Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1)

by C. J. Carmichael

  “Seemed in shock to me. But she’ll be okay. I left her and Stella alone to talk but the lights went off about an hour ago. Guess they’ve gone to bed for the night.”

  Dougal nodded. The anger he’d felt on the drive over here was dissipating now. It was hard to be mad at people you trusted to look after your little sister. Whatever they’d done, it had probably been with good intentions.

  He perched on a stool he’d last used as a teenaged boy. “When I first came to town Stella asked me if I kept in touch with my father.”

  Amos scratched the back of his head, nervously.

  “I told her no. But stupidly, I didn’t think to ask the same question of her.” Dougal paused. “Or you.”

  Amos looked away. He picked up the sander and put it carefully on one of the shelves. Then he got out the broom and swept up the sawdust.

  All the while Dougal waited quietly. The longer the silence extended, the more certain he was that he’d been correct. How else had his father known his mother had cancer? It had to be the Wards.

  And finally Amos admitted it. “It was a deal Stella and I made with Ed, back when you were just a tadpole. He came to us after Katie kicked him out. He didn’t know what to do. Said he loved your mother, but was afraid he might hurt her—or you, one day. We told him if he left you and Katie alone, we’d keep him updated on how you were doing.”

  “Did you know he’s been baiting me with information on a series of murders committed in the seventies?”

  Dougal could tell from Amos’s surprised expression that he hadn’t. The older man frowned. “He wanted us to relay anything you were talking about. But he didn’t say why. I had no idea he was the one who got you poking and prodding into the past like that.”

  “Did he ever tell you about his past? About his folks? Where he’d grown up?”

  “I knew he was adopted. And that his life was tough. But no details.”

  So Amos didn’t realize Shirley had been Ed’s birth mother. Dougal’s gut told him he didn’t know about the murders, either. As far as they were concerned Ed’s only crime had been beating his second wife to death.

  But there was one other death Amos had witnessed and refused to talk about. Shirley’s suicide. So there was something he was hiding about that, too.

  And suddenly Dougal had a theory.

  “The day you found Shirley’s body in the library basement—did you lift the cash from the library fundraiser?”

  Dark red color flushed up from the older man’s neck. He stared at the floor like a guilty schoolboy. “I wanted to ask Stella to marry me, but I had nothing. I knew where Shirley kept the money, and the key was in her pocket. After I phoned for help, I took the key and helped myself.”

  Dougal felt sick listening to the confession, disillusioned that this hardworking and kind man was capable of a crime of simple greed. “Did Stella know?”

  “I never told her. Sometimes I wonder if she suspected. Maybe that’s why we were never able to have children. Because our marriage started off on stolen money like that.”

  chapter thirty-three

  when Charlotte woke up the next morning, Dougal was sleeping beside her. One moment she was smiling and reaching for him, the next she felt as if she’d been punched in the heart.

  Daisy was dead.

  While the morning sun teased its way into her bedroom window, Charlotte went over the events of the previous day, recalling Dougal striding into the library and demanding her to close early. Once they were alone, he told her what he’d uncovered in Aunt Shirley’s vegetable garden.

  She supposed she’d been in shock. She refused to believe him. Then she’d insisted he take her there, to the librarian cottage, so she could see for herself.

  By then half the staff from the Sheriff’s Office, as well as several paramedics, were on the scene. She’d been allowed a brief look at Daisy’s watch—to confirm Dougal’s identification, but not the remains. After that, she’d felt frantically upset and the paramedics had given her something to calm her down.

  Later, Dougal had brought her here. He’d been so kind and gentle with her. Which made her wonder if there was more hope for this relationship than she’d thought.

  She gazed at his face, relaxed and unguarded in sleep. Some would say he was too callous for a hero. Too rough around the edges.

  But he had redeeming features. His unrelenting pursuit of the truth being the main one.

  His eyes opened. He blinked, then touched her cheek softly, so very gently. “How are you doing?”

