Buried [Completed]

Chapter eighteen

Dougal dropped his groceries on the kitchen counter— a steak and some corn he'd picked up at Sam's Market. He was looking forward to the simple meal, along with a bottle of Pinot Noir from a case he'd bought during a detour to the Bishop Creek Winery on his drive home from Pendleton.

The idea of moving here permanently seemed more attractive with each passing day. Why not? This was a great place to write. He could easily sublet his apartment. Go back next month to get his stuff. Borden was going to be a challenge. He hoped the move wouldn't be too much for her.

While he waited for the water to boil for his corn, he wandered to his writing table and leafed through the pages he'd written that day. No doubt this place was good for his productivity. He'd poured out fifteen pages today.

A story was coming together here, he just didn't think it could ever be published, because he had no idea how it ended. Unless that was how the chain of emails was going to end... with disclosure of the killer. But somehow Dougal doubted it was going to be that easy.

The lid on the pot started clattering under the pressure of the boiling water. Dougal hurried back to the kitchen, tossed two cobs of corn in the water, and then took the steak out to the barbecue he'd bought and assembled last week.

After his meal, he went for a walk. He followed animal trails through the forest, traveling about a mile before turning and heading back to the cottage. Fifty yards from home he found what had once been a fenced off area. The fence posts were still standing but the wire had been trampled to the ground, probably by deer. It was too small for an animal enclosure.

Shirley had that well-worn book on growing vegetables— maybe this was where she'd had her garden. He wandered around the patchy vegetation, pulled out a hunk of grass and noted the soil was dark and loamy. Homegrown carrots and peas would sure taste great.

He remembered eating some of Stella's when he'd been a kid. Maybe he could try his hand at growing a few things next year— if he stayed.

* * *

When Dougal stepped back into the house, he heard the phone ringing. He had no reason to hurry to catch it, yet he did. It was Charlotte.

"Dougal?"

Who else did she expect it to be?

"Yes. Is Wade still there?"

"He just left."

"That's early."

"Yes."

"So... how was the dinner?"

"It was sad."

Okay then. She hadn't changed her mind about marrying him.

"The reason I was calling," she continued, sounding now as if she were reading from a script, "is because I'm looking for donations for the library's annual used book sale. Proceeds go toward new books for under-privileged children."

"Good cause," he murmured, amused by her spiel.

She went off script then. "Yes it is. And I started thinking it's a shame that so many of my aunt's books are just sitting there, unused. Perhaps even some valuable first editions."

Dougal suppressed a laugh.

"It's eight o'clock on a Friday evening and you're calling me— a man you've recently had sex with— about a used book drive?"

She was silent for a moment. He thought he might have pushed her too hard. Then she said,

"Kind of obvious, huh?"

"Perhaps you'd better come over here and help me sort out the books yourself."