Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1)

by C. J. Carmichael

  He’d done a lot of ignoring her, too, especially as he grew older.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay in Twisted Cedars for a while. Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime.”

  His dark eyes, like always, seemed to be holding something back when he looked at her. “It’s better if we just get together for lunch every now and then.”

  “You don’t need to be jealous of him, anymore. You’re a successful author. You have no need to feel inferior to anyone.”

  “You think I’m jealous?”

  Jamie shrugged. Of course he wasn’t going to admit it. “What I meant to say is that he’s my husband now. That makes him part of your family. I think it would be nice if you could try to get along.”

  Dougal said nothing to that. He finished his sandwich, then took a long drink of the cola. “So who bought the place? Do I know them?”

  “You do. You hired her to clean out the Hammonds’ cottage before you moved in.”

  “Liz Brooks?” He looked around the double wide as if trying to imagine her living here.

  “Yeah. Apparently she likes our town and plans to stay. She’ll take over the cleaning business when Stella retires...and that day can’t come too soon for Stella. The arthritis in her knees is really killing her. Plus…losing Mom really took something out of her.”

  Dougal nodded. He finished the last of his sandwich and stood. “I should be going.”

  Jamie cleared her throat and looked away. “Um...when I was cleaning out Mom’s jewelry drawer, I found something interesting.”

  “Yeah?”

  He was out the door already. She had to run to catch up to him. “A letter. From our dad.”

  Dougal stopped in his tracks.

  “Would you like to read it?” She’d brought it along with her and now she passed it to her brother. He hesitated, but reluctantly took the pages. His jaw tightened as he read. When he was done, he pushed the pages at her.

  “This changes nothing. He was a monster.”

  “But—"

  Dougal looked at her hard. “You aren’t thinking of tracking him down are you?”

  “M-maybe...”

  “Don’t. Trust me, you’re lucky you never met him. He killed my pet kitten. Did I ever tell you about that?”

  “No.” She couldn’t take her eyes off her brother. He so rarely offered her stories from the past, she was afraid to even breathe in case he got distracted.

  “He and Mom had an argument. The poor kitten got in his way, so he just picked her up and hurled her out the window.”

  Jamie covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the cry that came instinctively.

  “I found her in the hedge.” Dougal’s gaze went to the line of old junipers that still defined the boundaries of their lot. “But she was already dead. He’d twisted her neck before he tossed her.”

  * * *

  Dougal drove from the trailer park, through town, to the highway, hands shaking, stomach in knots. He knew his sister meant well, but at that moment he was furious with his mother. Why had she kept that letter? She must have known Jamie would read it. And that she’d fall for all that sap their father had written. As if he’d ever really loved his wife. And as if he truly cared about his son.

  Thinking about his family was bloody painful. So he switched his thoughts to Charlotte.

  Making love to her on Saturday night. That had been great.

  Not so great was when she’d shut her door on him, afterward.

  Since then he’d been tempted many times to call her, but hadn’t. It seemed that every time he resolved to keep his distance, he did the very opposite.

  Thank God he was getting out of town for a while. Maybe distance would clear his head.

  But this project of his was making him crazy, too. He was all too aware that he was being manipulated by whoever was sending those emails. But to what end? He had no idea, yet something compelled him to find out as much as he could. So he kept driving north on the one-oh-one, straight to Corvallis. He arrived about four hours after he’d left Twisted Cedars, with an empty tank and an equally empty stomach.

  He filled both with one pit stop at a gas station connected to a Jack and Jill. After his burger and fries, he settled with a cup of coffee and the file he’d started on Bernice Gilberg.

  Bernice had been fifty when she was murdered, a grandmother. She’d been working as a volunteer at the library the day she was lured down to the basement and summarily strangled with a red silk scarf.

  He’d managed to track down some information on one of her grandchildren, a Derek Gilberg. After gulping down the last of his coffee, he pulled out his phone and called the guy at his work number.

  “This is Derek Gilberg,” said a soft, effeminate, yet decidedly male voice. “How may I help you?”

  Dougal introduced himself, but got no further.

  “The Dougal Lachlan? The author?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve read all your books.”

  “Well, thank you. That leads nicely into the reason for this call. I’m working on something new, a crime that occurred back in the seventies. And I was hoping I could speak to you about it.”

  There was a silence. Then, “This must have something to do with my Gran.”

  “It does.”

  “The police never found the guy who killed her.”

  “I know. I was hoping we could meet and talk about it."

  “I’m at work right now, at the Valley Library at Oregon State in Corvallis.”

  “I realize that. I’ve just arrived in town. I’m at the Jack and Jill off Highway 33. I could meet you on campus whenever it’s convenient.”

  “I have meetings all afternoon. And I’m afraid I have commitments tonight, too. Would tomorrow morning work? Around ten?”

  Dougal sighed at the delay. That’s what he got for not phoning ahead. “Sure, I can make ten.”

  “Good. Let’s meet in the quad out front of the library.”

