Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (16 page)

The idea of moving here permanently seemed more attractive with each passing day. Why not? This was a great place to write. He could easily sublet his apartment. Go back next month to get his stuff. Borden was going to be a challenge. He hoped the move wouldn’t be too much for her.

While he waited for the water to boil for his corn, he wandered to his writing table and leafed through the pages he’d written that day. No doubt this place was good for his productivity. He’d poured out fifteen pages today. A story was coming together here, he just didn’t think it could ever be published, because he had no idea how it ended.

Unless that was how the chain of emails was going to end...with disclosure of the killer.

But somehow Dougal doubted it was going to be that easy.

The lid on the pot started clattering under the pressure of the boiling water. Dougal hurried back to the kitchen, tossed two cobs of corn in the water, and then took the steak out to the barbecue he’d bought and assembled last week.

After his meal, he went for a walk. He followed animal trails through the forest, traveling about a mile before turning and heading back to the cottage. Fifty yards from home he found what had once been a fenced off area. The fence posts were still standing but the wire had been trampled to the ground, probably by deer. It was too small for an animal enclosure.

Shirley had that well-worn book on growing vegetables—maybe this was where she’d had her garden. He wandered around the patchy vegetation, pulled out a hunk of grass and noted the soil was dark and loamy. Homegrown carrots and peas would sure taste great. He remembered eating some of Stella’s when he’d been a kid. Maybe he could try his hand at growing a few things next year—if he stayed.

* * *

When Dougal stepped back into the house, he heard the phone ringing. He had no reason to hurry to catch it, yet he did.

It was Charlotte.

“Dougal?”

Who else did she expect it to be? “Yes. Is Wade still there?”

“He just left.”

“That’s early.”

“Yes.”

“So...how was the dinner?”

“It was sad.”

Okay then. She hadn’t changed her mind about marrying him.

“The reason I was calling,” she continued, sounding now as if she were reading from a script, “is because I’m looking for donations for the library’s annual used book sale. Proceeds go toward new books for under-privileged children.”

“Good cause,” he murmured, amused by her spiel.

She went off script then. “Yes it is. And I started thinking it’s a shame that so many of my aunt’s books are just sitting there, unused. Perhaps even some valuable first editions.”

Dougal suppressed a laugh. “It’s eight o’clock on a Friday evening and you’re calling me—a man you’ve recently had sex with—about a used book drive?”

She was silent for a moment. He thought he might have pushed her too hard. Then she said, “Kind of obvious, huh?”

“Perhaps you’d better come over here and help me sort out the books yourself.”

on Saturday morning, Kyle
offered to take the kids to the beach so Jamie could finish moving out of the trailer.

“You decide what you want to keep and what you want to throw away,” he said as he topped off her coffee after breakfast. “Then in the afternoon, the kids and I will help you haul the boxes home.”

“Thanks, honey.” Much as she would have enjoyed a few hours on the beach with her new family, she appreciated the opportunity to go through her belongings on her own, free to wallow in the memories to her heart’s content.

Once they’d left, she drove to the trailer and parked in her usual spot, to the right of their double-wide. A “Sold” sticker had been slapped over the “For Sale,” sign. She’d brought her camera with her, thinking she might mark the occasion with a few photos, but now that she was here, her heart felt too heavy.

So she left it in the car, and went to open the trunk. For a moment she paused, looking back at the pretty doublewide and recalling the day her mother left to go to the hospice. She’d kept her chin up, a smile on her face. “Thanks for the memories,” she’d said, slapping the door on her way out. If she’d ever been scared—about the cancer, about the pain, about dying—she’d never shown it.

In her trunk, Jamie had a pile of cardboard boxes she’d picked up from Sam’s Market yesterday. She carried them to the door, then unlocked the trailer.

Already her old home had an unused smell about it. Or was that her imagination?

“Just get the job done, girl. Stop moping.” She turned on the radio to the country station. Might as well listen while she could, since Kyle preferred classic rock. She glanced around. The place already looked stripped, though all she’d taken so far were a couple of suitcases worth of clothes and shoes and books.

