Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

“No. Other than the red scarf. But it was a brand sold commonly in stores like JC Penny.” He shrugged, then looked at Dougal hopefully. “You haven’t told me anything about your project. Do you think you may have found the monster responsible for this?”

“I haven’t found him or her yet, but what I do know is that your grandmother wasn’t the only victim. Three other women who worked in libraries were killed the same way. Each death was spaced about a year apart. And a red scarf was used at each death scene.”

Derek looked astounded. “This is the first I’ve heard about a serial murderer.”

“I can’t prove the murders were connected. It’s a theory I’m working on.”

“The lack of a motive for the murder was the thing that drove us most crazy. Especially Gramps. We couldn’t understand why anyone would harm a kind, helpless woman like Gran.”

“It could be that there was no reason. She was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and a very sick man did a very sick thing.”

“You know, if that were the case, it would almost be a relief. My gramps got it in his head that she must have been living a double life. He became a very bitter man.”

“Is he still alive?”

Derek nodded. “He has mobility issues, so he’s in a care home. But his mind is as sharp as ever. It would be such a blessing if he could know that Gran truly was an innocent victim.”

“Well, tell him what I’ve told you. That may help settle his mind.” But Dougal knew that what this family really needed for closure was for him to find the person responsible.

Unfortunately he was no closer to that answer than he’d been a day ago.

* * *

Dougal thought about visiting Bernice Gilberg’s husband at the nursing home, but decided against it. He didn’t want to open old wounds unnecessarily and he doubted the ninety-year-old could add anything to what Derek had already told him.

He did make a trip to the public library on Monroe Avenue, however. He toured the relevant areas, taking notes and photographs, before leaving to drive to Medford.

One should never be in a hurry when on a research trip—that’s how important details were overlooked. But as he drove he couldn’t seem to stop craving the sanctuary of his cottage. And Charlotte.

He wanted to go back.

Instead, he headed to the Interstate and drove south to Medford. He took the time to tour a vineyard on the way and when he finally arrived at the city limits it was getting dark.

Resigned to another night in a nondescript motel room, he pulled over to a lodge where he planned to spend the night writing about Bernice Gilberg while Derek’s story was fresh in his mind.

He had spewed out twenty-three pages before he realized he was starving. Too tired to go in search of food, he checked the time and considered calling Charlotte.

Bad idea. He went to bed instead.

“you okay in there?”

Absorbed in the job of sorting through old books for the upcoming sale, Charlotte started.

“Sorry to scare you. Didn’t realize you were alone.” Luis, the school janitor, had a push broom in hand, probably wanted to give the gym a good sweep before the night was over. Graying, with stooped shoulders, he ought to be old enough to be retired by now. He’d been the janitor back when she’d gone to Twisted Cedars Intermediate School.

“Just give me ten minutes to finish with this box and then I’ll be out of here.” The other volunteers had left over an hour ago. But then they had families waiting for them. All she had was an empty house and a phone that might contain some messages, but not from the right person.

She was such an idiot. Until Dougal came back to town, she’d had no idea she had such a self-destructive streak.

What would Ann Landers say? She’d turned down a marriage proposal from one of the finest men in town, a good friend, solid, loyal and dependable—and taken up with someone who was the exact opposite.

Dougal never called. He didn’t take her out for dinner, give her compliments, send flowers. All he seemed to want from her was research information for his book and, occasionally, sex.

And she willingly complied on both counts.

Without complaining.

On Friday night she might as well have said to him: “Sure, drag me out in the sand for some sex, then leave town without a word. I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Luis said. “I’ll finish up with the bathrooms down the hall and then I’ll come back.”

“Thanks, Luis.”

He let the door swing shut behind him and the room fell silent again. Charlotte glanced around at the tables of books, most of them full, with more boxes of books tucked under the tables ready to be pulled out for display once the others were sold.

