exposed (Twisted Cedar Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

No one else would dream of visiting her without making plans ahead.

She grabbed the rifle she kept under her bed and made sure it was loaded.

Her younger brother, John, didn’t like her living in this cottage in the woods, so many miles from civilization. But Shirley wasn’t afraid of bears, wolves or cougars. And she didn’t mind the isolation. Fact was, she never felt alone.

Her best friends were in books. Hercule Poirot had spent many an evening chatting amiably with her on her worn chintz couch. Other days Miss Marple would pop over for a spot of tea, or Tuppence and Tommy would appear, hot on the chase of a new unsolved murder.

Shirley read other authors beside Agatha Christie, of course. As a librarian she felt it was essential to be grounded in the classics and aware of the hottest bestsellers as well.

But those were the books she’d studied in college and read during her lunch hours at work. When she was here, at her home, her sanctuary, she preferred her mysteries.

The second knock came, louder than the first.

“Who’s there?”

“Why don’t you open the door and see?”

The taunting tone was infuriating. Did this goon really think he could frighten her? Shirley hoisted the rifle to her shoulder and then angled her body so she could release the deadbolt. “Hands where I can see them, or I’ll shoot.”

The door swung inward. Cast in the rosy glow of twilight was a young man in his early twenties, handsome, with dark hair, broad shoulders and an uneasy grin. He was holding out his hands palms upward, as if seeking a handout.

She was positive she’d never seen him before, but there was something familiar about him all the same and it frightened her. She tightened her hold on the gun. “Whatever you want, I don’t have it. I suggest you go back where you came from. I’m an excellent shot.”

“But I went through so much to find you...Mother.”

If she had a weak heart, it would have stopped right then. But Shirley’s heart was strong. And so was she. “I’m no one’s mother.”

“You sure haven’t acted like one. But you gave birth to me, all right. On this very day, twenty-two years ago.”

She’d noted the date when she woke up, of course. She always tried not to, prayed for the year when May fifteenth would be a day like any other.

“I want you to leave. Right now.” While keeping him in her sights, she pushed the door with her knee. But he moved fast, inserting his body into the gap, forcing her to jump backward in order to keep her rifle pointed at his chest.

“Get out, I said!”

“Or what? Are you going to shoot me?”

Years later, Shirley Hammond would remember this moment and the mocking grin on his face. She’d wish desperately she could turn back the clock. But on that May evening she didn’t shoot him. She let him stay.

Dougal’s fingers trembled as he pressed “enter,” effectively sending the first installment of the book to Librarian Momma. Repulsed to the point of nausea, he gripped the sides of his chair and took a few deep breaths.

Listening to his old man recount his first meeting with his birth mother had been excruciating. Dougal had attempted to tune out his emotions, to act the part of a court-room stenographer and focus on the words as combinations of letters rather than their abstract meanings.

But it was hard, knowing Ed was talking about Charlotte’s adopted aunt, not to mention Dougal’s biological grandmother.

Ed made Shirley Hammond sound tough-as-nails, whereas up until now Dougal had imagined she would have Charlotte’s calm, gentle personality.

Since Charlotte had been adopted, though, it had been irrational for him to project the older woman’s personality on the other.

Ed had started their session with his ‘vision’ for the book. He wanted most of the scenes written from his point-of-view, with a few scenes from Shirley’s vantage point thrown in as counterpoint.

It was an approach Dougal himself had used in his previous books, contrasting the perpetrator and the victim to maximize the drama. So he hadn’t protested the idea.

Their chat had gone on for over an hour, at which point Ed instructed Dougal to disconnect and write the first chapter.

Dougal had done so, not worrying about style, pacing or word-choice. He’d just dumped out the words, basically as the old man had fed them to him. Two scenes in Ed’s point of view, and one in Shirley’s.

Dougal suspected his father had the entire story already plotted in his head, probably he could have authored it himself. Only what would be the fun in that? This way he got to torment his famous novelist son in the process. No doubt he fantasized about both of their names on the book cover—creating the illusion of a father-son relationship—the two of them making the
NY Times
bestselling list, and appearing on talk shows together.