  “Thanks.” Dougal called the Corvallis police department next, and asked to speak to the Detective he’d called earlier in the week. They made plans to go out for a beer, but the meeting yielded nothing new for Dougal’s case notes.

  He found a motel for the night and spent his evening downloading old programs of Dexter and watching them on his laptop.

  The next morning he went back to the Jack and Jill for breakfast, then used his GPS to navigate his way to the university, got directions at a campus information booth, and then drove to the library quad.

  Though it was a moderately warm day, the clouds were thick and low, and Dougal felt the weight of them as he strolled through the pleasant-looking campus. He’d never gone to college and he eyed the passing students with more than a little envy. He’d spent his early twenties working nights in a bar, crashing for a few hours in an apartment he shared with two other guys, then getting up to write until it was time to work again.

  Ahead of him he saw the Valley Library, a big, curved building with an impressive grand entrance. He sat on a low concrete ledge to wait. At precisely two-thirty a man in his forties exited the library. He was short and plump, neatly dressed with a goatee and dark-framed eye-glasses.

  “You must be Dougal Lachlan.” He held out his hand as he approached. “I recognize you from your cover jacket photo.”

  Dougal hated that picture, considered it pretentious, too artsy. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”

  “Not a problem. You’re talking about an important part of our family history. We were devastated by that tragedy.”

  Dougal nodded. There was nothing he could say to that. Thirty-eight years might sound like a lot. But murder left scars that ran deep.

  “Want to grab a coffee while we talk?” Derek asked.

  “I’ve just finished a cup, but I can always do with more.”

  Derek led him inside the university library, to the Java II coffee shop...a large, open circular area with wooden tables and chairs. They ordered their be
verages then sat in a quiet section.

  “Interesting that you chose to work in a library. Does that have anything to do with your grandmother?”

  Derek stroked his goatee and nodded. “She used to read to me when I was very young. And every week she’d take me to story circle.

  “At the public library where she volunteered, on Monroe Avenue?”

  “Yes.” He swallowed. “I was nine-years-old when she was murdered. I wasn’t told much by my parents, but I could read very well and I got all the details from the newspapers, which made a big deal of the fact that she was killed in the basement. As a result I developed a childish fear of basements, which I’m ashamed to say I haven’t totally overcome, even as an adult.”

  “She was lured down there by the murderer, wasn’t that the theory?”

  “That’s what they surmised since there was no evidence she’d struggled. Who knows what excuse he gave her to get her down there. Her duties normally wouldn’t have taken her anywhere but the children’s section, which is on the main floor.”

  Derek used the male pronoun when talking about the killer. This was to be expected, as the majority of serial killers were male. But it made Dougal realize that he, himself, had begun thinking of their killer as female. “How was your grandmother’s body discovered? It would help if you could go through the events in chronological order, if possible.”

  Derek touched his goatee again, it seemed to be a compulsion with him. “I’ll try. It happened on a Thursday. Gran’s shift was supposed to end at three in the afternoon. But when it came time for her to check out, no one could find her. Her coat and purse were still in the staff room. One of the employees began looking for her, and after checking all the obvious places, went into one of the meeting rooms in the basement, where the archives are stored. She’d been killed right there, left on the floor, with the door closed, but not locked. The medical examiner told us later that she had died less than an hour before she was found.”

  By the end of his recitation, Derek’s voice was trembling.

  “I’m sorry to make you re-live this.”

  “It’s okay. Believe me, I’ve gone over the details countless times on my own.”

  “I can imagine.” If something like this had happened to his mother or sister, he knew he’d have done the same. “I assume the police questioned all the staff members to see if they’d noticed anyone unusual in the library that afternoon?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately all sorts of people wander in and out of a library and this was before the days of video surveillance. The librarians and staff members did their best to remember, but came up with no real leads for the police to follow. Most of them admitted to being distracted at work that day anyway. There was a big library convention in town that weekend. The closing dinner was scheduled for that evening.”

  “So no suspects were identified. And I take it no physical evidence was found at the scene, either?”

  “No. Other than the red scarf. But it was a brand sold commonly in stores like JC Penny.” He shrugged, then looked at Dougal hopefully. “You haven’t told me anything about your project. Do you think you may have found the monster responsible for this?”

  “I haven’t found him or her yet, but what I do know is that your grandmother wasn’t the only victim. Three other women who worked in libraries were killed the same way. Each death was spaced about a year apart. And a red scarf was used at each death scene.”

  Derek looked astounded. “This is the first I’ve heard about a serial murderer.”

  “I can’t prove the murders were connected. It’s a theory I’m working on.”

  “The lack of a motive for the murder was the thing that drove us most crazy. Especially Gramps. We couldn’t understand why anyone would harm a kind, helpless woman like Gran.”

  “It could be that there was no reason. She was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and a very sick man did a very sick thing.”