Her mom had believed in traveling light through life and she’d passed that philosophy down to Jamie. Still, there were a few things she wanted to keep.

The photo album, of course. She’d start with that.

It was impossible to pack the album, though, without taking a peek. She had to smile at the early photos of Dougal. Such a serious baby. Then she’d been born, and pictures of Dougal now included her. It was at this point that there ceased to be any photos of her father. Not that there’d been that many to begin with.

On the radio, the top of the hour news began playing. Wow, time had flown without her realizing. She had to stop looking and do more packing. She put the album into a box, and then packed some of her mother’s favorite dishes. The soup tureen she’d inherited from her grandmother. The silver gravy boat they’d never used, but which had been a wedding gift.

Next, Jamie opened the drawer where her mother stored Dougal’s mementoes. He’d taken nothing but his clothing with him when he’d moved out, leaving behind school yearbooks and report cards, not to mention his high school football trophies. She boxed all of this and shoved it in a corner. Then she carted the boxes with her things out to her car.

Finally she cleaned out the last of her mother’s drawers. Most everything had already been given to Goodwill. Stella Ward had helped her sort the clothing about a month after her mom had died.

But there was still one drawer that had been untouched. In it were scarves and accessories and one small box containing what her mother had called the “good” jewelry. Jamie tried on her mother’s old wedding ring. So thin and fragile. She put it back in the box with her mother’s pearl earrings and gold chain, then carefully zipped the box into a compartment of her purse.

The rest of the stuff was junk. She dumped it all into a large garbage bag. That was when she saw the letter.

It was still in an envelope, with a return address from the Oregon State Penitentiary.

As soon as she saw that, she knew it was from her father.

Jamie sank onto her mother’s stripped mattress to read it.

Two pages, hand-written with a date on the top left corner. It had been written about six months before her mother died.

Katie...I just heard about your cancer diagnosis. You of all people. It’s so god damned unfair!

How had he found out? Obviously there was someone in Twisted Cedars he kept in contact with. But who?

You fight this thing, okay Katie? Don’t give up. And in case you didn’t already know—but I’m pretty sure you figured it out at some point—the reason I left was because I loved you. You were the only one who ever saw any good in me.

Her father wrote a little about his life in prison, then reminisced about the first time he’d met Katie—
Stella and Amos had us over for dinner. I went, expecting to be bored senseless. Instead, for the first and only time in my life, I fell instantly in love
.

Jamie’s eyes misted over. She dabbed them with the back of her hand so she could read the last paragraph.

Tell Dougal I’d be glad to hear from him sometime. I’ve tried writing him letters. He never answers. Tell him his old man wasn’t all bad. Would you do that for me, Katie?

And that was it. Not even a mention about
her
.

How could there have been? He didn’t know she existed. Still. Jamie felt his disinterest like an aching wound.

* * *

Jamie hummed along to Dwight Yokam on the radio as she left her old home and headed toward the new one. When she arrived, she opened the trunk and hauled out the first of the boxes she’d packed. She knew Kyle would help her with this later, but the boxes weren’t heavy and she decided to get the job over with. One by one she carried them downstairs to the storage room.

Previously she’d never given the room anything but a glance. Kyle kept it very tidy. The walls were lined with wooden shelving units, most containing plastic storage tubs with printed labels: Christmas lights, tree decorations, baby clothes, sports equipment. One duffel bag contained Kyle’s old football gear and she had to smile. He hadn’t played the game in years.

The shelf above the duffel bag was empty. Maybe she could squeeze her boxes up there. As she pushed the cartons over, she noticed a box in the far, back corner marked “Daisy.”

Her heart started beating faster, harder. She’d noticed, like their father, Kyle’s children never talked about their mother. If they wondered if she would ever come home, they never voiced those questions out loud. Was that normal? She should talk to Kyle about it, see if his kids had ever received counselling.

