Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

“I can’t wait until we’re living together,” he said.

“Sleeping together...”

“Waking up together...”

She laughed softly. “Yes. Waking up together.” They’d only had that luxury twice, when both Cory and Chester had been invited to sleepovers on the same night.

“We get so little time without my kids.”

“Don’t worry. I get it. And I love them, too, you know.” Kyle didn’t want more children, but he might change his mind, eventually. And if he didn’t, Jamie could live with that. She already had so much to be grateful for.

“I’m just so glad you all get along. Asking Cory to be a flower girl was a smart move. She’s so excited she can hardly sleep at night.”

“The dress Stella designed for her is beautiful.” Winning Cory over would be easy. His son was another matter. Chester was more guarded than his sister. Cautious. Jamie knew she had to prove to him that she was in his life to stay.

“Your children are easy to love, Kyle.”

“And so are you.” He waited as the server came to top up their wineglasses. Once they were alone again, he leaned in closer. “Have you thought about what our life will be like after the wedding?”

“You mean whether we’ll move into your house or my trailer?” When Kyle frowned, she was sorry she’d made the joke. “Just kidding. But what’s to discuss? We’ve listed my trailer for sale and I’ve already started packing.”

She would have a couple weeks to settle in to her new home, and then after school let out for the summer and the kids had gone to camp, she and Kyle would honeymoon in San Francisco.

“What about your job?” he asked.

“I’m not following.”

“I have a good income. Our expenses are low. You don’t have to keep working.”

The suggestion shouldn’t have come as such as shock. Yet, she hadn’t seen it coming, at all. “I’ve been working for as long as I can remember.” As a kid she’d delivered fliers and bagged groceries at Sam’s Market. When she was in college she’d delivered pizzas. There had never been a time in her life when she hadn’t had a job. “What would I do for money?”

Kyle touched the diamond ring on her fourth finger. “Don’t you get it? We’re going to be a family. I guarantee money won’t be a problem.”

“But I like my job.” Putting herself through college had been a struggle. So had the early years as a junior with the local CPA firm. Now, finally, she’d been promoted and was earning at a level that made all those sacrifices seem worthwhile.

“Some women find it rewarding to be home with kids. You might, too, if you gave it a try. And if you wanted something part-time, you could always take over the bookkeeping at Quinpool Realty for dad and me.”

“But Olivia’s been your accountant for years. I’d be doing her out of her job.”

“Family comes first. But you don’t have to make up your mind now. Just think about it.”

The sun had slipped away, leaving a quiet aquamarine glow in its wake.

Jamie thought about what Kyle
wasn’t
saying. His kids had been through a lot. Just a year ago their lives had been upset again when Kyle’s parents separated. Muriel had gone to live in Portland with her sister, while Jim had moved to the apartment above Quinpool Realty. Now the twins had to go to Nola Thompson’s house after school. Nola was a nice enough lady, but she had six children of her own. She didn’t really have the time or energy for two more.

“I want to help with Cory and Chester as much as I can. But one day I hope to be a partner at Howard & Mason.”

Kyle tapped his wine glass against hers. “Fair enough. Just thought I’d mention it.”

* * *

Books were in Charlotte Hammond’s blood, part of her heritage, the source of her livelihood, and her principle pleasure in life. When she’d finished high school, there had been no question that she would go on to study library sciences. After graduation it seemed just as natural that she should take over from her mother at the Twisted Cedars Public Library, which had been founded by her great-great grandmother back in post-Civil War days.

For the most part, Charlotte was happy with her fate. She couldn’t imagine a job more suited to her interests. And she was never bored. During lulls in activity levels she could always read—as she was doing now, thirty minutes before closing.

Charlotte had just started a new mystery series and devoured two chapters before she finally snapped out of the author’s spell. Reluctant to stop reading, she closed the book, and then slipped it into her purse so she could pick it up later at home. She went to the windows that banked the west wall where chairs and tables were arranged next to a display of magazines.

