Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

“I’ll just bet.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets and stared out at the sea. Talking about things that never change... He turned back to Charlotte. Something glinted on her face. Tears. “What’s wrong?”

Now it was her turn to look out at the ocean. He moved closer to her, close enough to smell the perfume she’d put on for the wedding. She’d taken some effort to look nice. Her hair was curled and she was wearing make-up. Or
had
been wearing make-up. Now black smudges were under both of her eyes.

Normally he avoided situations involving overwrought emotions, but it felt natural to put an arm around her shoulder. She pressed her body into his, and that felt natural, too.

He found himself using his thumb to swipe at the black streaks. Her cheeks really were wet. He pulled her face to his chest. She sighed and relaxed for a moment. He put an arm around her waist. Brushed his hand over her hair.

One second he was feeling protective and concerned. The next moment, aroused. When she looked up at him with her streaky, sad face the most natural thing of all was to kiss her.

Charlotte reacted instantly, as if this had been her intention all along, though he doubted that was the case. God, the librarian could kiss. She clung to him and together they were sinking, him to the earth, and her onto him.

His fingers wove through her hair as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. He kissed everywhere, and then he turned to her body, hands sliding under her silky dress, to discover skin that was just as satin-soft.

Clothes half-on, they made love, pausing only to use the protection Dougal carried out of habit. He was shocked at how quickly the pleasure built, drowning out every bit of common sense in his brain. Charlotte was above him, hands planted on his chest, her hair wild in the wind, her expression lost to the needs of her body.

She collapsed on him when it was over. He wrapped his arms tightly around her to shield her from the cold, and then gently rolled until she was beside him. Gradually their breathing slowed, but neither said a word and he relished the extended silence. Only the surf was speaking, and it was enough.

He could have stayed there, with her, all night long. But this was Oregon, and even in June, it was cold.

He pulled back a little so he could see her face. “Let me walk you home.”

She nodded, suddenly shivering as she stood, pulling her dress back into position. He picked up her underwear, passed them to her. Zipped his jeans.

In the moment, everything had seemed perfect and right. But now, as so often happened after love-making, it was different. Now he didn’t know why he had given in to his desire so quickly and easily. She wasn’t the sort of woman he usually picked for his one-nighters. And yet, he wasn’t interested in starting a relationship, either. He didn’t know whether to apologize or what.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Now.” She smiled.

“But you were crying, earlier.”

She hesitated, then she said, “Wade asked me to marry him.”

That was a shock. “Considering what just happened here, I hope you said no.”

She gave a short laugh. “I did.”

More questions begged to be asked. Why had she said no? Did she think she might change her mind? But she didn’t seem to want to talk any more. They made their way up the path that led to her house. She’d left the back light burning, the door unlocked. Before slipping inside, she paused, and he used that opportunity to kiss her good-bye.

kyle had a friend
with a vacation home thirty miles south on the one-oh-one. That was where they spent their wedding night. The house was on a private cove, with an ocean view and all the amenities including an outdoor hot tub. Kyle had arranged for the delivery of a dozen roses and a bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold champagne.

It was one in the morning by the time they arrived. Jamie kicked off her heels and headed straight for the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. It was too dark to see much, but even with the windows closed, she could hear the roar of the tide coming in.

Kyle opened the champagne, brought her a glass. “Mrs. Quinpool?”

The bubbles slid down her throat, effervescent with hope. She leaned on Kyle, they kissed.

“Upstairs?”

She nodded.

They made love on the king-sized bed—windows open to the salty air, the thundering ocean. They had made love before, but with his children and their work schedules, opportunities to be truly alone had been rare.

She loved having him all to herself. And waking up with him by her side the next morning was almost the best part. She’d rarely seen him with stubble. She touched the coarse hairs on his chin, his upper lip, his chin, again. His eyes opened.

“I need a shower.”

She laughed, put her arms around him. “Not yet, you don’t.”

