Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1)

by C. J. Carmichael

  She forced another bite of the trout into her mouth. But oddly, now that she’d finally engaged Dougal in a conversation, she was no longer interested in food.

  * * *

  After dinner they got into Dougal’s car and Charlotte gave instructions to the cottage. He asked her questions about the place, while keeping his eyes on the road. Had she considered how much rent she was going to charge? What about utilities? And a damage deposit?

  Charlotte replied, giving little thought to her answers. She felt...flustered. A little embarrassed at having initiated such an intimate conversation earlier. And a little aroused, too. Why should dark, moody Dougal Lachlan have this effect on her?

  The man was such a puzzle.

  After practically flirting with her in the restaurant, he was now distant again, frowning as they entered deeper into the forest. Thanks to the long summer days, it wasn’t yet dark, and she was glad of that as she kept on the lookout for the forestry road. The sign was small and easy to miss.

  “The turn is up ahead.”

  He slowed, not bothering with the turn signal since they hadn’t passed a single car since they’d left town.

  It was another two miles down the forestry road before they reached the cottage. The cedar A-frame was tucked into the woods, and as soon as she stepped from the car, Charlotte felt a chill.

  “You have the key?” Dougal asked.

  She passed it to him. He seemed happier now that they were here, almost excited as he fitted the old brass key into the lock and opened the door. She tried to follow but he firmly held her back.

  “Let me go first. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Who knows what critters might have taken refuge in here over the years.”

  She cringed, then nodded and let him go.

  After a few moments, he gave the all clear. He’d turned on the switch for the main light and she was relieved when it went on, since she’d only called to have services renewed that afternoon. The inside of the place wasn’t nearly as dirty as she’d expected. The furniture had been covered with old sheets which held a layer of grime, and sure there were some cobwebs in the corners, but all-in-all it wasn’t bad.

  Dougal took a few steps forward toward the kitchen, setting dust motes dancing in the air. “It’s just like I remember it.”

  “It’s pretty dark in here. Even with the lights on.”

  “The windows need cleaning.”

  She sneezed. “And it’s awfully small.”

  “You should see my apartment.”

  The chances of her ever being in New York City, let alone being invited to his apartment, were next to zero. Yet Charlotte, who hated travel, couldn’t help wondering what his home would be like.

  Sophisticated, she imagined. Leather furniture in the living area and granite countertops in the kitchen. Not shabby and make-shift like this cottage. The main floor plan was open with a pine table dividing the space between the kitchen and sitting area. A stone fireplace dominated the wall to the right, and in the far corner a set of stairs led to the loft.

  Dougal opened a door behind the kitchen, revealing a turquoise-colored toilet, sink and tub.

  Charlotte sneezed again. “Did you ask Stella if she would clean it for you?”

  “Her new partner, Liz Brooks, said she could squeeze the cabin into her schedule tomorrow.”

  “So you still want to rent it?”

  “It’s not in bad shape, if you look beyond the dirt.”

  She opened a closet door and found several coats, pairs of boots and a large umbrella. “I didn’t realize my aunt’s things would still be here.”

  Dougal checked some of the kitchen cupboards. “Yup. Dishes, and everything. This is great.” He opened the fridge. “This has been cleaned out, thankfully.”

  “Sure are lots of books.” The case in the living room was stuffed. There were also stacks on the coffee table and windowsills.

  “Is your house like this?” Dougal asked, picking up a book on growing on your own vegetables that looked well-thumbed through.

  “Aunt Shirley wasn’t that old. And yes, I suppose my house has lots of books, too. But they’re mostly in shelving units.”

  “I kind of like the look. Makes the place feel like home.”

  Her eyes were drawn to a tall cabinet beside the fireplace. On one shelf, a clock, stopped at twelve minutes after four. How long had it ticked on, marking out hours and days after the death of her aunt, before finally giving up?

  Below the clock was a collection of Dresden figurines, and on the next shelf down were four snow globes from various cities in Oregon. The tacky souvenirs seemed at odds with the other contents of the cabinet and Charlotte wondered why her aunt had bothered to keep them.

  She moved from the living room to the bathroom, where she found the cabinets full of forty-year-old drug store products. She’d never known her aunt, but she felt oddly touched to see the blue bottle of Noxzema crème. The container was almost empty, and yet it was a cruel reminder that something as inconsequential as beauty lotion could outlive a human being.

  Leaving the bathroom, she followed Dougal up the stairs to the bedroom. “You say you like the ‘lived-in’ feeling, but just the same, I’ll bring over some boxes and get rid of the clothing and personal items, at least.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any effort. You’re doing me a favor, after all, letting me rent this place.”

  “Our family should have cleared Aunt Shirley’s stuff out years ago.” She and Dougal removed the cloth covering the double bed and found a violet-patterned quilt with matching pillow shams. It looked so prim and proper. Hard to believe her sister and Kyle had made out here when they were younger. Daisy had taken pains to make the room look tidy, afterward.

  Charlotte ran a finger over a book on the nightstand. And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. A bookmark was positioned about half-way through the novel.

  “She didn’t finish her book. I’ve always thought that as long as there were books left to read, life would always be worth living.”