Ian Rankin had evoked Edinburgh so deftly that she almost expected to see the Scottish city when she looked out the glass pane.

But the view along Driftwood Lane was familiar. A row of small businesses and restaurants geared to meet the shopping needs of the thousand-odd residents of the town, led to the town square where two cedar trees, many hundreds of years old, grew with trunk and limbs so intertwined you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.

Come summer, Twisted Cedar’s population would more than triple with tourists. But right now the town was sleepy, small and safe, tucked in between the ocean to the west, and redwood forest and mountains to the east.

Charlotte knew no other home. She’d been adopted by the Hammonds when she was only three-months-old, welcomed into the family to provide a sibling to her sister, Daisy. Twisted Cedars had sheltered her all these years. But since her parents’ car accident she was the only Hammond left in town and sometimes she wondered what held her here. It would be different if Daisy came back. But her sister hadn’t been heard from since she ran off seven years ago.

Kyle had hired an investigator back then. And after the death of their parents, Charlotte had tried again, as the size of the Hammond’s estate was considerable. But both times there had been no luck.

It seemed Daisy didn’t want to be found, and had either changed her identity, or was living below the radar of modern life. Daisy’s only communication with her old life—if you could call it that—were the regular five-hundred dollar withdrawals she made from the joint account their father had set up for her years ago.

The withdrawals were made from various ATMs in Sacramento, usually at night, with Daisy wearing a hat and sunglasses that obscured her face from video surveillance. Charlotte had been advised to put a hold on the account, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

Chances were, Daisy really needed that money. And if she was using it for alcohol, or drugs, well, Charlotte only hoped they bought her peace.

Lots of people in town judged Daisy harshly for falling apart after her children were born, and especially for deserting them. But Charlotte had sat by Daisy’s hospital bed enough to know how much her sister had suffered. Postpartum psychosis was a devastating illness—one that medical science knew far too little about.

It was just five minutes to closing now. Abigail, the full time library assistant, had left at four-thirty, and since then the library had been deserted. Charlotte doubted any new customers would be arriving now, so she began powering down the computers and turning out lights, preparing to close for the night.

Her boyfriend, Sheriff Wade MacKay would be by shortly to pick her up. She hoped he wouldn’t be late. This was her least favorite time of the day.

There was something spooky about the library when the lights went out, even in the summer. A shiver went up her spine as she imagined a man hiding in the stacks, waiting until she was all alone and vulnerable...

She knew the fear was irrational. Unfortunately, irrational fears were her specialty. Her mother put it down to the period of her life before she’d been adopted.

Of course, Charlotte couldn’t remember that far back. All she knew was that she was afraid to go into her own basement at night. Afraid of big cities and afraid of flying, too. Her parents had taken her and Daisy on a trip to Disneyland once that had sent her into a full-blown anxiety attack.

College in Portland had been a challenge, requiring daily phone calls home to her mother. Since then, she hadn’t strayed far from Twisted Cedars. The occasional shopping trip to Portland, or attendance at the Oregon Library Association’s annual conference, was the most she could manage.

Thinking of the conference reminded her she had to reply to the email from Libby Gardner. Libby was the current president of the OLA’s Executive Board, and had been a great friend of Charlotte’s mother. She had invited Charlotte to make a presentation at this year’s conference. “Revitalizing the Small Town Library,” or something to that effect.

Charlotte went to her desk and opened up the message. “I’ll think about it, Libby,” she typed, then hit “send.”

But she wouldn’t. She’d wait a week or two, then send her regrets. Out-of-town trips were tough enough without compounding them with public speaking commitments.

A chime sounded from the main door, and Wade Mackay walked in, his large frame and clean-cut good looks a familiar and welcome sight.

He’d first asked her out about a week after Kyle Quinpool and Jamie Lachlan announced their engagement. The timing had not been a coincidence, she suspected. Which made her second choice. But she didn’t mind.

