“Are you Daisy’s little sister?”
She was surprised and a little flattered that he was able to place her so easily. If she hadn’t known what he looked like from his author photos, she never would have connected this man to the scowling teenager she remembered hanging out with her sister’s group of friends.
Dougal had been part of the gang, but also apart from it. Never really one to fit in with any crowd, she guessed.
“Yes. I’m Charlotte.”
“All grown up now.” His gaze swept over her gray skirt, loose-fitting blouse. “You don’t look much like your sister.”
The muscles along her shoulders and neck tightened. He knew she’d been adopted. Or once he had. Maybe he’d forgotten. “No, I don’t.”
“How is Daisy doing? Where is she living now?”
“I’m not sure how she’s doing.” Charlotte didn’t try to conceal her frustration. “I believe she’s living somewhere in Sacramento, but she’s not good at keeping in touch.”
“I guess she and I have that in common.”
“Well,” Charlotte said awkwardly, supposing he was making reference to the fact that he hadn’t come home for his mother’s funeral. Which was a shocking thing. After all, he couldn’t claim a shortage of funds. Still, it wasn’t her place to judge. “Jamie must be happy you’re here for her wedding.”
“She doesn’t know yet. I’ve been on the road for a week and just arrived ten minutes ago.”
That surprised her. “And your first stop is the public library?”
His eyes narrowed and he regarded her silently for several seconds before saying, “I was hoping I could use the Wi-Fi. I have some emails to send that are too long to type out on my phone.”
“We do have wireless coverage,” she assured him, trying to sound business-like to make up for the personal, inappropriate, comment. She wrote down the code he would need to access the system, and then invited him to sit at one of the tables by the windows.
She returned to her desk, flipping through papers, wishing she had something pressing to occupy her time. Libby Gardener had sent another email. A more insistent email this time. Since her parents’ accident, Libby had taken a disconcerting, motherly interest in Charlotte. The day of the funeral she’d cornered her in the kitchen. “You have so much potential, dear. You should really broaden your horizons.”
Charlotte had tried to assure her mother’s old friend that she was happy with her life—just the way it was. But Libby refused to listen.
She glanced back at Dougal Lachlan, who’d taken out his laptop and was concentrating on the screen, his expression broodingly attractive. She found it difficult to resist staring at him.
At that moment he looked up, catching her gaze. “How are Chester and Cory?”
Her breath caught in her throat. How did he know...? But of course, his mother and sister would have kept him abreast of the Twisted Cedar news. “They’ve been surprisingly resilient.”
“Does Daisy ever see them?”
It pained her to admit it, but Charlotte shook her head. “No. And they’ve had more upheaval. Muriel and Jim divorced and Muriel moved to Portland. So they’ve lost their grandmother, as well.”
“And now their dad is re-marrying. How do they feel about Jamie as a stepmother?”
She wondered the same thing. “I’m not sure. I don’t see them as much as I’d like.”
She didn’t explain the reason, didn’t think it was right. The simple truth was Kyle made it difficult for her to visit her niece and nephew. She suspected he blamed her for her sister’s mental illness and subsequent disappearance. As if she hadn’t been just as deserted by Daisy as the rest of them.
“I’m surprised Jamie didn’t tell you all of this herself,” Charlotte added.
“We haven’t spoken much, lately. It’s been a busy year for me.”
“Yes. You have another book coming out this January, don’t you? Congratulations on all your success. We always have a long waiting list for your books. You have a lot of fans here in Twisted Cedars.”
And she was one. His probing, true-crime stories were impossible to put down once you’d started. But they were also undeniably creepy—as much an exploration of the soul of a murderer as tales of investigation.
She’d wondered what drew him to such brutal subject matter. But now, seeing him after all these years, she could sense the undercurrents of darkness in him—his wary eyes, tightly controlled conversation, even the cautious way he watched her, as if he couldn’t let down his guard even in front of a mild-mannered librarian.
***
Dougal found it hard to believe this plain-looking, serious-minded woman was actually Daisy Hammond’s sister. He’d recognized her. Knew she was. But still, you’d think she’d have moved past the ugly duckling stage by now.
Which was superficial of him, he supposed, but Daisy had been exceptionally beautiful, blonde and vivacious. Then he remembered that Charlotte had been adopted.
The story had come out one night when he and his friends had been drinking on the beach. Daisy always talked more when she’d had a few drinks. She’d told them all how, after she was born, her mother had to have surgery and couldn’t conceive a second time. Her parents had been so worried about her being an only child they’d chosen to adopt.
“They should have asked me, first,” Daisy had grumbled. “I liked being an only child. Even if I didn’t, who would ever want Charlotte? She’s the most ugly, boring kid around. She was scared at Disneyland for God’s sake.”
Dougal didn’t know if Daisy really meant what she said. She did sometimes come out with shocking statements, just to get attention.
But he’d felt sorry for Charlotte back then. He hoped her sister had never voiced any of these opinions to her in person.
Dougal turned his attention back to his laptop. His connection was now working, so he opened his email.
