Buried [Completed]

Chapter thirteen

The day of his sister's wedding, Dougal was restless, unable to focus on anything, knowing his sister was making the worst mistake of her life.

He had no appetite for dinner. Instead, he tried to settle down with one of Shirley Hammond's books, and failed.

He glanced at the clock, which was working again. The ceremony would have been over hours ago. Now they were probably dancing and making speeches. He should be there.

Dougal went to the kitchen table, hoping to distract himself. This was his new makeshift office. He'd put away the place mats and salt and pepper shakers, making room for his lap top and printer. His notes were strewn here, too. A study in disorganization. Like his thoughts. He laid out the printed copies of the emails he had received so far.

You don't know me. But you should. I've got a story that will be the best of your career. Back in the seventies four women were killed. Librarians. No one ever solved the cases. But I know what happened. Ever hear of Elva Mae Ayer? She was the first. Check it out then let me know if you want the names of the others. I am here and willing to help. Then the second: The next year Mari Beamish was murdered. There was a pattern, but don't feel bad if you don't see it yet. The cops never did make the connection. Those were different times, before computers and all the advances in forensics. Now you get to be the hero who pieces it all together. You can thank me later.

It had been a week since the last message. He wondered when the next one would come. According to that first message, there had been two other women killed and he had no way to identify them.

He supposed he could search death records— but from where? So far the murders had taken place in small cities in Oregon.

But the pattern— if there indeed was one— was still very unclear.

He wished Charlotte was here to talk to about this. But he hadn't seen her since his official moving day. Liz had done a great job of cleaning up the place, though he'd been relieved when she'd finally left.

He'd caught her looking at him in the oddest way several times and it had made him uneasy. But he couldn't fault the job she'd done. Even Charlotte had approved.

"The place even smells clean," she'd said. She'd arrived in a sporty '97 BMW— not the car he'd pictured her driving, not by a long shot— wearing faded jeans that molded to curves librarians weren't supposed to have. He'd helped her box up her aunt's clothing and personal items.

"Want me to clear out the bookshelves, too?" she'd asked.

"Not unless you want the books."

He'd already checked the titles: a complete collection of Sherlock Holmes mysteries as well as over twenty Agatha Christies— some featuring Poirot, some Miss Marples and even a couple with Tommy and Tuppence.

"Your aunt liked her mysteries."

"It runs in the family,"

Charlotte had replied, her voice muffled since she was in the closet. She'd emerged with her arms full of coats, which she stuffed into one of the boxes.

"What do you like to read? True crime?"

"Not so much. Thrillers, horror... Stephen King is probably my favorite author."
"Have you ever considered writing fiction?"

"That's what I started out to do."

But then he'd met an attractive woman at a bar one night. She turned out to be a New York prosecuting attorney who'd just finished working on a horrific case involving a serial rapist. They'd talked for hours, and at the end of the evening, he'd realized he'd found a story that needed to be told.