Written into the Grave

Gunhild gasped. “What? Are you saying that …” She turned and now her face was red with anger. “Nobody would have dared. Take a life. Take his life. He still had so many plans.”

Cash raised a hand to ward off further remarks. “We’ll look into it and get back to you with more details. Please keep us informed about what you’re doing and …”

He stepped back. “As you can understand, I have to oversee the investigation. I’ll leave Vicky here with you to talk some more. Good morning.”

Vicky wanted to protest that this was hardly fair, but Cash was on his way down the creaking steps already and through the still garden back to his car.

She’d have to get even with him for this somehow.

But right now the woman in front of her needed her.

Vicky said, “Perhaps it’s a good idea to go inside and have some tea?” She knew that in case of a big shock she herself would want to have something to do, to fuss with.

Gunhild didn’t seem to hear her. She stared into the garden with a forlorn expression. The tool dropped from her fingers to the floorboards in a dull clink.

Vicky went to her and caught her arm. “Are you all right? Do you want to sit down? Yes, you’d better sit down now. Come along.”

She ushered the woman to a wooden bench nearby and made her sit on it. She wished she had water to offer her or some other drink to steady her nerves.

Gunhild focused on her. “Who are you anyway? I remember you were here once. To ask about a sculpture.”

A vague smile flashed across her features. “My sculptures helped me deal with a lot of bad things in my life. They’ll have to help me deal again.”

Vicky nodded. “I was here with Marge Fisher about a donation for the lighthouse auction. You were going to make a sea-related something or other.”

Gunhild nodded. “It’s done. It’s in the shed.” She nodded in the direction of the dark wooden building with the bright roses in front of it. “I could show it to you.”

Vicky said, “In a few minutes when we’ve both calmed down, all right?”

Gunhild leaned her elbows on her knees and closed her eyes. “I don’t remember your name. You have to forgive me. I met so many new people when we came to stay here for the summer. I don’t remember all the names.”

“Vicky Simmons. I run a store in town.”

“Oh, yes, British home decoration and books and cookies.” Again there was that half smile. “My mother-in-law loves fudge. I wanted to get fudge for her at your store. She’s coming over, you see. This weekend.”

Her face tightened. “I don’t know how I can ever tell her. Her only son.”

Vicky swallowed. “It’ll be hard on both of you. You can support each other.”

Gunhild made a sound between a strangled sob and a huff. “My mother-in-law …” She fell silent and sat with her eyes closed, looking so alone that Vicky’s heart ached for her.

“You …” She looked for tactful words. “You married Archibald at a later moment?”

“Yes, I’m his second wife. We met in an art gallery where my work was on display. Archibald wanted to buy something and he asked for my advice what to get. I tried to sell him the most expensive piece, of course, as I knew he had money and I needed to live off something. He was so charming about it. He said he’d take it if I agreed to dinner with him. I did. I was flattered that he wanted to talk to me at all. I was unknown then.”

Vicky studied the woman’s beautiful face. She had that kind of quiet but haunting beauty of the classic movie stars. Her features were strong and smooth, suggesting she had a mind of her own. Goodridge had probably found it fascinating that she was an artist, a creator with a gift for making something as lifelike as the horse right behind Vicky’s back. He looked like he could run off any moment, tossing his powerful head.

Gunhild said, “We had a whirlwind romance. We married within months after our first meeting. Some people thought it was too soon, but we knew it was right. We knew each other.”

Gunhild snapped her eyes open. Up close Vicky saw how intensely blue and captivating they were. Gunhild said, “Today we should have celebrated three years. And now he’s dead.”

Her face contorted a moment. “He’ll never come home again.”

Vicky patted her arm. “If you feel up to it, we’d better move inside and have that tea now.”

Gunhild shook her head. “No, I want to show you the donation for the lighthouse auction. Please let me show you something that … Archibald saw finished. He told me exactly what he thought of it. He always did. He looked at everything I made and gave his opinion. He was …” Her voice died down.