  “I feel weird. When my parents died, the grief was all encompassing. But this is different. I’m very sad. But also, strangely relieved. Ever since she left, a part of me was always wondering where she was, whether she was okay, or hurting and in need of help.” She sighed. “Now I know. And at least her suffering wasn’t long.”

  “I heard them talking. Sounds like she died instantly from a blow to the head.”

  “Who do they think did it?”

  “What do you think?”

  She hesitated. “I’d say Kyle. But I’m surprised. I never liked him much. But I didn’t see him as a murderer.”

  “The guy is a monster. Making cash withdrawals for all these years. Pretending that Daisy was still alive. Holding out hope to all those who loved her.”

  “I wish we’d been closer. Maybe then, I would have been able to support her better after the twins were born. But no one in our family had even heard of post-partum psychosis before.”

  “It’s hard not to have regrets. Maybe if I’d told Daisy Kyle was having sex with other women, she wouldn’t have made the mistake of marrying him.”

  “I’m not so sure. We all have a way of seeing what we want to see. Especially when it comes to love.”

  “Speaking of love...” Dougal paused to kiss her gently. “I was thinking of going back to New York and packing up my stuff. Making a permanent move. What do you think?”

  She smiled and put her arms around him. “I’ll show you.”

  * * *

  The New York apartment smelled stale when Dougal arrived three days later. He taken a taxi straight from the airport and was looking forward to seeing his cat. He’d missed the persnickety feline.

  He dropped off his duffel bag in his foyer before heading to 5C to get Borden.

  He knew his cat would be annoyed.

  Just wait until she found out he was moving her from a city apartment to a cottage in the Oregon forest.

  He rapped on the door of 5C several times, but there was no response.

  Dougal hadn’t called ahead to give the old guy any warning, but he hadn’t expected there to be a problem. Monty’s social calendar was normally pretty blank.

  He tried a fourth knock, waited an extra minute, then went in search of the super.

  “I can’t let you into another tenant’s apartment,” the crabby old woman told him.

  “But he has my cat, was looking after him while I was away. Besides, Monty almost never goes out. He even has his groceries delivered. For all we know he could be dead in there. What do you want to do—leave him there until he starts to decompose and stink up the hallway?” He’d been trying to scare her, but he ended up frightening himself as an unwanted image of his cat, alone with a dead body, came to mind.

  His tactic worked. The super snagged her key ring. “Let’s take a look.”

  She was only about thirty pounds overweight, but it was all in her ass. He did his best not to look as his followed her up the stairs.

  The super knocked loudly on 5C. “Mr. Monroe?” She knocked again, and when there was still no response, pulled out her key.

  Borden was waiting at the door and scooted out as soon as it had opened three inches. Dougal scooped her up. She felt thinner to him and didn’t smell that great.

  She gave him a talking to, making it clear what she thought of his absence the past three weeks.

  “I know, I know, I’m a jerk.” He scratched her neck, then the sides of her face. She jam
med her head into his palm, like a love-starved...cat. Still petting her, he followed the super inside, stopping short in the foyer.

  The place looked tidy and clean, but lifeless. The shades were drawn, so Dougal switched on a light.

  “Monty Monroe is definitely not in here,” the super said. “I’ve checked the bathroom and bedroom.”

  Dougal went to the spot where he’d left Borden’s litter box. Instead of one, there were now four litter boxes. Only two had a few soiled spots in them.

  In the kitchen he found several bowls full of dried cat food. And a large basin of water.

  “I have a feeling your tenant has moved out.”

  “What—and left all his stuff?”

  “Do you see anything personal? A computer, or laptop? Mail or personal papers of any kind?”

  The super made a second round of the place. He heard her opening a few drawers. After ten minutes she said, “You’re right. He’s gone, the bastard. Didn’t even give notice.”

  At least he’d left Borden with supplies to last her a week or two. Dougal wondered if Monty would have eventually called him, to let him know he’d taken off.

