Buried [Completed]

Chapter twenty-seven

Home. Dougal tossed his duffel bag on the front area rug and set his briefcase beside it. The place smelled citrusy and fresh. Liz Brooks, he realized. He'd forgotten she was scheduled to clean last week.

In New York he'd done his own housework... such as it was. He'd grown up with a mother who cleaned homes professionally and she'd made sure both her son and her daughter knew how to do things properly. Though she was a lot younger than his mother, Liz seemed to come from the same school of thought where cleaning was concerned.

As he moved through the living room to the kitchen, then up the stairs to his bedroom, he couldn't see any spots she'd missed with either the dusting rag or the mop. On the quilt he found a pile of folded laundry. On the very top was a pair of Charlotte's pink underwear. Now what had Liz made of those?

He went back downstairs to the table where he did his writing. He'd left out some papers, the time-line he'd drawn up with the names of the victims, the map of Oregon with the murder locations circled in red. Probably meant nothing to Liz, but he made a mental note to be more careful with his notes in future.

Dougal grabbed a beer from the fridge and cracked it open. He sat on the sofa to drink it, but felt the same restless energy that had been building inside him during the long drive from Medford. He felt the need to do something, physical. Might be a good time to work up the soil for his garden.

The small shed out back had gloves and garden tools, so he polished off his drink, then made his way to the sunny patch in the back. The weeds he'd sprayed earlier were all dead now. One by one he yanked the limp, brown plants from the ground, leaving them in a pile to be disposed of later. Then he struck his spade into the ground and began the hard work of turning over the soil. Most of the plot was pretty hard going, though one section was softer than the rest, which made for a nice change. By the time he finished, he was starving.

He had a quick shower then contemplated the contents of his fridge and then his freezer. Nothing here to work with. He called Charlotte's number.

"Hello?" She sounded cautious.

"Hey, Charlotte."

"I— Dougal?"

He shouldn't have called her. He knew it. But now he had her on the line, he had to brazen through.

"Fancy a steak dinner? I was just about to fire up the barbecue."

The pause at the other end of the line was not comfortable.

"Charlotte?"

"Snapping your fingers again, are you?"

He thought this over carefully.

"I'm sorry. I'm being presumptuous. You probably already have dinner plans."

Another unnerving silence. Then, "Actually, I don't. Can I bring anything?"

"Uh... steaks would be nice. And do you have any salad fixings?"

* * *

As Charlotte added two New York strips to her basket, she couldn't believe she was doing this. Once she'd added French bread, lettuce, tomatoes and avocado, she headed for the till. At least Dougal had apologized for asking her to do the shopping.
"I'm sorry. I spent most of the week on the road. I just got home and the proverbial cupboard is bare."

He might at least have offered to take her out for a meal. Rather than tell him to call her back another time when he had a better offer, she'd sighed and volunteered to stop at the market on her way out to his place. And here she was.