Vicky helped her to rise and followed her to the shed. Made of dark wood, it had a narrow door that was flanked on one side by the climbing roses in deep pink. Gunhild caught one in her palm a moment and inhaled the scent.

Vicky wondered if Archibald Goodridge might have picked such a rose to take in to his wife that evening as they sat down to celebrate their anniversary. Now he’d never do anything again.

Gunhild opened the door of the shed. “This is quite my little treasure trove.”

The light was dim inside because there was but one small window, but Gunhild flicked a switch at the door, and bright white light came down from above. It illuminated two benches along the walls of the shed. One bench held several sculptures, the other gardening tools. In the back was also a lawn mower in fiery red. Vicky was surprised it even fit through the narrow door.

Gunhild smiled and pointed at the sculpture of a jumping dolphin. The animal seemed to emerge from the rock and jump high into the air, celebrating life and freedom.

Vicky wanted to say it was beautiful and Gunhild had an amazing talent to create real-life art, but the words got stuck in her throat as she realized that Goodridge was dead.

Gunhild seemed to sense the same thing because she moved away from the bench with sculptures and fingered the gardening tools on the other bench. The silence hung heavy in the small shed.

“You have a lovely garden,” Vicky said quickly. “I can never get my roses to blossom quite as yours do.”

“You must take some home,” Gunhild said. “Let me get you some.”

“No, I didn’t say it to—”

“Just let me do something, please.” Gunhild went for the wall where a large beige wall covering hung, with pockets holding several types of scissors and shears. It looked like a craft project, devised for this practical purpose. Apparently Gunhild was creative in different ways.

She pulled out a pruning tool so violently the whole construction came down off the wall. The metal tools clattered to the floor, and Gunhild gasped, shrinking as if the sound shook through her body. “Oh, how stupid of me.”

She squatted to pick them up again, her hands shaking.

Vicky came to her to lend a hand. “Be careful. Those tools have sharp edges. Let me do it for you.”

Then Gunhild gave a little scream. She pointed at something on the floor amid the shears. It was …

A gun.

Chapter Four

“What’s that doing here?” Gunhild said in a shaky voice.

“Don’t touch it,” Vicky responded quickly. “It might be important.”

She grabbed Gunhild’s shoulders and pulled the dazed woman to her feet. “We have to go inside and call Cash at once. This could be …”

Gunhild shrieked and staggered backwards, stepping on Vicky’s foot. Vicky suppressed a cry of pain. Tears shot into her eyes at the sharp stabbing through her foot. She bit her lip as she led the distraught woman out of the shed.

Then she froze.

On the lawn a few yards away from the two of them stood a young man gazing at the both of them. He had a broad, earnest face with dark eyes and black hair, which fell in a lock over his forehead. He wore jeans with dirty patches on the knees, an old T-shirt with a faded quote and sneakers.

“What’s up, Gunhild?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“Of course not. I’m just …” Gunhild straightened up and wiped a hand across her face. “I’m fine, Trevor.”

Vicky held her breath. Trevor Jenkins was the last person she had expected to turn up here this morning. The alleged killer staring at them with an expression she could not quite place. Had he come to find out if the murder was already known around town?

Had he put the gun among the shears in the shed?

But why? It was a place he, as a gardener, had access to. It would immediately point in his direction.

Did he not understand that?

Or was that what he wanted?

If he had written that piece for the Gazette, maybe he was sort of … indulging in his role as killer?

“We’d better go in,” Gunhild said and turned to the house.

Vicky came with her, noticing that Trevor followed them like a puppy dog. Her stomach knotted, thinking he might really have shot Goodridge at the cliffs that morning and was now here like nothing had happened. What kind of person was he really?

They went through the back door into the laundry where a washing machine whirred. Then into the kitchen.

Gunhild sank onto a chair. Trevor went to the sink. “Tea?” he asked and without waiting he filled the water cooker.