  “He was a strange bird,” Dougal said. “Wonder why he decided to take off like this...”

  “I could care less, why,” the super grumbled. “Now I’ve got to store this junk in case he comes back, and get the place ready for a new tenant.”

  “Make that two tenants,” Dougal said. “I’m giving my notice today, too.”

  * * *

  Dougal cleaned all the cat paraphernalia from Monty’s apartment, throwing most of it into the garbage. Made more sense to buy new supplies in Twisted Cedars, then to try and pack this shit for the airplane.

  Borden was thrilled to be back in her own apartment. She spent an hour exploring every nook and cranny before settling down for a nap in a patch of sunlight on the couch.

  Meanwhile Dougal was busy, arranging to have some of his belongings trucked to Oregon, the rest donated to charity. He packed up his clothes, books and important papers, glad that he, like his mother, had never been one to accumulate much in the way of material possessions.

  He was planning to sleep over tonight, then take the plane back to Portland tomorrow. He wondered how Borden was going to cope with being jailed in her cat carrier for most of the day. He should at least line the thing with a clean towel, the old one at the bottom of the carrier was smelling rank. As he made the switch he noticed a piece of paper tucked into the carrier.

  An envelope, with his name on the front.

  He stared at it for a long moment, his gut churning with a premonition that this wasn't going to be good. Finally he pulled out the single sheet of paper within.

  On it was written:

  Well done, son. Now write the book.

  THE END

  Look for the other two Twisted Cedars Mysteries: forgotten and exposed

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  Keep reading: Turn the page for the first chapter of the next Twisted Cedar Mystery.

  Excerpt from: forgotten

  book 2: twisted cedars mysteries

  chapter one

  sheriff Wade MacKay was on his way home from a morning fishing on the Rogue River in Oregon, when he found the crashed truck, the body, the unconscious woman.

  It wasn’t often Wade spent his Friday mornings off duty, but a mental health day was in order after a solid week spent investigating the suspicious death and illegal burial of Daisy Hammond, a friend of his from his high school days. Seven years ago, when Daisy had left her twin children and ex-husband behind, everyone assumed her well-documented mental illness—which began after the birth of her children—was at fault. Random withdrawals from her bank account had fed the assumption she’d moved to Sacramento, where she was living quietly, under the radar.

  Not until her remains were discovered by local true-crime author— and yet another former high school buddy—Dougal Lachlan, buried out back of an old cottage belonging to the Hammond family, had anyone suspected foul play. Making the situation even more terrible, a third high school buddy of Wade’s, Daisy’s ex-husband Kyle Quinpool, was the prime suspect for the crime.

  Law enforcement in Curry County had to deal with their share of domestic violence. But homicides, fortunately, were rare. And Wade hoped not to see another one for a long, long time.

  Once the sun rose beyond the tops of the tallest cedars, Wade packed his rod and tackle in the back of his truck, along with a cooler containing three summer steelhead trout on ice, all of them around four pounds. The fishing had been a success but he wasn’t looking forward to getting home, or to the weekend ahead. Any day now the results from Daisy’s autopsy would be in. Then he’d have to haul Kyle to the office for another interview, probably followed by an arrest, this time.

  Wade felt sickest about Kyle and Daisy’s two kids. Nine-year-old Chester and Cory were away at summer camp right now and had missed most of the drama so far, thank God. They’d been dealing with their mother’s absence for seven years already. Now they would likely lose their father, as well, to the Oregon State Penn.

  Not exactly your classic happy childhood.

  Back in the days when Wade had been young and summers seemed so blissfully long, he’d fished this same spot with his father. Even then he’d known he wanted a simple life, like his parents. He loved this corner of the Pacific Northwest, where there were more trees than people, roads that might not see a driver for days on end. He’d dreamed of being the Sheriff of Curry County, with a home, a wife and kids, and one day a week to spend in the wilderness that was the essence of this place.

