Missing Pieces(78)
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.”