  “I guess in your Aunt Shirley’s case books weren’t enough.”

  She tensed. “Who told you?”

  “Stella.”

  She let out a long breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t, when you asked. Habit, I guess.”

  Dougal moved to the bureau where he picked up a picture frame and cleared away the grime with his sleeve. She came up beside him to see the photo. Her mother, Shirley, and another woman stood together in what looked like a library.

  “Do you know these people?”

  “That’s my Mom in the light-colored suit. My aunt is wearing the flowered dress with the red scarf. I’m not sure about the third woman.” She took a closer look. “Maybe Libby Gardner. The three of them used to go to Library Conventions together. Maybe this was taken at one of them.” She reached for the frame. “I’ll take it with me. I don’t have many pictures of my aunt.”

  Dougal stared at the photo for a few more seconds before passing it over.

  chapter ten

  back at Kyle’s, Jamie helped Cory hang her dress in her closet. There was plenty of room, as most of the little girl’s clothes were in a scramble on the floor.

  “Are these clean or dirty?” she asked, picking up a T-shirt and giving it a once-over.

  “Clean. My hamper is over there.” Cory pointed to a plastic laundry basket, full to the brim. “Mrs. Stella washes them when she comes to clean the house. I’m supposed to put them away, but sometimes I just...” she sighed, and shot Jamie a guilty look. “Chester’s room is even messier,” she defended herself, but seemed to regret admitting it. “We’ll probably get neater as we get older. Our birthday is in October.”

  “Relax, honey. This is not a big deal.” Jamie put the T-shirt into a drawer and smiled. “Let’s find your dad. Maybe we can have a snack before your bedtime.”

  When they’d walked in ten minutes ago, Kyle had been on the phone in the room he
used for an office. Through the glass panes of the French door, she saw him hold up a finger indicating he needed a few more minutes to resolve whatever problem was making him frown so intently.

  Chester had been sitting at the computer in the kitchen and had barely acknowledged their arrival. While his sister was always eager to spend time with Jamie, and even more anxious to please, her twin brother was exactly the opposite—aloof to the point of rudeness.

  Jamie didn’t push, trusting that with time, and patient kindness on her part, she would eventually win him over.

  Cory followed her to the kitchen—a large room with good bones but outdated cabinets and appliances. One day, a complete renovation would be in order, but for now the luxury of all this space—compared to the cramped trailer—was enough for Jamie. She put her hands on her hips and turned to the children.

  “So, what should we have for a snack? What does your dad usually make for you?”

  “Um...” Cory looked blankly at her brother.

  “I’m not hungry.” Chester didn’t even look up from the computer game he was playing.

  Jamie opened the pantry door, marveling at all the cabinet space. “What about popcorn?”

  “Yes! I can help.” Cory took a bag out of the package, placed it in the microwave, and punched in the appropriate number of minutes with the confidence of one who had done this many times.

  Jamie opened the fridge, looking for something to drink. Looking past the beer, she saw milk and juice. She offered both to the kids, but only Cory answered.

  “Apple juice, please.”

  Jamie thought Chester might relent and join them once the delicious aroma of popcorn and butter filled the kitchen, but he kept his back to them as she and Cory poured the paper bag contents into a big bowl. Cory sat beside her at the kitchen table, and they were just dipping their fingers in for their first taste when Kyle finally appeared.

  “Sorry, honey. That was my mom.” He gave her a light kiss, then headed to the fridge, where he popped open a Bud. “Want one?”

  She shook her head, no. “When is she arriving?” Kyle had already warned her that his mother wouldn’t stay long. His parents’ divorce had been a brutal one, and Twisted Cedars wasn’t big enough to hold both Jim and Muriel Quinpool for long.

  Jamie had no idea what had caused such a massive rift between a couple that had been married—apparently quite happily—for almost forty years. She’d heard some gossip, all pure speculation as far as she could tell, that Jim had done something shady in his business dealings and Muriel didn’t approve. The few times the topic had come up with Kyle, he’d been quick to change the subject. She supposed that even for adults, the divorce of parents was a painful event.

  And the divorce had been difficult for him in more practical ways as well. Muriel and Jim had been living with Kyle and the kids since Daisy left with Muriel taking care of the twins while Kyle and Jim worked. She’d also prepared the meals and done the laundry. With her abrupt departure, Jim had moved back to their old house and Kyle had found himself a single parent.

  “Mom doesn’t think she can attend the rehearsal dinner on Friday.”

  Even Chester looked up at that announcement. “Why not?”

  When his father didn’t answer, Jamie asked, “But she will be here for the wedding, right?”

  Kyle took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nodded. “She offered to stay with the kids that night if we wanted to book into a hotel or something.”

  “That would be wonderful.” Jamie was fine with postponing their honeymoon until the kids were both in summer camp, but it would be nice to have privacy on their wedding night.

  “What do you think, kids? Would you like to have grandma to yourself for a night?”

  After a brief hesitation, Chester said, “Sure.”

  “Grandpa wouldn’t come, too, would he?”

  Kyle seemed annoyed by Cory’s question. “No. They’re divorced.” He turned to Jamie, with a rueful smile that brought out the dimple in his left cheek. “I’ve explained it to her so many times. She just doesn’t seem to get that divorce is forever.”

