Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

“Hey, beautiful. I have something for you.” He set Cory’s bags in the trunk of her car, then took her hands and led her around the back of the house. Cory stayed behind with her grandmother, grinning, obviously in on the plan.

In the backyard, shielded behind a cedar hedge, Kyle kissed her again, then took a blue box from his back pocket. Holding her breath, she opened it…and let out a gasp when she saw the diamond necklace.

“It’s stunning.”

He placed it around her neck, fastened the clasp. “You’ll wear it today?”

She had planned to wear an old necklace of her mother’s. It was vintage and lovely, but not nearly as valuable as this. “Of course, I will.”

“I love you, Jamie.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

At ten minutes past four, Jamie was in the Church vestibule with Cory, missing her mother and trying not to cry.

Not until this moment had she realized she’d been counting on Dougal to pull through in the end. A tap sounded on the door and Stella Ward walked in, dressed in her best floral dress. “Are you ready?”

Jamie nodded. In the absence of her brother, she’d asked Stella to walk her down the aisle. “Dougal still hasn’t shown up?”

“Afraid not, honey.” Stella used a cotton handkerchief to dab away Jamie’s tears. “Your mother was my best friend. I know you must be thinking of her today. Wishing she could be here. But since she can’t—I’m very honored you asked me to take her place.”

Jamie nodded, so grateful to the other woman but still unable to speak. Stella crouched to Cory’s level. “Sweetie, you look beautiful. Are you ready?”

Cory nodded, her eyes huge. Today the little girl shone. Her hair had been curled, styled and decorated with tiny daisies. The dress Stella had made for her was pink satin perfection.

“Okay. Smile big ladies. This is show time.”

* * *

Wade figured he was the only one in the room looking at Kyle, and not Jamie, as the bride walked down the aisle. Seemed like most of his life he’d been trying to fight his attraction to Jamie Lachlan. First because she was too young, not to mention the sister of one of his best friends. After that there had been years when he’d lived away from Twisted Cedars. He’d only just returned to make his run for the Sheriff’s job, when Jamie had suddenly started dating Kyle.

If he’d ever had an opportunity with her, he’d missed it.

And it wasn’t right for him to regret that. Not when he had Charlotte Hammond by his side. She was one of several who had let out a sigh when they caught their first glance of Jamie. Wade didn’t doubt she was making a beautiful bride.

But for him it was safer to focus on the groom. And so far, Kyle was spending more time scanning the room than looking at Jamie.

Wade didn’t care what he was looking for. The point was, in this moment, Jamie deserved to be the only thing Kyle was thinking about. The trouble with Kyle, however, was that most of the time he was thinking of only himself.

Wade shifted his weight, then glanced at Jim Quinpool. The groom’s father looked more worried than happy. And Muriel, his ex-wife, appeared downright anxious. He’d heard the two of them could no longer abide being in the same room. Apparently that was true. Standing between them was their grandson, Chester. One thing was for sure. He wasn’t as happy about this wedding as his sister. Cory’s face glowed as she joined her father at the front of the church.

And then, Jamie was there, too.

All Wade could see was her back, and then, when she turned to face Kyle, her profile. God, she was lovely. Quickly, he averted his gaze toward Charlotte, who gave him her usual calm, sweet smile. He smiled back, patted his jacket pocket, and told himself to relax.

* * *

The evening was almost over. Charlotte felt that Jamie and Kyle would consider their wedding a success. The reception had progressed smoothly. Hardly anyone had noticed when Muriel Quinpool slipped out of the receiving line. She’d surprised Charlotte by seeking her out.

“How are you doing, dear?”

Slightly puzzled, Charlotte had said, “I’m fine, thank-you. How are you enjoying living in Portland?”

Muriel hadn’t answered. She’d taken hold of Charlotte’s arm, gripping it tightly. Her face looked sad. Troubled. She took a breath, seemed about to say something, then shook her head.

A moment later, she slipped out of the Rogue River Country Club, without saying good-bye to anyone, without so much as a single backward glance.

