where?” Sarah pushed. “Please tell me.”

“In the basement,” Celia said.

Sarah was consumed with a morbid desire for Celia to show her the basement. Maybe if she saw the place where Jack’s life was irrevocably changed, some of this—any of it—would make sense. But before she could press any further, they were interrupted by a shout from outside the barn.