Missing Pieces(64)
“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 inside 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.