forgotten (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

“Here’s a possible scenario,” Duane stepped in, to keep up the pressure. “Let’s say your husband is the one who talked your son into covering up the accident and burying Daisy’s body.”

Duane left the sofa and walked around to Muriel’s other side. She must have felt overwhelmed, with two much taller men so close. She tried to step backward but the cabinet was in her way, and she was forced to stay put.

“And let’s assume that you, Mrs. Quinpool, were against the plan,” Duane continued. “But you didn’t want to betray your husband and son so you kept quiet. As the years went by, you probably began to feel more and more guilt. Especially as you had to watch Daisy’s children grow up, never suspecting what had really happened to their mother.”

Muriel covered her face with her hands, and shook her head. “No! That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?” Wade pressed gently. “We know Kyle buried her. We’re having hairs found at the burial site tested. We’ll soon be able to prove that they are his. Why did your son bury Daisy’s body? If she died by accident, why not call 911?”

“I can’t breathe! I need water.”

Wade and Carter exchanged a glance. Wade was positive she’d seen or heard something. Or maybe Jim had, and then had shared his knowledge with his wife.

Muriel was showing classic signs of guilt by association.

But he didn’t dare press her too hard.

He took one of the untouched glasses from the table and handed it to her. “Maybe you should sit down.”

He and Duane stayed with her for another fifteen minutes. They calmed her down, then asked her the same questions, over and over. She didn’t change her story a bit, just kept insisting she didn’t know anything.

Next they questioned her about the withdrawals from Daisy’s bank account. As planned, Duane insinuated they would be able to identify her from the video footage.

She only increased her denials. Her insistence they were trying to trick her.

Eventually Wade circled back to the night Daisy died.

“How could you have slept through the argument, and all that commotion?” Wade asked. “It just doesn’t wash.”

“I used to wear ear plugs to bed. Because of Jim’s snoring.”

Wade went for the opening. “So you admit there was an argument—you just didn’t hear it. Did your husband tell you about it the next day?”

“No. No. You’re twisting my words. Jim told me nothing. There was nothing to tell.”

w
hat are your plans for the rest of the day?” Charlotte fastened her bra, adjusted her breasts, then put her blouse back on.

God, he loved watching the librarian dress.

Dougal was propped up in her bed, arms crossed behind his head. She’d opened the curtains and the bright noon-hour sunshine pooled on the foot of the bed where she was sitting.

“My plans? Gosh, Charlotte, let me check my day planner.”

Even as she laughed, she shook her head. “I couldn’t live that way. I need discipline. Order. Routine.”

He cringed.

“Will you be here when the kids and I get home around five?”

“I’ll probably go back to the cottage to do some writing. But I can come back. If you want me.”

“Oh, I do.” She leaned over to give him a kiss.

He caught her hand before she moved away. “As long as we’re clear I’m not playing the role of surrogate uncle to the twins.”

She hesitated, then said, “Clear on that. Why don’t you bring Borden with you? The kids would like her, I’m sure. And Borden seems happy here, too.”

This was true. His cat still wasn’t keen on the cottage or the forest beyond the windows.

“I’ll do that.” He rolled out of bed, went to give the librarian a kiss. “For the record, I like it here, too,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear.

“Oh, do you?” Charlotte pushed him back, then stepped into a skirt. For some reason she always dressed in the most dowdy clothes for work. But he wouldn’t complain. Not when he knew what she looked like without those clothes.

In the ensuite bathroom he grimaced at his reflection. He’d grown fond of his longish hair.

Charlotte’s gaze was amused, as she reached around him for her hair brush. “Is your vanity getting the better of your curiosity?”

She knew him too well. How had that happened? They’d been sleeping together for only a few months. But she was right, of course. Birdie’s amnesia had him fascinated. Was it genuine?

Maybe it was. By all accounts the accident had been horrific and she’d suffered a terrible blow to the head.

But—what if she’d been running from something, looking for a clean start. Pretending to have amnesia would give her the perfect opportunity to start over.