Tables were organized by genre. Just like at a book store, fiction was separated from non-fiction, then sub-categorized into mystery, fantasy, horror, literary fiction, bestsellers, beach reads...and so on. Based on the quantity and quality of the donations, she foresaw that they would make more than they had last year.

She turned her attention back to the box in front of her, which contained the books she and Dougal had salvaged from her aunt’s cottage. She set them out on the table for mysteries, placing them wherever she could find room. Though volunteers were asked to make their best effort to categorize books by genre and sub-genre, they did not organize within those categories. They simply didn’t have time. Besides, rummaging through a random bunch of mysteries, looking for unexpected treasures, was part of the fun.

As she pulled out the last book, Charlotte realized it was in the wrong genre.
The Scarlett Letter
ought to be included in classics. Looking closer at the old book, she noticed something had been tucked between the pages. It was a letter, in an opened envelope.

The envelope—postmarked from Portland and addressed to Shirley Hammond at her Twisted Cedars address—had been torn open on the side. Charlotte pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter, dated in the spring of 1972, was typed. The return address was from a private adoption agency.

“We are very sorry to inform you that our premises were recently broken into and the files containing information about our adoptions for the period of September to November 1950 were stolen. We assume they were taken by an adopted child attempting to circumvent the confidential terms of adoption in order to find his or her mother.

“Our agency conducted nine adoptions during this period, including yours, and so we felt it only correct to contact you and warn you that you may be approached in the near future by someone claiming to be your birth child.

“In this event...”

The letter went on with some vague advice and an apology which Charlotte skimmed over. The important information, to her mind, was in those first three paragraphs.

She had never heard her parents mention anything about Aunt Shirley having had a child and given it up for adoption. But why would they? The baby had been born decades before either she or Daisy. And it would hardly have been fodder for conversation in any case. In the 1950s pregnant teenagers—because Shirley would have been only sixteen in 1950—were considered a source of shame and disgrace.

“Still working?”

Charlotte jumped, then slipped the letter into her purse. Turning, she smiled at the janitor. “Sorry, Luis. I guess I’ve done enough for one night. I’ll get out of your way now so you can finish cleaning.”

* * *

Dougal left his motel room in Medford at noon on Wednesday morning. The cleaning woman was outside the door, waiting impatiently. She gave him a terse nod, then pushed her way inside to collect the dirty linen.

Outside it was already hot, with no ocean breeze to offer any relief. Hard to believe that Twisted Cedars—so much cooler and windier—was only seventy-five miles away, on the other side of the Cascades.

Medford was a bigger city than Corvallis, but it was no New York. As he drove toward the Pear Blossom Assisted Living Home, Dougal reflected that the citizens of Medford probably lived under the delusion that they were safer here than if they lived in a big metropolis like Manhattan.

But if there was one thing he’d learned in his years of research, it was this. No town was too small to have a dirty underbelly. Ugly crimes like rape and murder happened everywhere, and that included pretty little cities in Oregon.

He’d phoned ahead, so the staff at the Pear Blossom would be expecting him. He was directed to a Nurse Stevens, a seemingly sensible and kind woman in her early fifties.

“Ruth has been with us for a long time. She’s highly functioning and suffered with macular degeneration for several decades on her own. When she lost her sight completely, she made the difficult choice to leave her home of fifty years and move in with us. It’s sad, really, because if she had any family at all she would still be fine living at home.”

Nurse Stevens led him out to a courtyard. They found Ruth Fraser—Isabel Fraser’s mother—sitting in a shady patch next to the fruit tree for which the home was named.

For a ninety-year-old, Ruth’s posture was remarkably erect. Her hair was still thick, cut to a fashionable length at her chin and she had covered her blind eyes with a pair of designer sunglasses that made her appear rather chic. Her white cane was propped on her lap, where her hands—which truly showed the ravages of nine decades of living—were also resting.

She tilted her head as they approached. “Is this my visitor?”

“Yes it is, Ruth. Dougal Lachlan, the author. Did you bring your book for him to sign?”