No chance of that happening, of course. Ed was going to end up back in prison, one way or another. If not for the murders that were going to be the focus of this book, then for the murders of Joelle and her daughter—and kidnapping Chester.

A knock sounded on the closed door, and then Wade entered. “How did it go?”

“Brutal.” Dougal didn’t need to say more. Wade knew how he felt about his father. “But the first chapter is done. I just emailed it to him. I’m guessing it won’t take him long to read it and be back to me with comments. Thought I’d run home to grab a shower and shave while I have the chance.”

“That’s a good idea. By the way, Marnie’s made arrangements to have your laptop examined by one of the FBI’s computer experts. I know it’s a long shot, but we have to try and trace those emails.”

“Speaking of Marnie...How old is she? She looks about twenty, but I suspect she’s the kind of woman who looks younger than her true age.”

Wade’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if I should encourage her crush on you. Or suggest she look elsewhere.”

Damn, it was cute seeing the sheriff blush.

“I’d rather you focused on the job at hand.”

Dougal’s sense of fun vanished. “Don’t worry about me. I want Chester home and Ed back behind bars more than you do.”

“Good to hear. While you’re home you better pack your toothbrush and a change of clothes. We’ll want to keep the lines of communication between you and Ed open as much as possible. If he wants to chat all night—I want you to be here for him.”

“Yeah,” Dougal had to agree, even though it would mean breaking his promise to Charlotte.

“With staff working around the clock there’ll be lots of sandwiches and other snacks on hand. Feel free to help yourself.”

As Dougal followed Wade down the corridor, he paused to glance inside the room being used to manage the investigation. The long wall was covered with maps, lists, names and photos. Every inch of the large, rectangular table held computer equipment, files, and stacks of paper.

“Any progress?”

“We’re figuring out lots of places Chester
isn’t
, if you call that progress.” Wade rubbed his jaw, worried. “I know you figure Ed has the boy. But there’s still a chance the kid is hiding out somewhere.”

“Have you still got guys searching the woods around my place?”

“Yeah. The K-9 unit is out there with about thirty volunteers from Search and Rescue. Unless we find something—a bike tire print, a scrap of fabric, anything like that—we’ll be pulling out at the end of the day.”

“Okay.” Dougal put a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “You look as beat as I feel.”

“Not going to be much rest for any of us until we find him.”

Dougal nodded. He and his old friend had had their differences. But they were definitely on the same side now.

* * *

On the drive to the Librarian Cottage, Dougal couldn’t help thinking about the first message he’d received from his father, back in May of this year. At the time he’d had no idea “Librarian Momma” was his old man.

His father had been crafty. Since Dougal had refused to take his calls or open his emails, Ed had snared him by using the moniker of “Librarian Momma” and dangling a series of unsolved mysteries under his nose. As a true crime writer looking for a subject for a new book, Dougal hadn’t been able to resist.

If he’d just ignored the bait, Joelle Carruthers and her baby daughter might still be alive. Chester would be in his classroom right now, bored, probably, but at least safe.

On his drive out of town Dougal placed a call to Charlotte, filling her in on the latest developments and promising to drop by later that evening, warning her he wouldn’t be able to stay long.

“That’s okay. I appreciate what you’re doing. I know you don’t want to write your father’s story.”

“If it helps Chester, it’ll be worth it. How’s Cory doing?”

“I decided to send her to school. It’s the best thing for her. Hanging around here is soul-sucking.”

“Hopefully it won’t be for much longer.” But he was afraid Ed Lachlan wouldn’t let the boy go until the entire book was written. And even then—well, Dougal didn’t feel the odds were in their favor.

Unless...maybe the old man was taking advantage of the boy’s disappearance to coerce Dougal into writing the book. There was always that possibility. Dougal allowed himself to hope. Maybe, right this moment, a bloodhound was on Chester’s trail. Any minute now a volunteer might be radioing in the happy news:
“We’ve found him!”