Sadly, they only had a few more hours to themselves before they had to head back to Twisted Cedars. Muriel wanted to be on the road before dark. Jamie had invited her to stay a few extra days, but the prospect had seemed to make her nervous.

So she and Kyle would just have to make the most of the little time they had.

* * *

Waking at dawn, Charlotte felt disoriented. Had last night really happened?

It must have, or else she would be in her bed. But she wasn’t. She was sitting in her father’s favorite chair, dressed in a robe, a bottle of scotch and a glass on the table beside her. Her head ached. Her stomach was queasy.

She got up slowly, made her way to the bathroom, passing by the soggy pile of silk that had been the dress she’d worn to the wedding. She filled the tub with hot water. Her brain and her body both felt a little numb. Last night one man had asked her to marry him and another had made love to her.

All the excitement of her entire life packed into about four hours. It was more than one small town librarian could be expected to handle.

Could she have imagined it?

But no. The smell and feel of sex on her body was quite unmistakable.

Charlotte tossed her robe into the hamper then sank into the bath. As her muscles relaxed, her thoughts whirled.

She had said no to Wade—would he be disappointed or relieved? Would they still date? Or just be friends? They had discussed none of this, though if he knew what had happened between her and Dougal, then she kind of thought the answer would be no on all counts.

As for Dougal...how on earth had it happened? One minute she’d been walking on the beach, having a good cry, just letting it all out. The next he was there. Reaching out his hand and touching her. She couldn’t even say with certainty that he had made the first move. It was like they’d both had the impulse to kiss at the same time.

And the biggest shocker of all...

Despite the cold, the grit of the sand, the unforgiving hardness of the beach, that impromptu sex was the best she’d ever had.

* * *

Dougal woke shortly after nine. Instantly reached for his cell phone, which he’d placed next to the vintage alarm clock that had come with the place and still worked fine.

He had to phone information to get Charlotte’s home number. Fortunately she was listed.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice sounding rougher than he intended. Maybe he should have had a cup of coffee first.

“I’m fine. But rather busy right now.”

Code for,
what happened last night doesn’t change anything between us.
Dougal spoke the language, was more than ready to be let off the hook.

Still, he thought about her quite a bit that day.

on Monday Dougal headed
for the library right after breakfast. Charlotte was at her desk when he walked in, and he had to smile, seeing her in her sweater and pearls. Miss Prim and Proper, but now he knew she had a wild side, too. He was tempted to walk up to her and kiss her. It would be interesting to see her reaction.
But no, be honest with yourself here. You really just want to kiss her.

Which wasn’t a smart idea. Whatever the reason Charlotte had turned down Wade’s proposal, the two of them belonged together. Wade was a solid, dependable, loyal man. He’d make the sort of husband a woman like Charlotte deserved.

Once Charlotte had time to think it through, she’d realize her mistake and patch things up with him.

So he should be a gentleman and pretend their sex on the beach had never happened.

“Morning Charlotte.”

She nodded, seemingly preoccupied by the book in her hands. It was Ian McEwan’s
Atonement
. She didn’t seem to be reading it. Just examining it like a puzzling artifact.

“Good book. Have you read it?”

“Years ago.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I found it in the return chute this morning.” She frowned, then flipped to the title page, which she showed him. Someone had hand-written in a faltering, flowery script:
Charlotte I’m sorry.

“Sorry for what? Returning the book late?”

“But it isn’t a library book. It’s not coded and it doesn’t have a protective cover.”

“It didn’t come from me, if that’s what you’re wondering. The other night shouldn’t have happened. But I’m not sorry it did.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You, on the other hand, probably have a different opinion.”

A young mother with two children entered the library then and Dougal left Charlotte in peace, settling at his usual table where he quickly set out his laptop and notes. Out of habit, he checked his email first.

Nothing new from Librarianmomma.

