forgotten (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

It was sweet that the twins had enjoyed looking at the old family photos of Daisy. But the exercise had underscored to Charlotte how few of their own memories they had of their Mom. They hadn’t even been two when Daisy disappeared.

Disappeared
. Charlotte had thought of her sister’s absence that way for so long, it was hard to adjust to the truth.

Her sister hadn’t run off—she’d been killed. Maybe it had been an accident the way Kyle claimed, but technically it was still homicide. Undoubtedly the shock would have been greater if so many years hadn’t gone by. In Charlotte’s heart, despite the monthly withdrawals from Daisy’s bank account, she had known something was wrong.

After her walk, Charlotte returned to work feeling somewhat refreshed. She was catching up with emails when Birdie walked in, wearing a simple black sundress and sunglasses. She looked stunning.

Dougal’s line came back to her.
There’s something about her.

He’d denied that it was her beauty that had caught his attention. But Charlotte kind of thought it was.

“Good afternoon, Birdie.” She was suddenly self-conscious about the comfortable skirt and blouse that she’d worn to work. Not to mention her low rise, rubber-soled shoes.

As Birdie lifted her sunglasses to rest upon her head, Charlotte noticed the bruising around her eyes was still pretty colorful.

“Hi Charlotte. I was wondering if I could borrow a book.”

“Of course. I’ve already set up that temporary library card I was talking about.” She passed the card to Birdie, she smiled self-consciously.

“Thank you. It’s good to have something in my pocket now. Even if it’s just a library card.”

“What sort of book are you looking for?”

“I’d like to read something by Dougal Lachlan. I met him at Skin Deep yesterday.”

“He mentioned that.”

“The two of you are dating. He told me. Plus, I heard people talking. Mostly they don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

“Why would they think that?” God, she could feel herself blushing like a schoolgirl. How exasperating to be the talk of the local hair salon.

“Because he isn’t reliable. That’s what people say, anyway. But they do like his books. Belle told me she’s read everything he’s written. I’ve read them, too. I remembered that when I saw him.”

“Then you know he writes true crime stories, all of them very graphic? Are you sure you want to read something like that?” She thought of her own, well-thumbed
Pride & Prejudice
. Jane Austen’s civility and eloquence were always so reassuring and satisfying in times of trouble.

“I don’t mind graphic stories. Plus I’m hoping reading the book will help me remember other things.”

“It’s probably worth a try. His books are quite popular here, obviously, but I should be able to find you one of his earlier stories.”

She went to the stacks and found a copy of
Back to Back Killings
. “Would you like this one?”

“Sure.”

Charlotte took back the library card, which she had set up under “Birdie Jones” and listing the emergency shelter as the address. Meanwhile, Birdie was reading “About the Author” at the back of the book.

“Says here he lives in New York City,” Birdie said.

“He did. He’s only recently moved back to Twisted Cedars.”

“Because of you?” Birdie asked.

Damn it, she was blushing again. But before she could answer, Birdie continued.

“Or is it because he wants to write a book about those librarians who were murdered?”

Charlotte was dumbfounded.

“Belle told me there were four of them killed in the seventies. And the case might be related to a librarian here in Twisted Cedars who committed suicide right after.”

“Sounds like they’ve been talking your ears off at that salon. Dougal was thinking about writing that story. But he’s changed his mind.” Or so he said.

“Too bad. It sounds like it would be interesting.”

“Yes, but it’s an unsolved crime and Dougal doesn’t usually write about cold cases.”

“He should make an exception.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff
.”

“Isn’t that from Shakespeare?” Charlotte was suddenly on alert.

Birdie looked confused. “I’m not sure where that came from.”

“It came out so naturally. Maybe you’re an English teacher or professor?”

Birdie looked at her hands. “I’m pretty sure I must have been a hair stylist. Maybe I read Shakespeare for pleasure?”

Right. So many people do. But Charlotte didn’t voice her disbelief. She handed Birdie back her new library card.