Right away he saw it. Another message from Librarianmomma.
He took a deep breath, then clicked.
And this message followed up where the other left off.
The next year Mari Beamish was murdered. There was a pattern, but don’t feel bad if you don’t see it yet. The cops never did make the connection. Those were different times, before computers and all the advances in forensics. Now you get to be the hero who pieces it all together. You can thank me later.
Dougal’s heartbeat pounded loud in his ears. He took a deep breath. Jesus. He sank back in his chair. The first murder had been real. He had no doubt that this one would be, too.
He typed the new name, Mari Beamish, into a search engine, but came up with nothing that seemed relevant. These murders had happened so long ago, the Internet was pretty much useless to him. He noticed Charlotte still watching him, though she pretended to focus on some papers on her desk. “What’s the main newspaper in Pendleton?”
She didn’t even have to think. “That would be the East Oregonian.”
“Is it possible to get a copy of some articles and an obituary that would have been printed in 1973?”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “We don’t keep copies of the East Oregonian, but I could send a request to the main library in Pendleton. I imagine they could fax me the relevant information in a day or two. What, specifically, are you looking for?”
He decided to take a leap. “Charlotte, have you ever heard about a serial murderer who targeted librarians?”
“Are you serious?” She looked appalled.
“I’m talking about a long time ago. In the seventies.”
She relaxed visibly when he mentioned the date. “You and I weren’t even born then.”
“No.”
Her brow furrowed as she thought about it. “My Aunt Shirley was Twisted Cedar’s librarian in the early seventies. I wonder if she and my parents ever knew about these deaths.”
“As far as I can tell no one connected the dots between the murders back then.”
“Is that what you’re trying to do no
w? Connect the dots?”
“So much time has passed, I’m not sure I can.”
“How many dots?”
“Four. I think.”
Her eyes widened. “No. Really?”
He was tempted to take advantage of her obvious interest, show her the emails and get her input. As a kid she’d been earnest, always trying too hard to please. But she’d also been smart, and incapable of telling a lie. His instincts told him he could trust her.
“About a week ago I received an anonymous email giving me the name of a librarian murdered in Roseburg in 1972. I’ve checked it out. It really happened. Just now I was sent a second name, another librarian, this one from Pendleton, murdered in 1973, I think.”
Charlotte shivered. “How creepy. And weird.”
“I know. Why would someone bother telling me about a series of murders that occurred almost forty years ago?”
“Maybe he—or she—was protecting someone. And maybe, that person died and now he wants to clear his conscience.”
Dougal nodded. “The emails could be from someone who worked in the library system and saw something suspicious, but was afraid to come forward until now.”
“What’s the email address of the sender?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s a Hotmail account with the name Librarianmomma—which kind of supports the theory that this person is a woman who worked at the library.”
“What if this person isn’t a witness?” A note of fear had crept into her voice. “What if she’s the killer?”
“Yes. That’s possible, too.”
“Dougal, I think you should show these emails to the police.”
“Do you really think they’d put any resources into a crime that was committed decades ago—all on the basis of a couple lousy emails?”
“You’re saying you don’t think they would?”
“I guarantee you, they wouldn’t. Crime writers are magnets for bizarre email and letters. I usually delete them unread.”
“Only in this case, you didn’t. So there must be something different about this one. I mean these two.”
She had him there. “True.” He explained about the lack of gory details, and the fact that the murdered woman had been obscure. “Usually the psychos want to confess to a really high profile crime. What they’re really after is notoriety.”
She thought about that for a moment. “So what are you going to do?”
He was enjoying this, Dougal realized. The back-and-forth with Charlotte Hammond. She made him think, questioned his assumptions. He eyed her assessingly. When he forgot about comparing her to Daisy, she was actually quite attractive.
Before he could tell her his plan—which he hadn’t figured out yet—the door opened and a man wearing a sheriff’s uniform entered. A big guy was Dougal’s first thought. A second later he recognized Wade MacKay. So his high school buddy had followed his old man into a career of law enforcement. Dougal wasn’t surprised. He stood and offered his hand.
“Hello, Wade.”
“Hey, man, you’re back.” Wade’s gaze was open, surprised, yet friendly. “I wondered if you might come to town for Jamie’s wedding.”
“Jamie and Kyle. What’s up with that?”
Wade shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to ask your sister.”
“I’d rather she was marrying anyone—even you—than that sleazy bastard.”
Wade looked embarrassed. “Actually, I’m dating Charlotte.”
“Oh.” Dougal glanced at the librarian who had started to blush. Now wasn’t that cute. He turned to Wade. “So you’re the sheriff, now? Impressive.”
“And you’re a big shot author. Living in New York City.”
Dougal nodded, cleared his throat. There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that.
Wade glanced at Charlotte before saying, “We’re going to grab a bite at the Linger Longer. Want to come along?”
“Maybe I’ll meet up with you later. I need to book into a motel, first.”
“You’re not staying with Jamie?”
He packed up his laptop, avoiding Wade’s gaze. “Oh, I figure the trailer will be a little cramped.”