She really liked Wade. Sweet and kind and trustworthy—he was a good friend, and if things continued to go well between them, she knew he’d make a dependable husband, too. They hadn’t yet made love. So whether sex was going to happen, and whether it would be any good, was still a question mark. But the kisses were nice. That was a positive sign.

One thing was for sure. Her parents would have approved of the match. What better suitor for their fearful daughter than the local Sheriff?

“Ready for our big night out in Twisted Cedars?” Wade teased.

“I suppose I can tear myself away from my books for a few hours.”

They kissed—just a light peck, a form of hello—then he took the key from her and locked the door, testing the handle before returning the key. Wade was meticulous about matters of security, which she appreciated. He was chivalrous, too. He took her arm in his, considerately matching his longer stride to hers as they headed for the Linger Longer.

They didn’t need to discuss their plans, since every Friday was the same. It was sort of comforting, knowing exactly what the evening ahead would hold.

A pub meal followed by a few beers and a game of pool. He’d walk her home and kiss her again at the front door.

Another woman would probably want more passion, but not Charlotte. Just like adventures and mysteries, Charlotte suspected that romance was safest when contained between book covers.

after four long days
of driving, Dougal reached Roseburg, Oregon, on Tuesday night. He stopped at a gas station off the Interstate to buy snacks, a six-pack and a copy of the local paper,
The News-Review
. Then he booked into a nearby motel and made himself comfortable.

He was about one hundred and forty miles from Twisted Cedars, but in no hurry to get there. In New York he was a successful author, a man of some means—even though he lived modestly. It was only a persona, but he clung to it, knowing the moment he drove into his hometown he’d once again be the poor boy who’d lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

Son of a wife-beater. And murderer.

Dougal scanned the paper while he drank his first beer, then he powered up his laptop and checked out
The News-Review
on-line. Their archives went back only to 1995. He could call their office tomorrow, or the library. Both would have what he needed.

He fell back on the bed, stared at the ceiling. One week ago, he never would have believed he’d be going back to Oregon. Yet here he was, about to start investigation into an old crime on the basis of one, lousy, anonymous email.

Did this story really have potential, or was he killing time, putting off the moment he would see his sister, and Twisted Cedars, again?

* * *

Over the course of the past year Dougal’s body clock had grown out-of-kilter. He’d taken to sleeping later and later, sometimes not rising from bed until almost noon. The three-hour time difference between New York and Oregon, however, had him opening his eyes at nine, unaccountably alert. And bored.

What the hell. Might as well get up.

He sat on the edge of the bed, peering in the direction of the window—whose curtains he’d neglected to close last night. The day was already bright and sunny. He wished it was raining. Then he’d have an excuse to crawl back under the covers.

But then he remembered his mission to check up on Elva Mae. Having something concrete to do gave him a reason to move. He reached for his phone and called the local library.

The receptionist connected him to a helpful woman who agreed to check the archives for Elva Mae Ayer’s obituary and any articles related to her murder. She’d call him back. Dougal thanked her, and then went out for his next mission—to find coffee.

He ended up in a diner next to the motel where he ordered an omelet to go with his coffee. When he was done he headed to the local library. At the reference desk he explained what he needed, then went to check his email. Ten minutes later the librarian was back.

“I found what you were looking for.” She handed him a stack of old newspapers. “We’re working on digitizing our old papers, but we haven’t gone back this far yet. If you need to make copies, there’s a machine over there.” She pointed to an alcove behind him to the right.

God he loved librarians. They were so helpful. He wished the last research assistant he’d hired had been half as cooperative. “Thank you. Should I return these to you when I’m finished?”

She nodded, looking curious. “We don’t get many people interested in going back that far in our local history.”

He recognized it was a leading question, but just smiled. With each new book he wrote, his public profile gained visibility. But he didn’t like being recognized by strangers, and did his best to protect his anonymity.

“Thanks again,” he said, already scanning through the first of the papers.