“Thanks, Charlotte. I suppose I should return to work.” She looked like she was going to leave, but then she asked, “Does it make you nervous?”

“What?”

“All those murdered librarians. And your own aunt committing suicide in this very building. It would make me nervous.”

Charlotte felt as if a cold finger was tracing a line down her spine. But she forced a cheery grin. “All of that happened a long time ago.”

After Birdie left, Charlotte went to make herself a cup of tea. She was upset to see her hands were trembling. Why had Birdie made such a big deal about Dougal’s story? Was she just trying to distract herself from her own troubles?

Back at her desk, Charlotte did an Internet search and found the quote. It was from Shakespeare, Act Three, Scene Two, Julius Caesar.

Dougal was right. There was something about Birdie. Something very puzzling.

n
ormally the drive to Salem from Twisted Cedars would take about five hours. During RV season, when every second vehicle was pulling either a trailer or a boat, even six hours was optimistic.

Dougal didn’t mind. During his years in the city, he hadn’t thought much about his home state, or ever realized he missed it. Now that he was back, it seemed a love for the ocean, forest and mountains had somehow seeped into his marrow.

He played CD’s from his collection—most of his music was linked to important people in his life. Right now he was listening to some piano jazz that his editor had recommended. At first listening to the dissonant harmonies was like getting a lecture, without the words.

Paula could be subtle that way. She’d grown tired of phone calls and e-mails so she’d sent him this CD.

But it was growing on him.

He stopped on the road for lunch, at a café with Wi-Fi, and set up his laptop on the table, between the plate with his club sandwich and his cup of coffee. Sometimes locating people was as simple and as low-tech as using the directory listing, and he lucked out this time. There was only one Lachlan listed in Salem and her name was Ellen.

He waited until he was finished eating, and back in the car, to call her.

When she wasn’t home, he left a message explaining he was a writer doing some research and would appreciate setting up a time for an interview. He didn’t tell her what the interview would be about. Didn’t want to scare her off.

She returned the call while he was driving through Eugene. He took the first opportunity to pull off the highway, thinking he might need to make some notes.

“Ellen thanks for calling back. Like I said I’m—"

“Did you write
Back To Back Killings
?” She wasn’t interested in hearing him give his spiel again, apparently.

“I am.”

“I loved that book. Are you working on another one, set here in Salem?”

“Well, I’m not sure about that. I need to do some fact-checking first.”

“Don’t know how I could help with that.”

“That all depends on whether you knew a man by the name of Edward Lachlan. I believe his family used to own a property on the outskirts of the city about forty or fifty years ago.”

There was a long silence after this. Then, “Are we related?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

“Eddie was my brother.”

He noted the past tense. “Then I guess we are. Because he’s my father.”

* * *

Ellen suggested they meet at a Starbucks, not far off the Interstate. She said she’d recognize him from the author photograph at the back of his books.

To which he replied, “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve just had my hair cut.”

“How different can it be?”

He conceded the point, and agreed that he could make it to the meeting place in about twenty minutes.

An attractive woman in her late sixties, with steely gray hair, was waiting for him when he arrived. He saw absolutely no resemblance to his father, but that was all explained in the first five minutes.

“We were both adopted. Our parents couldn’t have biological children. I was the first. Eddie came along about four years later. My parents wanted a boy to help with the chores—we had a cherry orchard, as well as some cattle.”

A piece of lint on her dark slacks seemed to catch her interest at that point. She went about carefully extracting it, then folding it up into a napkin.

Dougal waited patiently. He knew she had questions and he’d rather hear what they were than take a stab and end up saying more than he needed to.

“You write true crime books, right? Are you going to write about Eddie? I know he killed his wife—second wife, not your mother.”

Dougal considered how to answer. If he admitted he had no intention of writing about this, would she still help him? “I need more facts before I decide. Have you seen him lately?”

“Haven’t seen Eddie or spoken to him since the last time he ran away.”

“When he was sixteen?”

She nodded.

“You said since the last time he ran away. Were there other times?”