He knew it was wrong—possibly sick—to feel disappointed. But he did.

He turned his attention to his notes on the second murder. Based on the information in the faxed articles from the
East Oregonian
, Mari Beamish had a husband and a four-year-old daughter. This was where he’d start. First he needed a phone number.

He tried various computer searches, looking first for anyone with the surname of Beamish, who still lived in Pendleton. He was jotting down numbers and addresses when a hand touched his shoulder.

“Finding what you’re looking for?”

The mom and her kids had left, so they were alone again.

“I got what I came for.” He set down his pen and looked her directly in the eyes. “And then some.”

Cheap shot. Just went to show what a bugger he was. Charlotte blushed. God—it amazed him how easily she did that.

“About Satur—" she began.

“No explanations necessary. I figure you and Wade just need a little time to work things out. If you’re worried I might make trouble—don’t.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the next work station. “How reassuring.”

“Right. One more thing. I’m heading to Pendleton tomorrow. Just for a few days to follow up on Mari Beamish. I’ll drop my rent checks in your mail box before I leave. You forgot to take them with you last time you were over.”

She raised her chin a little. “You do that, Dougal.”

Suddenly it was difficult to breathe in here. Maybe too much library dust. He gathered his notes and gave her a final nod.

* * *

Leaving on a road trip was more difficult this time. Suitcase in the trunk, laptop case in the passenger seat, he went back to the cottage to lock up.

He didn’t want to go.

Like Goldilocks, he’d stumbled across a house in the woods that felt just right. He’d never had this feeling before...a sense of belonging. Suddenly he could understand the concept of putting down roots, of preferring to stay in rather than go out on the weekends.

But Mari Beamish was calling to him. For some reason her life had been taken—and he needed to know how.

And why.

And most of all...who.

* * *

Driving from Twisted Cedars to Pendleton was one of those, “you can’t get there from here” situations. The towns were on diagonally opposite corners of the state, and thanks to the mountains and dense forests, the route was indirect and the roads challenging. Dougal opted to cross over the Coastal Range at Reedsport, white knuckling the death-wish hairpin turns until he finally emerged on the Interstate and headed north. Nine hours, and over five-hundred miles later, he finally arrived.

He’d left the ocean far behind, along with the rainforests and mountains. Here the sky seemed bigger, the clouds tumultuous and low, the land undulating in gentle waves. He drove past ranches, wheat fields and blueberry farms until he came to what was billed as the largest city in Eastern Oregon, but still had a population less than twenty-thousand.

After a long day behind the wheel, he needed some rest. It was almost seven now. He’d planned to start at the library, except it wouldn’t be open until ten o’clock the next morning. He stopped for gas, first. It felt good to stretch out his legs and clear his head with the cool evening air. He grabbed food, next, from a hamburger joint, then went in search of a motel.

He didn’t sleep well. The room smelled funny and the pillows were too big and hard. The fact that he was still pissed at himself for having sex with Charlotte Hammond didn’t help. Picking up women in bars was one thing. They knew the game and what to expect.

Charlotte was something else...way too much sugar and spice and everything nice. Damn, but she’d surprised him, though. There’d been nothing shy or inexperienced about the way she made love. Not that he’d expected her to be a virgin or anything. But the way she dressed, those prim glasses of hers...

Dougal groaned as he rolled to his other side. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well watch television. He found a re-run of
Dexter
.

Perfect. Fifteen minutes later he was lulled to sleep by the escapades of a serial killer.

* * *

The Pendleton Library was in a beautiful, modern building, with extremely helpful staff. At ten minutes after the opening hour on Tuesday morning, Dougal was already reading copies of an article in the
East Oregonian
that hadn’t made the first cut Charlotte had rounded up for him. Plus he had an amazingly good cup of coffee on the desk beside him.

Mari Beamish’s murder was front page news back in 1973. At first details were sketchy, but over the course of several weeks, a fairly complete description emerged.