Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (28 page)

“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 jammed 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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Twisted Cedar Mystery
.

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.

She was alive, but still losing blood from her head wound.

He ran back to his truck for a blanket and first aid kit. He didn’t dare move her, but he could make sure she was warm, and stench the bleeding. When he brushed aside her hair to locate the wound he saw that she was pretty and a lot younger than the driver, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties.

What would a woman like this be doing with a burly, middle-aged truck driver? Could she be his daughter?

He called dispatch again, warned them what to expect, all the while keeping a gentle pressure on the wound. Eventually the bleeding stopped. He applied a rudimentary bandage then turned his attention to some miscellaneous items that had fallen to the passenger side of the cab and were wedged around the woman. He pulled out a black, leather wallet. Inside was ID for the driver: Chet Walker, aged 52, height five-feet, ten-inches, weight two-ten, hometown Klamath Falls. Emergency contact was listed as his wife.

Poor woman would soon be getting a phone call that would change her life.

Methodically Wade examined the rest of the debris in the truck. He found the driver’s cell phone, along with empty disposable coffee cups and crumpled wrappers from McDonalds; a square of pale blue flannel; a Mariner’s baseball cap, foil-wrapped caramels and a package of gum. But no purse or cell phone belonging to the female passenger.

Maybe she had something in the pocket of her jeans, but he wouldn’t be able to get at it until the paramedics arrived.

Wade placed a gentle hand on the injured woman’s arm. “Help is coming. You hang tight.” She gave no response to his voice. In his mind, Wade went over the accident scene, trying to figure out why Chet Walker had driven off the road. There were no dead animals, the usual cause of single vehicle accidents in the summer when the roads were good.

Maybe Chet had suffered a heart attack or stroke.

Noticing a trail of blood leading from the woman’s forehead to her left eye, Wade used the clean flannel cloth to wipe it away. He wished he could do more. She was awfully pale, terribly still.

“They’ll be here soon.”

She remained as still as ever. He took note of her tanned left hand, and the white line where a wedding band might have been. Her nails were painted turquoise.

Wade glanced up at the sky, and guessed it was an hour past noon. What a turn the day had taken. So much for his peaceful break from mayhem. Then again, he shouldn’t complain. At least he hadn’t been in the oncoming lane when this truck went off the road.

“Who are you lady?” He spoke again hoping his voice would reassure her, even though she wasn’t conscious. “Seems like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time today.”