Ruth nodded, and only then did Dougal notice the paperback on the bench next to her. He picked it up and sat in the space. “It’s nice to meet you, Ruth. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

“A visitor is a rare treat for me these days. Not to mention a famous author.”

“I’ll leave you two to chat then. Mr. Lachlan, when you’re finished, please sign out at the front desk?”

When he nodded his agreement, she left them alone.

“I was told you’re writing a book about my Isabel.”

He thought about all the things he could tell her. How he’d never felt so unsure about a project in his life. That he knew there was a story to be told, just wasn’t sure he’d ever discover enough to tell it. Instead, he said, “Talk to me about your daughter.”

Her face brightened—even with half of it hidden by sunglasses, he could tell that much.

“She was a wonderful girl, the pride of my life. She was only fourteen when we lost her father. In the line of duty, they called it—he was a police officer. But it was flat-out murder. A man he’d put in jail got out on bail and came after him. We went through a terrible time. I was afraid the loss of her father would turn Isabel bitter. But she was stronger than I gave her credit for. She finished high school, went on to college. I was so proud. And when she decided to come back to Medford after graduation, I admit I was relieved.”

“She was living with you when she died, wasn’t she?”

Ruth nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. She must have been a dull, quiet girl. A forty-five-year-old librarian who still lived with her mother. But she wasn’t. Isabel had so many friends. She was outgoing and fun. Oh, did that girl love to talk! She was often giving speeches at the library—and she was good at it.”

Dougal leaned back in his seat. Thanks to this woman, and Medford’s balmy climate, he was warm, inside and out. He listened through several stories, most of them made him laugh.

“Thank you for letting me share my happy memories about my girl. But I know it’s the bad stuff you came here to talk about.”

What an indictment, Dougal thought. “I know her homicide was never solved by the police. Did you have any private theories about what happened?”

“It was just one of those things, Dougal. Like when lightening kills one person standing on a golf course, but leaves the three men standing next to him unscathed. I’ve lost my husband, my daughter and now my eyesight. But I don’t feel as if a black cloud hangs over my head. I’ve had a lot of good luck too, you see. I like to think so, anyway.”

Dougal let her words settle in for a while. He felt in no hurry to move. He opened the book he was still holding in his hands, removed a pen from his pocket, and signed.

When he was done, Ruth asked him to read what he had written.

“It was an honor and a pleasure to meet you.” He closed the book and pressed it into her hands. “May I visit again, sometime?”

“I will pencil you into my schedule, Dougal.” She smiled slightly. “And I do look forward to reading your story. I hope it comes out as an audio book.”

the elementary school celebrated
the last day of the school year with a family barbecue, starting at three-thirty in the afternoon. Jamie left work early to attend. She’d baked brownies for the affair the previous evening—something that had really made her feel like a mother, as she remembered her own mom doing the exact same for her on more than one occasion.

Three days had passed since her meeting with Dougal. She hadn’t taken any further steps to find her father—but she hadn’t written off trying, either.

At twenty-to-four she met Cory in the parking lot behind the school. A row of barbecues were already in full commission, grilling burgers and hot dogs. She let Cory add the brownies to the other dessert contributions set out on a table beside a tub of ice containing juice boxes.

“Is your father here, yet?”

“He’s playing football.” Cory pointed out a group of fathers and sons scrimmaging together. Jamie sensed Cory felt left out.

“Let’s go.”

Cory glanced hopefully toward the game. “Girls aren’t playing.”

“Why not?” Jamie took Cory’s hand and walked to the edge of the field. She waited until one of the fathers noticed them.

“May we join in?”

The father seemed surprised by the request, but at that moment Kyle spotted them. Her heart lifted as he smiled, waving them onto the field. “You can both play for our side. We were one player short, anyway.”

It was simple, disorganized, spontaneous fun. No one played set positions. At one point Jamie snagged the ball only to be tackled by her own team-mate.