Vicky stared at him. He acted like he was right at home here. Like he had done this countless times before.

Gunhild sat at the table, shivering. She leaned her elbows on the table’s surface and stared at Vicky. “What was that thing doing in the shed?”

Vicky shrugged. “That’s for Cash to find out.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. She didn’t want a discussion about the gun with Trevor present.

“What are you doing?” Trevor asked in a sharp tone. He had turned the water cooker on and stood eyeing her.

“Just making a call,” Vicky said as casually as she could. Her back was cold with the intensity of his gaze. She had never really paid attention to him before, but now she started to wonder if he was in any way emotionally unbalanced.

Dangerous.

The dispatcher answered, and Vicky said, “Could you ask Cash to come out here at once? He knows where I am. Vicky Simmons. It’s urgent.”

She hoped Cash would understand that something was wrong at the Goodridge residence and would hurry out here.

She pushed disconnect. Trevor asked, “Why are you calling for the sheriff?”

So he knew who Cash was. Vicky had somehow hoped he wouldn’t.

“We made a discovery in the shed, and the police have to look at that.” Vicky smiled at him. “Nothing serious. Oh, the water is ready. Can you make the tea?”

Trevor nodded and picked up a tin that stood on a shelf over the sink. He wriggled the lid off and pulled a tea bag out. He held it up for Gunhild to see. “Your favorite. Cookies?”

Gunhild shook her head. “I can’t eat anything right now.”

“Well, I can. I had no breakfast.”

Vicky stared at the young man. Was it possible to kill in cold blood and hours later drink tea with the widow of your victim like nothing had happened?

But wait.

All she knew for sure was that Trevor had written up a rather chilling piece for the local paper and that someone had died in a manner very similar to it. She didn’t know for sure if Trevor was actually involved in the death.

“So you’re in Marge’s writing group?” she said.

Trevor had opened a cupboard to get out another tin. He pulled the lid off and helped himself to two chocolate-covered cookies, putting them between his teeth while he put the lid back on and returned the tin to the cupboard shelf.

“Hmmm,” he grunted in affirmation of her question.

“You’re all in the newspaper these days with an installment in the serial Seaside Secrets,” Vicky continued. She didn’t know if it was smart to discuss this topic, but she’d feel better if she could ascertain how much Trevor knew about his contribution bearing a striking resemblance to a real-life incident in town.

Trevor had pulled the cookies out of his mouth again, resting one on the edge of the sink while he broke the other in halves. He pushed a half into his mouth and nodded again.

“Your entry was today, right?” Vicky continued, determined to keep the conversation going so Trevor wouldn’t get spooked until Cash arrived. “I wasn’t quite sure about the details of the serial idea. Does everybody get to choose the contents of their own entry?”

Trevor nodded. “We agreed on the theme summer and secrets, but the rest is up to each writer. It helps to get the creative juices flowing.”

“And how do you send it in?” Vicky asked.

“Via email. They then get it in the paper.” Trevor ate the rest of the cookies and nodded again. “I heard that they cut it off if it’s over word length. I hope mine wasn’t. The last sentence was quite a cliffhanger.”

The word cliff made Vicky cringe.

Gunhild looked up. “Really? I haven’t read it yet. Where’s the paper? It might take my mind off all this miserable mess today.”

Vicky jumped. “No, you shouldn’t read it. It’s not … uh wise in your state of mind.”

Gunhild hitched a fine brow. “I don’t understand.” She looked at Trevor and smiled. “Have you added in some naughty bits?”

Trevor flushed. “Of course not. They told us from the start we weren’t supposed to shock people. Danning doesn’t want to lose readers.”

Vicky was stunned. “And you don’t think your piece was shocking?”

“Not really. I stuck to the rules.” Trevor shrugged. “I like my writing darker, but hey, if you’re part of a group project, you have to stick to the rules.”

Darker than a man plummeting to his death off the cliffs? Damaging his face so even his own wife might not be allowed to see him anymore?