  At age thirty-three he’d landed the job. Now, a year older, he still didn’t have the wife and family. Frankly, his love life was a mess. On a day like today though, being unencumbered didn’t seem so bad.

  His fishing spot was off Bear Camp Road, a narrow and crooked traverse over the Klamath Mountains that linked the small Oregon towns of Agness and Galice, carrying on to Twisted Cedars, Wade’s home. He patrolled here regularly, knew every curve, viewpoint and pothole. Normally he would have made it home in under an hour.

  If it hadn’t been for the accident.

  He was listening to Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major when he spotted the overturned four-axle. He slowed and pulled over. Gripping the steering wheel, he took a deep breath, as he transformed from man enjoying a morning off work, to first responder at the site of a traffic accident.

  The music continued, impervious to the tragedy in front of him.

  He’d owned the disk forever—it was a gift from his mother and inexorably linked, in his mind, to his morning fishing trips. His mom had taught piano lessons to the children of Twisted Cedars—including Wade and some of his friends. For thirty years, Monday through Friday, from four o’clock until the dinner hour, kids would tromp in and out of the MacKay family home for their thirty minutes of musical torture.

  Wade still cringed when he remembered the faltering, sour-toned notes that filled their living room during the hours when most of his friends were watching sit-com reruns and snacking on junk food.

  The only time he and his father heard anything resembling actual music coming from the baby grand Yamaha in their living room was on Sunday mornings when his mother assumed they’d already left to go fishing. Only then did she play, letting loose all her pent-up musical energy, never guessing her son and husband were lingering on the back stairs, taking in the first half-hour of her concert.

  Wade missed his mother’s music, though he still had her piano. They’d retired, his parents, several years ago and were living in Phoenix. He didn’t get it, couldn’t understand living your entire working life in the wild and wonderful wilderness of the Oregon Coast and then trading in ocean, mountains and ancient forests for sun and sand, malls and manicured golf courses.

  Wade eased his vehicle further off the road, making sure to leave room for the paramedics when they arrived.
It was obvious they’d need paramedics. The truck, which had crashed through a guardrail, lay, like a beached whale, fifty feet down the embankment, backstopped by a grove of old growth cedar. No other vehicle or human presence could be spotted. Wade put on his flashers and called in the accident. Then he stepped out into the hot, heavy July air.

  “Hello! Anyone in there?” He went quiet and listened. All he could hear was the buzzing of insects.

  Stamped over the scent of pine and dirt and living things was the acrid odor of burnt rubber. He made a quick study of the black skid marks on the pavement, then pressed his fingers against them. Tacky.

  Dragonflies looped around him as he scrambled down the embankment toward the wreck.

  “Anyone in there?” he called out, again.

  No answer.

  He touched a hand to the truck, which had flipped over and lay on its passenger side. The engine was no longer running, but the hood was still warm.

  “Hello? Sheriff Wade MacKay here. You okay?” Climbing up on the trunk of a white pine that had been uprooted in the crash, he was able to peer inside the driver side window. A big, balding man, in his late fifties, was slumped over his seat belt, clearly dead. Wade managed to open the door enough to check for breathing and a pulse, but he found neither.

  Wade had seen a lot of accidental death in his fifteen-year career. He knew how to deal. You didn’t look too long. Or think too much.

  Averting his gaze, he walked around the wreckage, trying to see inside the other side of the cab. Most truckers travelled alone. Even hitchhikers were rare these days.

  But this guy had company, a woman with long hair, reddish-blonde in color and stained with fresh blood. She was strapped into the passenger seat, her body limp.

  Thanks to the width of the load, there was space between the passenger door and the ground, about two and a half feet. Wade lowered his body to the carpet of wild grasses and sage and wiggled into a position where he could get a better look. Her weight was partly resting on the door, so he couldn’t open it. But the window had smashed and he was able to reach in, check her neck for a pulse.