Missing Pieces(74)
“They’re getting ready to start,” Jack said, and she startled. With fumbling fingers she shut down her phone.
The pews had filled quickly and the ushers had to set out some folding chairs along the side aisles for everyone to have a seat. “Julia would have been pleased,” Hal whispered as they took their places in the vestibule.
The town of Penny Gate had come out in full force to lay Julia to rest. The haunting violin music began as they started the long, solemn walk down the aisle behind the casket and pallbearers.
Sarah tried to wrap her head around Gabe’s text. The emails were coming from Penny Gate. She had thought they were just the crazy ramblings of some fan of the Dear Astrid column. Everyday fodder for someone in her line of work.
But the origin of the messages changed everything. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that three emails from the same sender were coming from her husband’s hometown, a place she just happened to be visiting. Out of the corner of her eyes she studied the crowd and recognized a few of the mourners. Sheriff Gilmore and several of the deputies, Amy’s next-door neighbor. Margaret Dooley and her mother were there. Margaret gave her a small wave and an encouraging smile. As they stepped into the front pew Sarah felt her chest constrict. Any one of them could have sent her those emails. But who? And more important, why?
Sarah collected her thoughts. The emails were addressed to Astrid. Could the lunatic who sent those emails have known that Sarah was the real person behind the advice column’s persona? Could they have been targeting her? But that was impossible. No one in Penny Gate knew that Sarah wrote for the column.
No one, that is, except Jack.
Sarah tried to catch her breath, but panic had filled her lungs. Was Jack sending her the emails? But why? It didn’t make any sense.
Sarah robotically went through the motions of the mass. She stood when those around her stood and sat when those around her sat. She desperately wanted to excuse herself to the bathroom so she could look at the emails on her phone, but they were sitting in the front pew and she couldn’t steal away without drawing curious stares. Her mind pirouetted uncontrollably, trying to remember exactly what the emails had said. Something about strawberries and blood pulsing and a yellow dress. Sarah thought back to the crime-scene photos. Immediately a close-up of Lydia’s crushed skull, her mouth wide and gaping and the bloody cloth over her eyes filled Sarah’s head. She tried to pull back on the image, tried to focus on the items in the photographs that weren’t so prominent. The open freezer, a plastic package lying on the floor just beyond Lydia’s reach. Strawberries? Possibly—there was so much blood congealing on the floor it was difficult to be sure. Sarah nearly gasped out loud and covered her mouth as if concealing a cough. Jack’s mother, barefoot, lying on her back and wearing a cotton dress, butterscotch yellow beneath rivulets of blood.
Next to her Celia was weeping softly and clutching Dean’s hand. Hal had his head down and his eyes shut as if in prayer. She looked over at Jack, his face inscrutable. Had he always been so difficult to read?
Think, she told herself. Who else knew she was Astrid? Her mother and sister. Gabe, of course. A few others at the Messenger. Gabe’s administrative assistant, Maura, who had worked there longer than most, someone in payroll most likely. Penny Gate was only a three-hour flight from Montana. Theoretically, someone from the newspaper could have driven flown here and sent the emails. She wanted to believe it was possible, but she knew that made absolutely no sense. No matter which way she played it out in her mind, there was only one explanation: it had to be Jack.
The priest’s sonorous voice filled the church. “Julia Quinlan was born and raised in Penny Gate,” he said. “Julia lived a simple life. She cherished her church, her home, her son, her husband and gave much to those around her but asked for so little in return. She was the consummate farmer’s wife.”
She glanced over at Jack, but he kept his head down, his eyes half-shut, immersed in all the memories that this town brought back to him. Sarah tried to refocus on the eulogy, but had difficulty concentrating on what the priest was saying.
It was the final song, “Amazing Grace,” that brought the congregation from tears to weeping. They processed out behind the casket, the air thick with the cloying scent of incense.
After Julia’s burial they walked through the cemetery back to the church where the Women’s Rosary Guild had prepared a feast.
Their plates were filled to capacity and they sat at the table reserved for family members. Sarah’s mind swirled with questions. She was eager to step out and call Gabe to get more details about where the emails had come from. She wanted to dig back into the documents she had scanned onto the thumb drive to see how many more details from Lydia’s murder matched the emails.
Sarah picked at her food, mindful of all the eyes watching them. Jack, for his part, managed to make small talk with everyone at the table, but Sarah could tell it wasn’t easy for him. She wondered how many people gathered there knew that Julia’s death was now officially a murder investigation and that a set of remains had been found on the Quinlan property. Probably everyone. Sarah knew how word traveled in small towns.
Sarah excused herself to use the restroom but instead stepped outside to get her bearings and call Gabe about the emails.
Her mind kept returning to Jack. If anything, he was more fanatical about their privacy than Sarah. He made sure their home phone number was unlisted; he periodically checked the girls’ social-media accounts to make sure no crazies were in contact with them; he locked all of their personal information in a fireproof safe. He had a shotgun and a handgun that he kept locked safely away, though he hadn’t hunted since he was a kid and Larkspur was a very safe, sleepy town. Jack was the one who wanted Sarah to give up her job writing as Dear Astrid after she had received frightening letters in the past.