Her ex-husband was the only other person who had noticed her departure as far as Charlotte could tell. Jim’s jaw had tightened. For a moment Charlotte thought he would follow his ex-wife. But he’d turned resolutely from the door and headed to the bar, instead.

Now he was drunk, sitting quietly at the table that had been reserved for him and other assorted Quinpool relatives.

Charlotte was thankful that she and Wade, despite her official Quinpool family status, had been seated with friends they knew well. For them the evening had passed pleasantly and just moments ago, when the band began playing a slower, more romantic set, Wade had asked her to dance.

Now, as Jamie made her way to the microphone—presumably to toss the bouquet—he guided her to the far end of the room, where a patio door was open to the outside terrace. Thanks to a cool wind, they had the place to themselves.

Wade wrapped his arms around her waist. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she lied, because she suspected that Wade needed a little distance from the wedding proceedings. On the whole, he had held up well, she thought. If she hadn’t known how he felt about Jamie, she never would have guessed based on his behavior tonight.

“I wanted a minute alone with you,” he said.

“Oh?” She glanced up, studied his eyes. He looked very serious. Very intent.

“You deserve better than me.” As he spoke, he let go of her with one hand and pulled something from the pocket he’d been guarding all night.

And then she knew.

Her heart began to pound. She felt the same dizzy fear that accompanied her usual panic attacks. No, she told herself. Not now. She took a deep breath and held it while she counted slowly to five.

Wade took hold of her left hand, slipped down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”

Oh my God. It was the most perfect marriage proposal. And just at that moment, a full moon broke out from the clouds, as if part of the script.

“Wade.”

He was standing again, showing her the ring, and it was beautiful. The diamond, at least a carat, twinkled enticingly from its velvet nest, but it had nothing on the man who held it. Wade was the best man Charlotte had ever known. He was solid, dependable, not afraid to do the right thing. If she married him, he would be her pillar and, for a woman who was afraid of almost everything in the world, that was an incredible enticement.

the day of his sister’s
wedding, Dougal was restless, unable to focus on anything, knowing his sister was making the worst mistake of her life. He had no appetite for dinner. Instead, he tried to settle down with one of Shirley Hammond’s books, and failed.

He glanced at the clock, which was working again. The ceremony would have been over hours ago. Now they were probably dancing and making speeches.

He should be there
.

Dougal went to the kitchen table, hoping to distract himself.

This was his new makeshift office. He’d put away the place mats and salt and pepper shakers, making room for his lap top and printer. His notes were strewn here, too. A study in disorganization.

Like his thoughts.

He laid out the printed copies of the emails he had received so far.

You don’t know me. But you should. I’ve got a story that will be the best of your career. Back in the seventies four women were killed. Librarians. No one ever solved the cases. But I know what happened. Ever hear of Elva Mae Ayer? She was the first. Check it out then let me know if you want the names of the others. I am here and willing to help.

Then the second:
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
.

It had been a week since the last message. He wondered when the next one would come. According to that first message, there had been two other women killed and he had no way to identify them. He supposed he could search death records—but from where? So far the murders had taken place in small cities in Oregon. But the pattern—if there indeed was one—was still very unclear.

He wished Charlotte was here to talk to about this.

But he hadn’t seen her since his official moving day. Liz had done a great job of cleaning up the place, though he’d been relieved when she’d finally left. He’d caught her looking at him in the oddest way several times and it had made him uneasy. But he couldn’t fault the job she’d done.

Even Charlotte had approved. “The place even smells clean,” she’d said.

She’d arrived in a sporty ’97 BMW—not the car he’d pictured her driving, not by a long shot—wearing faded jeans that molded to curves librarians weren’t supposed to have.

He’d helped her box up her aunt’s clothing and personal items.

“Want me to clear out the bookshelves, too?” she’d asked.

“Not unless you want the books.” He’d already checked the titles: a complete collection of Sherlock Holmes mysteries as well as over twenty Agatha Christies—some featuring Poirot, some Miss Marples and even a couple with Tommy and Tuppence.