Vicky swallowed. Outside she heard a police siren. Relief flooded her.

Trevor perked up. “What’s that? Why did you call the police to arrive like …” He fell silent.

Gunhild also shook her head. “I know it can’t be kept a secret for long, but I can’t stand the idea of all those people feeling sorry for me.” She hid her face in her hands. A sob rang out.

Trevor came over at once and put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed. “Don’t cry. I’m here for you.”

Vicky inched back. If Trevor was the killer, his behavior was … most peculiar.

Or maybe not? Did he really think that he could support Gunhild now that her husband was gone for good?

The back door was torn open so hard it almost came off its hinges, and Cash stormed in. When he saw Vicky, he exhaled. “You look all right. Good. Great. You gave me a scare. Why leave such a cryptic message with my dispatcher?”

He focused on Gunhild at the table. “Are you all right, Mrs. Goodridge?”

His expression darkened as he saw Trevor. “Jenkins … What are you doing here?”

Trevor seemed surprised at the question. “Working of course.”

“He’s our gardener,” Gunhild said. “He tends to the lawn and all.”

Meaning Trevor came into the shed often. Where the gun had been found. Hidden in the cotton pocket organizer for the tools.

Cash hmm-ed.

Trevor said in a challenging tone, “Is gardening illegal these days?”

Cash said, “Not that I know of.” He looked at Vicky again. “So what did you call me about?”

Gunhild said in a shriek, “We found a gun in the shed.”

Trevor stepped back from her. “A gun?” he echoed.

Cash said, “Have you touched it? Smeared the prints?”

Vicky shook her head. “It fell to the floor. Nobody touched it. You can get prints off I suppose.”

Trevor inhaled hard.

Cash looked at him. “You know anything about that gun?”

Trevor jerked up his shoulders. “Me? Why me?”

“Well, as gardener you work in the shed, I suppose.”

“Of course. But gardening isn’t done with guns.”

Cash nodded. “Still I’d like you to come to the station with me for a statement.”

“About what?” Trevor asked. His expression was confused, but something flashed in his eyes. Resistance.

“Your little contribution to our morning paper.” Cash leaned back on his heels. With his bulk he obstructed the way to the back door.

Vicky held her breath.

Trevor eyed Cash. “Are you nuts? What’s wrong with writing a piece for the paper?”

He looked at Vicky. “First it’s my gardening that you don’t like, now something else. What’s really up here?”

“We’ll talk about it at the station,” Cash said. “Can I trust you to come quietly or do I need to handcuff you?”

Trevor’s jaw sagged. “What am I, a suspect?”

He glanced at Gunhild. “You don’t think that the gun in the shed is mine, do you?”

“Well, is it?” Cash asked.

Trevor kept his eyes on Gunhild. “Do you think that the gun in the shed is mine?” His voice pitched as if he was desperate for her to deny she thought that.

Gunhild shook her head wearily. “I don’t know, Trevor. I just need to sit quietly.”

“What’s wrong here?” Trevor said. His voice lowered as he repeated the questions, “What’s wrong here? What are you doing to her? Hey?”

He stepped up to Vicky and eyed her with a frown. “Who are you anyway? I’ve never seen you around here before. Have you made Gunhild cry?”

“Calm down,” Cash said, taking Trevor by the wrist.

Without warning the young man swung at him with his free arm, hitting Cash full in the face. He grunted, and blood began to run from his nose.

Gunhild shrieked. She was deadly pale and looked ready to collapse.

Trevor pushed past Cash and was out of the back door in an instant.

Vicky yelled, “Hold him.”

She wanted to go after the guy herself, but having just seen what he had done to Cash, she knew there was little point in it. She would only get hurt.

Outside she heard shouting—and looking out of the kitchen window she saw Trevor and a deputy wrestling in the grass. Trevor was on top of the deputy, and she just wanted to alert Cash, who was nursing his bleeding face, when the deputy made a lightning-fast move and was now on top of Trevor. He managed to pull the gardener’s arms behind his back, and while the young man roared like an injured bull, the deputy handcuffed him.

