Death in the Second-Hand Jigsaw

How it begins

The garden in the jigsaw had been demolished before the jigsaw was printed.

Anwar said this with complete certainty, which Molly found inconvenient. She had spent four evenings finishing it and had hoped for admiration.

“Perhaps the photograph is older.”

“It is. But that tree isn't.”

He pointed to a magnolia beside the garden wall.

The charity shop had received the puzzle in a box of cookbooks. One thousand pieces, one missing. Molly had taken it home to check before putting it on the shelf. She disliked selling disappointment for two pounds.

The missing piece lay exactly over a small circular structure beside the greenhouse.

“A well?” she asked.

“Used to be.”

“What happened to it?”

“Filled in when the garden went.”

Molly turned the box lid. The manufacturer had printed a date beneath a cheerful guarantee that all pieces were included.

Anwar took off his glasses.

“Who donated this?”

“A woman in a blue car.”

“That narrows it to half the county.”

“She said we'd know what to do with it.”

“Did you?”

“I priced the cookbooks.”

They stood beside Molly's kitchen table while the kettle boiled. In the finished picture, the garden looked peaceful: white chairs, tidy borders, the greenhouse bright with afternoon light.

Anwar touched the empty circle where the piece should have been.

“My brother worked there that summer.”

“The summer it was demolished?”

“The summer he disappeared.”

Molly turned off the kettle.

Outside, a car slowed in the lane. They both looked toward the window, then felt foolish enough to look away.

On the back of the box lid, beneath a strip of old tape, someone had written a number.

It was the charity shop's telephone number.

Molly had volunteered there for twelve years.

The shop had changed that number only last month.

She fetched her coat. The woman in the blue car had not donated the puzzle to clear a cupboard.