forgotten (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 2)

by CJ Carmichael

  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.”

  chapter fourteen

  what 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 n
ow. “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.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” He indicated one of the wicker chairs on the porch. “I’ll be right back.” He grabbed two lagers from the fridge, not bothering with any glasses. Back outside he twisted the top off hers first, then his own.

  What the hell were they going to talk about?

  “Where did you say you moved here from again, Liz?”

  She’d taken her hair out of the ponytail she’d been wearing while she worked, and her brown curls were everywhere. She pushed them off her forehead, which he could see was damp with sweat.

  “I never said. I’ve moved around a lot.”

  “In Oregon, though?”

  “Yup. It was just me and my Mom. She’s a coke addict. Living on the streets in Portland, last I saw her.” She raised her chin as she said this, daring him to feel sorry for her.

  He recognized the bravado. And respected it.

  His childhood must have been a picnic compared to hers. They’d been poor, and his mother had had a habit he detested of indulging in one-night stands with men who weren’t good enough to hold a door open for her. But his mom had been kind, never raised her voice or a hand at him, though God knows he’d given her provocation.

  And while it had only been a trailer, she’d kept a roof over their heads. And meals on the table.

  “Liking Twisted Cedars so far?”

  “It’s as good as anywhere else. First time I’ve cleaned houses for a living. I like it. Never did care for having a boss look over my shoulder.”

  He’d never thought someone could enjoy cleaning houses for a living. He’d always assumed his mother didn’t. But she hadn’t complained about going to work, ever, that he could remember.

  Could it be his mother had enjoyed the job, too?

  He liked to think it might have been true.

  “But don’t you get clients who blame you for breaking stuff you know you didn’t? Or fussing about how you missed dusting the top shelf of the china cabinet?”

  Liz shrugged. “Those kind of people are easy to handle. It’s just a power play. I do a good job and I let them know I won’t put up with that shit.”

  He laughed. “Good for you.”

  She looked a little embarrassed then. She set down the beer bottle, started to get up, then settled back down. “A lot of my clients still talk about your Mom. They really cared about her.”

  Dougal’s throat closed up. He still had a hard time admitting to himself she was really gone.

  When he’d found out his
mom had cancer, that she was going to die, he’d taken her and Jamie on a trip to Hawaii. That was the last time he’d seen her. He hadn’t been able to face going home for his mother’s last awful month. Then he’d skipped the funeral, because why the hell would he come home for that, when he hadn’t been here to say good-bye?

  Dougal pressed the cool beer bottle up to his forehead. “Mom was special. She didn’t deserve a shit son like me.”

  “You loved her. That’s something.”

  True. But had she known? He’d never said it.

  “She knew.” Liz set down her unfinished beer, then grabbed the buckets. “I better get going. Mayor’s house is next.”

  He went to help her with the supplies, but she waved him off. “It’s easier when I’m balanced.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I try to, whenever I can.” She gave him a salute as she drove off with her windows down and rock music blaring.

  chapter fifteen

  at six-thirty, silver-haired Ben Mason stopped by Jamie’s office. He was the elder of the partners, with a courtly, elegant manner about him.

  “Still here? It’s a beautiful night. I’m off to play a round of golf. We have an opening if you’d like to join us?”

  It was Ben’s contention that a solid golf game was important to build client relations. “One of these days I’ll take you up on that, Ben. But I’m meeting someone in forty minutes.”

  She lowered her gaze to the file in her hands. She shouldn’t have to hide the fact that she was having dinner with Kyle. But she suspected Ben would disapprove.

  “That’s too bad. See you in the morning, then.” He hesitated before adding, “Sure is nice to have you back.”

  “Thank you.” It was good to hear, that was for sure.

  Ten minutes later, Jamie was on her way to Brookings to meet Kyle far away from the prying eyes of their family, friends and neighbors. She’d suggested a family-style restaurant just off the highway, knowing the bright lighting and cheerful wait staff would make her feel safe.

  Not that she was afraid of Kyle. She wasn’t. But it couldn’t hurt to be extra cautious.

  She asked for a table near the window, so she could enjoy the ocean view as she waited. She was fifteen minutes early and Kyle typically ran late, so it might be a while. She ordered a glass of pinot noir, and had to resist the urge to guzzle it when it arrived.