“Your aunt liked her mysteries.”

“It runs in the family,” Charlotte had replied, her voice muffled since she was in the closet. She’d emerged with her arms full of coats, which she stuffed into one of the boxes. “What do you like to read? True crime?”

“Not so much. Thrillers, horror...Stephen King is probably my favorite author.”

“Have you ever considered writing fiction?”

“That’s what I started out to do.” But then he’d met an attractive woman at a bar one night. She turned out to be a New York prosecuting attorney who’d just finished working on a horrific case involving a serial rapist. They’d talked for hours, and at the end of the evening, he’d realized he’d found a story that needed to be told.

“Maybe you’ll get back to fiction one day,” Charlotte had said.

Dougal looked down at the messages, again, wondering if she was right. Maybe he should just throw these away, and start a new project. Fiction this time.

Hadn’t he had enough of reality to last him a lifetime?

But there had to be some reason these messages were being sent now...and to him. He knew he ought to be appalled at being the pen pal of someone who was either the killer, or guilty of withholding evidence for so many years. But the truth was, every time he’d received one of the messages, he’d felt a sick shiver of excitement.

* * *

Dougal was too ramped up to sleep, or even to write. He needed to blow off some energy. Because it was too dark to walk in the woods, he decided to drive to town. He parked his car at the wharf. Doris’s Fish Shack was locked up for the night. Several local boats were tied at the dock.

For some reason he found himself thinking of his mother. He knew he hadn’t fully accepted the fact that he would never hear her voice again, see her smile, feel her small arms wrap around him in a hug. The holiday in Hawaii had been the best he could do for her. But it had left him with memories that felt out of kilter. The last place he saw her should have been in the trailer, or the hospice where she had died.

Not sipping Mai Tai’s at the Hula Grill at Whaler’s Wharf.

Dougal removed his shoes and ambled out to the sand, heading north, his thoughts swirling, his heart aching. So much had gone wrong in life for his mother. Most of her problems stemmed from her weakness for picking the wrong men. And now his sister had married Kyle. He’d known he couldn’t talk her out of it. Why had he bothered to try? He’d only succeeded in creating a rift that might never be mended.

Was it possible she was right about Kyle? That the guy had changed? He so wanted to believe it was possible.

But people didn’t change in Dougal’s experience. Selfish bastards didn’t turn into thoughtful husbands.

Nor did violent murderers become respectable citizens.

A single light from the Ocean View Motel was visible in front of him. He wondered if pretty Holly Williams was working the desk this late. Beyond that he spotted Charlotte Hammond’s porch light. He supposed she would have gone to his sister’s wedding. Possibly she was still there.

But a few minutes later, when he saw someone walking toward him, he realized if Charlotte had gone to the wedding, she was home now, out on the beach, moving silently in his direction.

Last time he’d given her space. But tonight he kept going. Charlotte Hammond intrigued him. So bookish, proper, and reserved...the perfect small-town librarian. But there was untapped depth in her cool, gray eyes. And these midnight strolls of hers spoke of a restless longing he understood all too well.

She was wearing a dress that fell to her knees. The wind blew the silky fabric tightly to the left side of her body, molding into the curve of her hip and the length of her thigh.

The outfits she wore to work were pure camouflage. He remembered how sexy she had looked in her jeans. While checking out a few titles in her aunt’s collection, she’d slipped on a pair of glasses that had sat on her nose in a most adorable fashion. He’d never thought glasses could be cute. But on Charlotte, they were.

“Dougal.” Charlotte was the first to speak, and clearly she’d recognized him, too. “Are you all right?”

It struck him as very sweet that she asked him that. And as soon as he’d had a minute to consider the question, he realized he wasn’t.

So he didn’t answer.

“How was the wedding?”

“It went over very well. Your sister looked happy.”

“And Kyle? How did he look?”

She said nothing, at first. Then, “Very pleased.”