  Now wasn’t that a slogan for a greeting card, Jamie thought cynically.

  “Average divorce rates are going down in America,” Chester announced, his eyes still on the computer graphics in front of him. “But the rates for older couples—and second marriages—are higher.”

  Ouch. What was with that dig about second marriages? Jamie glanced at Kyle but he didn’t seem perturbed by Chester’s dire statistics.

  * * *

  “Sorry about Chester.” Kyle had his arm around Jamie’s back. They were on the porch swing, having tucked the twins into their respective beds. “He’s always spouting statistics these days. Too much time spent on the Internet, I guess.”

  “Do you think he’s right? About the divorce rate being higher for second marriages?”

  “This is your first marriage.” Kyle touched the tip of her nose, his grin endearing. “Besides, I think what we’ve got going for us is worth betting on.”

  Jamie reached her left hand up and grasped his palm tightly. “No cold feet?”

  “God, no. You?”

  She shook her head. Smiled. “I can’t wait to be your wife. Only eight more sleeps.”

  That was what Cory had said to her, when Jamie had pulled the light duvet up to her chin. Cory’s hair, even more fair than her brother’s, was in neat braids and her blue eyes had looked so large as she whispered, eight more sleeps.

  Jamie didn’t think she’d been a part of Cory’s life for long enough for her to truly be so attached to her. More likely, she simply craved a mother replacement. She’d lost her own when she was so very young. Then her grandmother had moved away. That was a lot of loss for one so young.

  At least Kyle’s children had a father they could count on. Until her mother had passed away, Jamie had never really missed having a dad. Now, she found herself thinking about him often. Thinking and wondering.

  Unfortunately, there was no one to ask for more information. Her mother had always discouraged questions. All she’d said was that they were better off without him.

  Perhaps they were. But it still felt wrong to Jamie, to live her whole life, and never meet the man who was responsible for her being here in the first place.

  chapter eleven

  saturday morning Dougal tossed his luggage into his trunk, then went to settle the bill with the manager. Holly gave him a cheeky smile. “You leaving town before the wedding?”

  “No. I’m not leaving.” Not that the wedding had anything to do with it. He’d phoned Monty last night to see if keeping Borden for a few extra weeks would be a problem. The older guy had assured him they were getting along well and he should stay as long as he needed. “I’m moving into the Librarian Cottage.”

  “The one on Forestry Road?” Holly looked at Dougal like he was crazy. “That place must be run down to the ground by now.”

  “Charlotte Hammond and I checked it out last night. It’s not that bad. It’ll be a good place for me to work. Nice and quiet.” The place was more than not bad, in his opinion. It was damn perfect. He’d known the second he stepped inside that he wanted to live there.

  Seeing that picture of Shirley wearing the red scarf had cinched matters. He couldn’t believe it was a coincidence. Both of the librarians who had been murdered back in the seventies had been strangled by a red silk scarf. The women had to be linked in some way, beyond their jobs as librarians.

  “Hope you’re not afraid of ghosts. Last person to live there was Shirley Hammond.” Holly leaned across the counter, lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know she hung herself?”

  In an equally quiet voice he responded, “I heard about that.”

  “I know it happened a long time ago. But I always thought it was quite a mystery.”

  Dougal checked the total on the Visa receipt before signing. “It’s always difficult to understand why someone chooses to take their
own life.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I guess she had her reasons. But why’d she hang herself at the library? Seemed like her isolated cottage would have been a better location.”

  * * *

  Dougal had arranged to meet Liz Brooks at the cottage at ten o’clock. That left him forty-five minutes to grab some breakfast. Rather than head for one of the cafés on Driftwood Lane, he drove to the trailer park on the eastern edge of town. He stopped his car out front of the doublewide where he’d grown up.

  He stared at the door, remembering all the times he’d seen his mother standing there—calling out for him and Jamie to come in for dinner. He could also picture her at the mailbox, hand on one hip, frowning at the bills. And watering the geraniums she always planted in the front window box. Red blooms flowered there now. Jamie must have kept up the tradition.

  For some reason Jamie never minded growing up dirt poor the way they had. She’d laughed off taunts about living in a trailer and wearing cast-off clothing. He had always admired, and slightly envied, his sister’s sunny attitude. He’d tried his best to adopt it.

  But he’d hated feeling different—inferior. It wasn’t just that they were poor. But his father was bad. Evil. Dougal had been sixteen when his father had gone to jail for killing his second wife. He’d seen the looks in the eyes of his teachers and the parents of the other kids at school. He’d known what they were thinking.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  He couldn’t wait to finish with school so he could leave this place.

  But the trailer, itself, wasn’t as awful as he remembered. Terra cotta flowerpots flanked the door. The mailbox had been painted and new curtains hung in the windows. The aluminum siding was clean, too. Maybe Jamie had spruced the place up hoping to get a higher asking price.

  Quinpool Realty had posted a “For Sale” sign on the lot. Dougal had an odd impulse to knock it down.

  Much as he had hated this place, it was weird to think it would soon belong to a stranger.