Problem with that, of course, was constantly having to be on your guard in case you inadvertently gave yourself away.

* * *

When he did go for a haircut—which was rarely—Dougal preferred a regular barbershop. Not a fancy day spa with cucumber infused drinking water and a tropical rainforest soundtrack.

But today he was going to make an exception.

He opened the door of Skin Deep and was immediately cocooned in a scent that was soft and herbal. Not too sweet. Kind of nice, actually.

He went to the counter, where a well-coifed young woman was manning the appointment book.

At her raised eyebrows, he said, “I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping to get a haircut today.”

“You’re in luck. I think Belle can squeeze you in. Let me go back and check.”

While he was waiting a woman in her forties came to the counter to pay for her treatment. Even Dougal could tell that the reason she looked stunning was almost entirely due to her hair style.

A moment later, he realized the woman was Alicia Arden, the mayor’s wife.

She did a double-take. “Dougal Lachlan? The author?”

He shrugged.

“I love your books! Say, would you consider attending my next book club meeting? Your latest was our January selection. I know the other ladies would love to ask you some questions about your process.”

“I don’t do book clubs,” he said bluntly.

“I love it if you’d make an exception and do mine.”

Her eyes narrowed in that speculative, womanly way he was used to seeing late at night in a barroom.

She was just pressing her card into his hand, when the receptionist returned and told him Belle was ready for him.

He raised his eyebrows at the mayor’s wife, left her comment unanswered, and gladly went to meet Belle.

For many years his mom had worked as a cleaner at Skin Deep, and Belle greeted him with a big hug. A cloud of perfume engulfed him, along with her skinny, but strong arms.

“You’re finally home! Your mother would be so glad.” She smiled at him, no trace of accusation in her heavily made-up, cat-shaped, eyes.

“You look good, Belle. Haven’t changed a bit.”

“It’s been a long time, Dougal.” She smiled. “You always knew just the right thing to say.”

She took his arm. “Come here to the sinks. We have a new girl doing shampoos today. Birdie, take good care of this man for me, please. He’s Twisted Cedars’ most famous author.”

Belle left then, to check on one of her other clients.

Dougal took a good look at the woman presiding over the shampoo chairs.

Very pretty, even with the mottled purple bruising around her big blue eyes. Her nose was straight and slender, her upper lip an exaggerated bow. Her long, strawberry blonde hair looked thick and healthy in a simple ponytail. And as she folded a towel over the edge of the sink, he noticed she had long, slender fingers with turquoise polished nails.

Aside from the bruising, she looked like a normal, attractive woman.

But when her gaze met his, Dougal felt a jolt. Almost like recognition. Or was it sympathy? He’d interviewed a lot of victims in his life. But he’d never met anyone who had such an aura of sadness about them.

While he’d been studying her, she, too, had been looking at him.

“I feel like I know you.”

“Do you like to read true crime stories?”

“I’m not sure. I was in an accident on Friday. I can’t remember much just yet.”

“I heard. My girlfriend, Charlotte Hammond, gave you a tour of the town last night.”

“Oh, yes. She was so kind.”

“She mentioned you’re suffering from amnesia. Do you really not remember who you are?”

“I do have memories. But they’re all jumbled.” Birdie continued to look at him as if trying to work out a puzzle. “You asked if I read true crime stories. Is that what you write?”

“Yes. My name is Dougal Lachlan. I’ve—"

“Oh! I do remember you. You’re one of my favorite authors. I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you in person.”

“I’m flattered.” He studied her eyes, trying to read the motivations concealed within them. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t faking anything right now. “I mean, you’ve forgotten so much, yet you recognize my name.”

“I can’t explain it. Random things will just pop into my head. I can’t control what I remember, though. I wish I could.”

She asked him to sit, then. “I’d better get busy or I’ll lose my job.”

Reluctantly he took a seat. “Don’t put any smelly goop in my hair.”

“We have unscented products for clients with allergies. I’ll use those.”

After checking the temperature of the water, she shampooed his hair, giving him a damned-good scalp massage at the same time. As Birdie was wrapping a towel around his neck, he noticed a tattoo on her wrist.