Not to mention the fact that he still hadn’t called to let her know he was here.
* * *
Dougal left the library and stood for a moment on Driftwood Lane, getting his bearings. Across the road was the town square and the cedars for which the town had been named. At least a hundred years ago they’d been saplings growing too close to one another. Somehow they’d become entwined, and almost as if they’d been grafted together, had taken the appearance of one tree. Most every tourist who passed through town ended up taking a photo with that tree. But to Dougal it had always seemed grotesque. Something to avoid.
He’d parked his car on the other side of the street from the library, but rather than jay walk, he decided to stroll the length of the block to the intersection and check out the local businesses. Most had been here since he was a kid. The only changes in the pharmacy and the hardware stores were the colors they were painted and the merchandise displayed in their windows. Buttermilk Café was new, but it looked a little precious for his taste.
A few stores farther, he came to Quinpool Realty. About a dozen local listings were posted in the window. As he paused to read them over, a man exited the office. He had the sloped shoulders, sunken chest, and distended belly of an older man. It took a few seconds to realize this was Kyle’s father, Jim Quinpool.
Jim recognized him at the same moment. “Dougal Lachlan? Is that you?”
As a kid, Dougal had been in awe of Kyle’s father. He was the only person in town who owned a Mercedes Benz, and Dougal remembered the total envy he’d felt when Kyle had been dropped off at school, or football practice, by his father.
Now the older man looked worn-down by life. His grip when he shook Dougal’s hand was firm, but Dougal could tell it took an effort.
“How are you?”
“Don’t ask. Muriel and I are divorced. She’s living in Portland now.” His blue eyes appeared foggy as he stared into Dougal’s eyes. “You’d know this if you kept in touch with your sister.”
Dougal said nothing to that.
“You’re back for the wedding, I assume. Last I spoke to Jamie and Kyle, they weren’t expecting you.”
“My trip was a last minute decision.”
“Is that right?” Jim’s eyes narrowed. “I guess you can do what you want now that you’re rich and famous. My Kyle’s done good, too.” He puffed his chest a little. “Pretty much runs the business now. Let’s me keep an office so I have something to do with my time.”
“I always expected Kyle would do well.”
Rather than seem pleased, Jim gave him a suspicious look, then straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Well, better get myself home. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the rehearsal dinner on Friday.”
Dougal doubted it, but nodded anyway. He was sure Kyle and his father had ass-loads of money. His worries for his sister didn’t include financial ones.
Dougal drove the four blocks to the Ocean View Motel, which was pretty much as he remembered it. The ocean was all he could hear when he stepped out of his car. He’d been ensconced in Manhattan for so many years he’d grown unaccustomed to the sound of the sea. Now the crashing waves, the almighty noise of them, the power and the salty spray, lifted his spirits a little as he crossed the parking lot.
A gray-haired man was tearing rotten planks from the short set of stairs that led inside. Dougal recognized him right away. Amos Ward, local handyman, a jack-of-all-trades. He and his wife Stella had been like family when Dougal was growing up. Amos had also once been Dougal’s dad’s best friend. But that had been before, as Stella put it, “Edward showed his true colors.”
Amos clasped Dougal’s hand warmly, asked how life was treating him. After a brief catch-up, he went back to work, applying his weight to the crowbar and prying away another piece of the disintegrating pine. “Come over to the house some night.
I know Stella would love to see you.”
“I’ll do that.” Dougal went around the corner and found a secondary door propped open with a cement block. Inside, a curly-haired blonde smiled from behind the desk. She was a year younger than him—he remembered her from school.
“Dougal Lachlan! Is that really you?” She bubbled on for a while about how long it had been since they’d seen one another. She caught him up on the major events of her life, including marriage to a guy he vaguely remembered from the football team.
“Me and Lance bought this motel last year. We’ve hired Amos to help us fix it up a little. Sorry for the mess.”
Holly. Her name came to him mid-way through her stream of sentences.
“You must be here for your sister’s wedding. How many nights will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take an imprint of your credit card and we’ll settle up whenever you’re ready to leave. License plate number?”
She filled out the paperwork efficiently, and then passed him a key.
“It’s the nicest room. Amos just finished renovating the bathroom.”
“Thanks.” The brass key had the room number engraved on it. Not good for security reasons, but handy for the guest with a bad memory.
Holly looked at him expectantly, probably waiting for him to provide some details about his life. He just gave her a smile and a nod, then stepped outside. Checking the number on his key, again, he realized he’d been given the unit farthest from the office, which suited him just fine.
As he neared his room, a house down the beach caught his eye. The two-story home with a wrap-around porch had been white fourteen years ago. Now it was a bluish gray. It belonged to the Hammonds and he realized that Charlotte probably lived there alone now.
He wondered if she found it lonely. But then, she had Wade to keep her company. He had to give her credit for her taste in men. Unlike Kyle, Wade had rock-solid values. He was the sort of man who could sleep well at night. Hell, Kyle probably slept well, too, mainly because he was too much of a hound dog to worry about any harm he might have caused others.
Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) Page 4