“Oh yes. He was only six the first time he decided to leave home.” Ellen sighed, and her face reflected a combination of sadness and regret that Dougal had seen on the faces of many of his interview subjects over the years.

“And he had reason to,” she continued. “I don’t know why, but my parents treated him really terribly. They were fine to me. But Eddie—well, I’m not sure if it was because he was a boy, or because he was so damn smart and lippy, or what it was, but they were vicious.”

“Are they still in Salem?”

“Both passed on about ten years ago. We’d already sold the farm by then and they were living in a home for seniors not far from my place. I never married so I visited them almost every day.

Believe it or not, they were good parents to me. I never asked them if they regretted how they’d treated Eddie. Maybe I was afraid to hear their answers.”

“What did they do to your brother?”

“You don’t want to hear this.”

More likely, she didn’t want to re-live it. Or be judged by it. “I’ve interviewed a lot of people about abusive situations. It’s hard. But it really helps to get the facts.”

She swallowed. Turned her gaze away from him, to the window overlooking the parking lot. “They rode him hard for every bad thing he did. But it was more than that. He didn’t get to sit at the table with us, he had his own place on the floor in the kitchen. We’d all get a nice meal and he’d get the scraps.”

“Like a dog,” Dougal said bluntly, willing himself not to feel any emotion. He’d been exposed to so much that was evil in this world. He had to pretend this was just another case, about a man he didn’t really know.

Which was true in a way.

“Eddie was difficult, even as a baby. Mom and Dad liked their children to be obedient, which I guess I was. Not Eddie. Even before he was school-age, dad would take him out to the barn for whippings.”

“But not you?”

“No. I was the golden child.” She bit her lower lip, gnawing at it. “I was treated like a princess. I feel sick about it now.”

“You were a kid. You can’t blame yourself for what they did.”

“I can’t forget about it, either, though it hurts to remember. I guess I blame myself for not sticking up for him. If I had, he might have turned out different.”

Maybe. Or maybe not
. “What was he like when he got older?”

“He used to scare me. He had a real vicious streak. We had a pet cat in the house. Both my mother and I adored her. But there was a barn cat, too, a mouser. She’d run around the countryside and get pregnant every now and then. Dad always insisted we kill the kittens. That was Eddie’s job and he seemed to enjoy it. He didn’t put them in a sack with some rocks and drop it in the pond the way Dad suggested. He—"

“Let me guess. Did he wring their necks?”

“How did you know?”

“When I was a kid he did the same thing to my pet kitten. Shortly after that, my mother kicked him out.”

“Oh, God.” Ellen rubbed her face, as if she wished she could erase her wrinkles, and the past, and all those awful memories. “I wonder what might have happened to him if he’d had different parents.”

Dougal thought of the way Ed had tracked down his birth mother. “I think he wondered the same thing.”

But finding Shirley hadn’t brought Ed any peace.

“Sometimes Eddie could be quite charming,” Ellen said. “And he was smart at school. If he’d gone to college he might have had a good life.”

“Maybe.”

“Did he hurt you, too, when you were little?”

“No. My mother protected me. But I think she was worried that she might not be able to keep doing it. That’s why she kicked him out. She was lucky to have good friends who helped her and forced him to leave town and never bother us again.”

“That must be when he moved to Salem and married his second wife. The one he beat to death.”

Dougal nodded. “Did you follow the case?”

“Couldn’t avoid it. Eddie’s trial was all over the TV and newspapers. Mom and Dad were sick about it. They discontinued their newspaper subscription, and stopped going out except for important appointments. Eddie made recluses of them. But I suppose they deserved it.”

Dougal said nothing. It wasn’t his job to pass judgment, but he wasn’t granting absolution, either.

“Every time Ed ran away, he always said he was going to find his birth mother. I never had the heart to remind him that it was his birth mother who had given him away in the first place.”

“I think he eventually figured that out. I’m pretty sure he stole his adoption records when he was twenty-two and discovered his mother was the librarian in Twisted Cedars.”