Missing Pieces(80)

She was always amazed by how places had their own unique scents. In the fall, their home on Larkspur Lake smelled of mountain air and the spicy clove-like perfume of golden currant, and here, the unique dusty odor of recently harvested corn mixed with the sweet smell of alfalfa settled in her nose. Sarah cocked her head to listen. The inky night sky was pricked with starlight, but strangely the air was still and void of sound. No rustle of leaves from the treetops, no gentle murmurs from the cattle across the road, no dogs yipping, no earnest clucking from the hens. It was too quiet.

Sarah turned back toward the front door and knocked again. She knew that Celia would most likely think she was crazy, but it was better to be safe. Sarah needed her to know what she had learned.

She tried Jack again. Maybe she should call Arthur Newberry. Surely if Gilmore had arrested Jack, someone would have contacted her. But would anyone call her if he had been released? That was what she really feared. That she was too late. That the sheriff let Jack free and then he came here to finish what he started. In exasperation she pressed her back to the front door and sank to the porch floor. She tried Celia’s number again but the phone rang and rang. The faint trill of a ringtone seeped from behind the door. Sarah lowered the phone and rotated her head so that her ear was pressed against the scuffed wood. The ringing stopped. Shifting to her knees she pressed redial and listened. Again, the sound of Celia’s distinctive ringtone came from inside the house. She disconnected the call and the shrill ringing ceased.

If Celia was gone, why was her phone in the house? Sarah rose and knocked soundly on the door. “Celia,” she called. “Celia, it’s Sarah!” Maybe something had already happened to her. Sarah pounded on the door. “Celia, are you in there?” Panic flooded her voice. She turned the knob, shoved the unlocked door open and stumbled into the house.

The house was dimly lit and quiet. A low fire burned in the fireplace. Sarah’s eyes fell to an end table near the front door where a cell phone rested. Celia’s phone. “Celia?” she called out uncertainly. No response. Three more steps would take her past the foyer. To the right would be the steps leading upstairs. To the left, the kitchen and the steps leading to the cellar.

Sarah took a deep breath, heart pounding, hand on her phone just in case she needed to dial 9-1-1. She stepped forward and looked to the right. She exhaled in relief. No body at the bottom of the steps.

She turned to the left, toward the kitchen, toward the cellar door, but stopped. She mentally kicked herself for being so spooked. Maybe Celia had been here but had to leave unexpectedly. Maybe the sheriff gave them permission to return to Hal’s house and Celia had inadvertently left her phone behind. She couldn’t bring herself to step into the kitchen, fearful of what she might find. Should she wait for Celia to return, or leave? Leave, she decided. Get into the car, call the sheriff, let them investigate.

Before turning to go her eyes swept the large open room. Everything seemed neatly in its place. The kitchen table was empty except for an expertly arranged glass jar of dried hydrangeas. An open bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the kitchen counter, and a red sweater lay in a puddle on the floor. Sarah’s eyes narrowed. Such a small thing, but in the short time she’d known Celia, dirty dishes and clothing left in the middle of the kitchen seemed incongruous. She walked over, bent down and lifted the sweater from the ground, and a black lace bra fluttered to the floor.

This is ridiculous, Sarah thought. Celia was probably upstairs with Dean, and Sarah had just barged into their home while they were obviously otherwise occupied.

She just needed to be done with this, drive over to the sheriff’s department and tell him everything she had learned. She turned to head back out into the chilly night.

“Sarah?” a voice asked from behind her. Startled, Sarah turned and her phone tumbled from her hand, clattered and slid across the wood floor, coming to rest beneath the barn-board coffee table.

“Jesus, Celia,” Sarah cried. “You scared me.”

Celia was standing halfway up the staircase that led to the second floor, staring in confusion down at Sarah. “You scared me,” she said, clutching the railing. Celia cast a quick glance behind her shoulder, then walked the rest of the way down the steps and moved past Sarah to close the front door. “It’s freezing. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“I knocked, but no one answered,” Sarah tried to explain. Celia looked at her dubiously and even to her own ears it sounded suspect. “I was worried about you.”

“Why didn’t you just come in?” Celia asked. There was no anger or accusation in her voice, just confusion, but still Sarah reddened with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I thought...” Sarah stopped. She didn’t know what she thought anymore. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But I really need to talk to you.” Celia cast another look behind her and up the stairs. Sarah followed her gaze.

“Where’s Dean?” Sarah asked.

“He went with Hal back to his house. The sheriff said Hal could go home now. Dean is going to spend the night there with him tonight. He’s just so devastated, Dean didn’t want him there alone.” Celia drew the oversize flannel shirt she was wearing more tightly around herself. Her legs were bare.

Another thought had wheedled into her brain. Maybe Jack wasn’t at the sheriff’s department any longer. Had he come here? To do what? Had Sarah had it all wrong, and Celia and Jack were having an affair? “Are you alone?”