Missing Pieces(42)
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.