But as soon as he rounded the last corner to the cottage, Dougal’s faint hope died. Over a dozen vehicles were jammed around the property. The only people in view were two volunteers manning a make-shift table on the porch.

From their expressions it was instantly clear that no good news was forthcoming.

Dougal paused, imagining the cottage as it must have appeared to a twenty-two year old Edward Lachlan back in May of 1972. The structure, itself, hadn’t changed since then.

What had Ed’s intentions been, in that fatal moment before he met his birth mother?

Had he expected her to welcome him with open arms? And would things have ended differently if she had?

Shaking off his introspections, Dougal identified himself to the volunteers, who grim-faced confirmed the lack of progress in locating Chester or any clues to his whereabouts.

Inside, Dougal found Deputy Duane Carter writing reports at the kitchen table. With his thin, muscular runner’s body, Duane bordered on anorexic, in Dougal’s opinion. According to Charlotte, who devoured the local paper religiously each Wednesday, Duane had placed third in his age group in the Dog Days of August Marathon two weeks ago.

Three cheers for Duane.

“So. How’s it going?”

Duane glanced up at him. “No sign of Chester, or his bike, yet. But we’re going to keep looking until sun-fall.”

“I won’t get in your way. Just need a shower and to pack a few things.”

Fifteen minutes later Dougal was out the door. As he walked toward his vehicle he was remembering the last time Chester had been at the cottage, less than two weeks ago. Dougal had invited Charlotte and the twins for an end-of-the-summer barbeque, the night before the first day of school.

Cory had been a chatter-box, telling them all about her experiences at Wolf Creek Camp. Both the twins seemed to love the place, though Chester, as per usual, hadn’t talked about it much.

The only time Dougal had seen Chester’s face light up was when he asked Dougal about his experiences playing high school football with his dad. He clearly had his father on a pedestal and Dougal, though not normally one to sugar-coat the truth, had taken pains to make Kyle out to be the hero in every story.

The truth was, Kyle had been a talented quarterback, but he would have been even better if he hadn’t tried to make himself the star of every play.

But that was Kyle. The golden-haired, blue-eyed charmer was used to having life go his way. Dougal had always expected this character flaw would eventually land him in trouble. But he’d never guessed his old football buddy would go so far as to bury his wife’s body in order to escape retribution for what had, in all likelihood, been an accidental death.

On the day of the barbecue, Dougal had wondered if the twins would ask about the spot where he’d found their mother’s body. They hadn’t. But when they were ready, he would show them. Hopefully the Shasta daisies he’d planted there would still be blooming.

* * *

Charlotte had thought cleaning out her closet would help make the time pass more quickly, but she couldn’t focus on even this simple task for more than five minutes at a time. The twins’ bedroom across the hallway kept drawing her.

The crime scene techs had finished with the room, but she was loath to clean up the residue of fingerprint powder. She found she wanted to touch nothing, but just stand in the doorway and run through the memories she had of Chester.

The kids had been under her care for less than two months—and at least three weeks of that time they’d spent at summer camp. Yet, already they felt like hers. Their imprint on this room was unmistakable. She’d given them permission to put three posters each on the wall. Chester’s were all from the 49ers, of course. His father had taken him to a game once, and he still talked about the experience.

Where was he now? Was he okay? Would he ever get to go to another football game?

With each question, another layer of pain seemed to weigh down her heart. Charlotte pressed her knuckles into her teeth, welcoming the distraction of physical pain over mental.

It wasn’t even four o’clock. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She wished someone would phone, if not with good news, then with a tidbit of something positive. Surely a nine-year-old boy could not disappear without a trace.

And then, as if she had conjured it, the doorbell rang. And immediately hope and fear rose equally within her until she remembered the time. This would be Cory. Her best friend’s mother had offered to drive her home from school.

Charlotte raced down the stairs and flung open the door, suddenly anxious to make sure that, Cory, at least, remained unharmed.