“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.
chapter thirteen
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.”
“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.
chapter fourteen
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.
chapter fifteen
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 deser
ved.
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.
Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) Page 10