Buried (Twisted Cedars Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

Dougal reached Roseburg, Oregon, on Tuesday night. He stopped at a gas station off the Interstate to buy snacks, a six-pack and a copy of the local paper, The News-Review . Then he booked into a nearby motel and made himself comfortable.
    He was about one hundred and forty miles from Twisted Cedars, but in no hurry to get there. In New York he was a successful author, a man of some means—even though he lived modestly. It was only a persona, but he clung to it, knowing the moment he drove into his hometown he’d once again be the poor boy who’d lived on the wrong side of the tracks.
    Son of a wife-beater. And murderer.
    Dougal scanned the paper while he drank his first beer, then he powered up his laptop and checked out The News-Review on-line. Their archives went back only to 1995. He could call their office tomorrow, or the library. Both would have what he needed.
    He fell back on the bed, stared at the ceiling. One week ago, he never would have believed he’d be going back to Oregon. Yet here he was, about to start investigation into an old crime on the basis of one, lousy, anonymous email.
    Did this story really have potential, or was he killing time, putting off the moment he would see his sister, and Twisted Cedars, again?
    * * *
    Over the course of the past year Dougal’s body clock had grown out-of-kilter. He’d taken to sleeping later and later, sometimes not rising from bed until almost noon. The three-hour time difference between New York and Oregon, however, had him opening his eyes at nine, unaccountably alert. And bored.
    What the hell. Might as well get up.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, peering in the direction of the window—whose curtains he’d neglected to close last night. The day was already bright and sunny. He wished it was raining. Then he’d have an excuse to crawl back under the covers.
    But then he remembered his mission to check up on Elva Mae. Having something concrete to do gave him a reason to move. He reached for his phone and called the local library.
    The receptionist connected him to a helpful woman who agreed to check the archives for Elva Mae Ayer’s obituary and any articles related to her murder. She’d call him back. Dougal thanked her, and then went out for his next mission—to find coffee.
    He ended up in a diner next to the motel where he ordered an omelet to go with his coffee. When he was done he headed to the local library. At the reference desk he explained what he needed, then went to check his email. Ten minutes later the librarian was back.
    “I found what you were looking for.” She handed him a stack of old newspapers. “We’re working on digitizing our old papers, but we haven’t gone back this far yet. If you need to make copies, there’s a machine over there.” She pointed to an alcove behind him to the right.
    God he loved librarians. They were so helpful. He wished the last research assistant he’d hired had been half as cooperative. “Thank you. Should I return these to you when I’m finished?”
    She nodded, looking curious. “We don’t get many people interested in going back that far in our local history.”
    He recognized it was a leading question, but just smiled. With each new book he wrote, his public profile gained visibility. But he didn’t like being recognized by strangers, and did his best to protect his anonymity.
    “Thanks again,” he said, already scanning through the first of the papers.
    Elva Mae Ayer’s death had been big news in Roseburg. Dougal read the articles for facts and names of people he could follow up with. He noted the name of the Detective who’d been quoted in the articles, and also the name of the library staff member who had found the body.
    The obit provided Elva Mae’s next of kin, which turned out to be her sister, Edwina Shaw and brother-in-law Harry. Apparently Elva Mae never married or had children and her parents had pre-deceased her.
    According to several editorials, the people of Roseburg assumed