“What’s that “O” mean?”

“No idea.”

Their glances met in the mirror, and, again, he saw no guile in her eyes.

“So do you think you’ll stay in Twisted Cedars long?”

“I-I don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll remember who I am and where I belong soon.”

“It must be terrifying to have your entire past wiped clean.”

“Yes. But sometimes I wonder if it would be more terrifying to remember.”

“Do you think you were running from someone who wanted to hurt you?”

She shrugged. “That’s what the police asked me. But I don’t know the answer.”

Belle came by and gave her a pleased smile. “Thank you, Birdie. I’ll take him now.”

And then Dougal had to submit to Belle’s prodding as she went to work on his hair, first combing it, then running her fingers through it, and finally cutting off more than he was comfortable with.

“So are you still working on that book about the four librarians who were strangled with red scarves?” Belle asked as she worked.

“You heard about that?”

Belle laughed. “I hear about everything.”

She pulled out the hair dryer then, and then after his hair was dry, finished it off with a spritz of some product and a final fluffing with her fingers. “Charlotte’s going to like this. You wait and see.”

* * *

Dougal stepped outside, noted his well-coifed reflection in the shop window, and immediately ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head at the same time. If he’d been a dog, he’d have found a nice plot of dirt to roll around in.

But he didn’t go that far.

Hell. Never again was he letting anyone near him with a tube of gel or a hair dryer.

Dougal welcomed the wind coming off the ocean as he walked back to Charlotte’s to get his car. But he was afraid that not even a strong breeze would get his hair back to the carefree, rumpled look that he favored.

As he drove out toward the Librarian Cottage, a slow unease began burrowing into his gut. He hadn’t gone this long with a book contract since he’d sold his first novel nine years ago. It was fine to talk about shifting from true crime to mystery fiction. But unless he wrote a synopsis and three damn good chapters, he wasn’t getting an advance, or a contract. Period.

Just yesterday he’d had calls from both his agent and his editor.

They didn’t like the new direction.

Was he really sure he wanted to leave New York? And write fiction?

He didn’t know. Only that for sure he wasn’t going to write about those four murdered librarians the way Monty had tried to goad him into doing. The very idea of chronicling his father’s crimes made him sick.

It was also maddening that the entire town seemed to know about those murders. He should have been more circumspect when he was doing his research. He normally was.

But meeting Charlotte had changed something inside of himself. He’d enjoyed talking to her. And had opened up far more than normal. About everything, not just his writing.

The five mile drive went by all too quickly and as Dougal approached the cottage, he had to acknowledge one truth. Moving here hadn’t been a mistake. Charlotte was part of the reason. But also, he really loved living out here in the woods.

When he rounded the final grove of trees, though, he was dismayed to see Liz Brook’s rusted-out, green jeep parked out front.

He’d forgotten she was due to clean this Tuesday. He hoped she hadn’t freaked out his cat. And that she was almost finished.

His mother had cleaned other people’s houses for a living. Now that he was on the other side, paying the dough so someone else would scrub his toilet, it felt weird.

In New York his apartment had been so small he’d never bothered with a cleaner. But when he’d decided to move into the Librarian Cottage, the place had been uninhabited for several decades. The dust and grime had been more than he even he could tolerate. And after hiring Liz that first time, it had felt cheap not to give her a regular gig.

He’d just gotten out of his car when the petite, dark-haired young woman emerged from the front door with two buckets, both filled with cleaning supplies.

She set them on the porch so she could close the door behind her. “Good timing. I just finished.”

“Thanks.” He felt guilty now, for having had bad thoughts about her. She looked tired. She was a little thing for such hard labor. And she was young. Mid-twenties at the most. “It’s a warm one. Want a beer?”

She looked at her watch, and frowned, then surprised him by saying, “Sure.”

He immediately regretted his impulsive invitation. Now he was going to have to sit and make polite conversation for at least fifteen minutes when, if he’d just kept his mouth shut, she would have been gone by now.