Jamie glanced again at the box marked with Daisy’s name. She should put her own boxes away and just leave. But would a quick peek hurt anything? She pulled down the carton, set it on the floor and then removed the lid. Inside were personal effects...a jewelry box, make-up, and novels. This was the sort of snooping her mother would never have approved of. Even though they’d lived in cramped quarters, her mom had been strict about respecting privacy.

Nevertheless, Jamie continued to rummage through the box, pulling out Clinique beauty products, White Diamond perfume—she recognized the scent, which Daisy had worn back when she was in high school— some costume jewelry and a velvet bag with pearls. Funny Daisy had left so much behind. But then, if you were leaving your husband and children, you probably wouldn’t think about trifles like make-up and jewelry.

Also in the box were a bunch of novels…most of them historical romances where women in lovely gowns and cascading curls were held in the arms of dashing rakes with bare chests. Good old-fashioned, fantasy escape stories.

Sorting through the books, she came to a thick notebook. The cover was faded, the edges tattered. With a jolt of surprise, she realized she was holding Daisy’s journal. She turned the pages slowly and carefully, startled at how messy the writing was. Daisy had pasted clippings from magazines, ticket stubs, business cards and photographs throughout, creating crazy collages that seemed to have no sense or reason.

“Why won’t anyone help me?” Jamie read. The following sentences were illegible, and some had been covered over by a magazine photo of a female lion eating her kill. Jamie read the caption to the photo, and was appalled to find out the “kill” was actually the lion’s cub.

Jamie flipped the page, and eventually found another line she could make out. “I never thought it would be like this. Why doesn’t anyone warn you? I wish—"

“Jamie? Are you down here?”

She gasped. Oh no. Kyle. She slammed the journal shut just as her husband entered the storage room. His gaze dropped to the book in her hand, then to the open box. His expression darkened and for the first time in their relationship, she felt a little bit afraid.

“Sorry. Oh, God, I shouldn’t be looking through this stuff should I? I’m such a snoop.”

The angry look was gone. He shook his head at her. “I told you I would take care of the boxes for you,” he said mildly.

“I know. And I should have left them for you.” She started to repack Daisy’s box, but he stopped her.

“Just leave it, Jamie. I’ll put that away later. I’m saving those things for the kids, when they’re older. If Daisy never does come back, at least they’ll have something to remember her by.”

She hesitated for a second before accepting Kyle’s hand and allowing him to help her up. Was this a good time to mention the idea of counselling for the children? She glanced at his eyes, and shivered at his stony, cold expression. No, it wasn’t.

They climbed the stairs in silence. She could hardly blame him for being annoyed with her. She’d had no right to look through Daisy’s belongings and certainly not to read her journal. But now that she had, she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the other woman. If Daisy’s mind had been in the same shape as that journal, it must have been quite a mess. But what had Daisy wished she’d been warned about?

* * *

Jamie was still sleeping when she heard a timid voice.

“Are you awake yet?”

It was Cory. Jamie opened her eyes. The little girl was standing on the other side of the open bedroom door.

Jamie patted the empty space beside her. Kyle must be up already. Oh, right. He’d told her he was playing golf this morning.

“I made you breakfast in bed.”

Jamie sat up on her elbows, cleared her throat. “How nice. Come on in, Cory.”

The little girl nudged the door wide open before she entered with a carefully balanced tray. “I made you oatmeal and juice. Your favorite.”

“How did you know oatmeal was my favorite? Mm, that smells good.” She sat upright, pulled the covers up to her navel and then took the tray from Cory’s hands. “Did you make enough for two?”

“You have oatmeal every day. That’s how I know it’s your favorite. And I’ve already eaten. Chester and I had cereal with Daddy before he went to play golf.”

“Sorry. I’ve been lazy.” She stirred the lumps out of the oatmeal, then took a big spoonful.

“That’s okay. Daddy said we should let you sleep. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

Which explained why the oatmeal was cold. Jamie took another bite, then some juice. “So what would you like to do today?”

Kyle had suggested she and the kids meet him at the club-house for a late lunch after his game. It would have been nice to spend the entire day together, but he was playing with business associates and they’d be discussing a new condo development.