  “You know, if that were the case, it would almost be a relief. My gramps got it in his head that she must have been living a double life. He became a very bitter man.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  Derek nodded. “He has mobility issues, so he’s in a care home. But his mind is as sharp as ever. It would be such a blessing if he could know that Gran truly was an innocent victim.”

  “Well, tell him what I’ve told you. That may help settle his mind.” But Dougal knew that what this family really needed for closure was for him to find the person responsible.

  Unfortunately he was no closer to that answer than he’d been a day ago.

  * * *

  Dougal thought about visiting Bernice Gilberg’s husband at the nursing home, but decided against it. He didn’t want to open old wounds unnecessarily and he doubted the ninety-year-old could add anything to what Derek had already told him.

  He did make a trip to the public library on Monroe Avenue, however. He toured the relevant areas, taking notes and photographs, before leaving to drive to Medford.

  One should never be in a hurry when on a research trip—that’s how important details were overlooked. But as he drove he couldn’t seem to stop craving the sanctuary of his cottage. And Charlotte.

  He wanted to go back.

  Instead, he headed to the Interstate and drove south to Medford. He took the time to tour a vineyard on the way and when he finally arrived at the city limits it was getting dark.

  Resigned to another night in a nondescript motel room, he pulled over to a lodge where he planned to spend the night writing about Bernice Gilberg while Derek’s story was fresh in his mind.

  He had spewed out twenty-three pages before he realized he was starving. Too tired to go in search of food, he checked the time and considered calling Charlotte.

  Bad idea. He went to bed instead.

  chapter twenty-five

  “you okay in there?”

  Absorbed in the job of sorting through old books for the upcoming sale, Charlotte started.

  “Sorry to scare you. Didn’t realize you were alone.” Luis, the school janitor, had a push broom in hand, probably wanted to give the gym a good sweep before the night was over. Graying, with stooped shoulders, he ought to be old enough to be retired by now. He’d been the janitor back when she’d gone to Twisted Cedars Intermediate School.

  “Just give me ten minutes to finish with this box and then I’ll be out of here.” The other volunteers had left over an hour ago. But then they had families waiting for them. All she had was an empty house and a phone that might contain some messages, but not from the right person.

  She was such an idiot. Until Dougal came back to town, she’d had no idea she had such a self-destructive streak.

  What would Ann Landers say? She’d turned down a marriage proposal from one of the finest men in town, a good friend, solid, loyal and dependable—and taken up with someone who was the exact opposite.

  Dougal never called. He didn’t take her out for dinner, give her compliments, send flowers. All he seemed to want from her was research information for his book and, occasionally, sex.

  And she willingly complied on both counts.

  Without complaining.

  On Friday night she might as well have said to him: “Sure, drag me out in the sand for some sex, then leave town without a word. I don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” Luis said. “I’ll finish up with the bathrooms down the hall and then I’ll come back.”

  “Thanks, Luis.”

  He let the door swing shut behind him and the room fell silent again. Charlotte glanced around at the tables of books, most of them full, with more boxes of books tucked under the tables ready to be pulled out for display once the others were sold.

  Tables were organized by genre. Just like at a book store, fiction was separated from non-fiction, then sub-categorized into mystery, fantasy, horror, literary fiction, bestsellers, beach reads...and so on. Based on the quantity and quality of the donations, she foresaw that they would make more than the
y had last year.

  She turned her attention back to the box in front of her, which contained the books she and Dougal had salvaged from her aunt’s cottage. She set them out on the table for mysteries, placing them wherever she could find room. Though volunteers were asked to make their best effort to categorize books by genre and sub-genre, they did not organize within those categories. They simply didn’t have time. Besides, rummaging through a random bunch of mysteries, looking for unexpected treasures, was part of the fun.

  As she pulled out the last book, Charlotte realized it was in the wrong genre. The Scarlett Letter ought to be included in classics. Looking closer at the old book, she noticed something had been tucked between the pages. It was a letter, in an opened envelope.

  The envelope—postmarked from Portland and addressed to Shirley Hammond at her Twisted Cedars address—had been torn open on the side. Charlotte pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter, dated in the spring of 1972, was typed. The return address was from a private adoption agency.

  “We are very sorry to inform you that our premises were recently broken into and the files containing information about our adoptions for the period of September to November 1950 were stolen. We assume they were taken by an adopted child attempting to circumvent the confidential terms of adoption in order to find his or her mother.

  “Our agency conducted nine adoptions during this period, including yours, and so we felt it only correct to contact you and warn you that you may be approached in the near future by someone claiming to be your birth child.

  “In this event...”

  The letter went on with some vague advice and an apology which Charlotte skimmed over. The important information, to her mind, was in those first three paragraphs.

  She had never heard her parents mention anything about Aunt Shirley having had a child and given it up for adoption. But why would they? The baby had been born decades before either she or Daisy. And it would hardly have been fodder for conversation in any case. In the 1950s pregnant teenagers—because Shirley would have been only sixteen in 1950—were considered a source of shame and disgrace.