Cash said, “I need to see that gun.” His voice sounded nasal.

“Is your nose broken?” Vicky asked. She knew this was part of Cash’s job but she felt guilty for having called him without alerting him to the danger Trevor might pose.

“I don’t think so. Still it hurts. Stupid kid.” Cash exhaled hard. “He’s only making it worse for himself. I could charge him for assaulting me. Regardless of what else he might have done.”

He nodded at Gunhild. “Do you mind if Vicky shows me the gun in the shed? You had better stay in here and take it easy for the moment.”

Gunhild didn’t even look up. “Do whatever you want,” she said in a flat tone.

Outside the deputy had dragged Trevor to his feet. His hair stood up, and his T-shirt was almost backwards from the shuffle. He yelled, “Are you all crazy? I did nothing wrong. You’re arresting me for no reason. I did nothing wrong.”

“We’ll talk about that at the station.” Cash gestured at the deputy. “Put him in the car and stay with him. Make sure he can’t pull any tricks.”

“Like I can run away with these on,” Trevor scoffed, moving his hands behind his back so his cuffs clinked. “I’ll file charges against you for police brutality!”

“Be my guest,” Cash said. “I can file against you for assaulting an officer of the law. Obstructing me while I was performing my duty. Do you have any idea what you can get for that? Just for that? Not mentioning the rest.”

“What rest? You tried to attack me, without any reason, and I only defended myself. I’ll get a lawyer who can prove it,” Trevor yelled as he was dragged to the police car.

Cash sighed. He wiped at the bloodstain on his shirt right over his badge. “This is going to be a long day. Now for that gun …”

Vicky showed it to him in the shed where the stark bright electric light was still on.

Cash studied the weapon without picking it up from the floor. “No way of saying whether it could have fired the lethal shots, but ballistics will be able to tell. I’d better call in a team for fingerprints and all. Maybe Trevor also hid other things here?”

Vicky frowned. “It’s hardly hiding when a gun can fall out any time someone happens to tug too hard on that cotton organizer.” She nodded in the direction of the homemade contraption against the wall.

Cash shrugged. “Trevor might not have thought about that or believed he was the only one to come in here.”

“And those?” Vicky gestured at Gunhild’s sculptures on the bench. “Trevor knew she came here to work on those or at least store them. He can hardly have believed this was his little sanctuary.”

“Maybe he reckoned she wouldn’t go near the tools. He was the gardener, right?”

Vicky remained doubtful. “Yes, but most women cut roses and other flowers from their garden for the house. In fact, the thing fell and the gun came out when Gunhild offered to cut me a few of those pink roses that grow just outside the shed. She wanted to get shears for it.”

Cash waved a hand. “Whatever. I’ll think about all that later. Now I need to get our hot-headed suspect to the station.”

He reached up as if he wanted to touch his painful nose, then thought better of it and pulled his hand down again. “At least I now have something to hold him on. Until I’ve figured out the whole connection between the newspaper bit and the murder.”

Vicky followed him out of the shed.

At the police car Trevor was wailing out of the open window. “I did nothing wrong. I did …”

Then Gunhild came from the house in a run, something in her hand. Her face was ashen, and her light hair caught on the wind. She looked like a fury in a painting Vicky had once seen, a creature of vengeance coming down on the world.

At the police car she waved the thing in her hand at Trevor. It was the Glen Cove Gazette. “You … You killed him. You …” She gasped for breath. “You wrote down exactly how you’d do it and then you did it. You’re sick. Sick! You even dare show your face here after …”

The paper fluttered into the grass as Gunhild staggered.

Cash and the deputy each grabbed her from one side. Cash said, “Quickly back into the house. She’s in shock.”

Trevor called, “I didn’t do anything. I don’t understand. Gunhild! I didn’t do anything. Please. Gunhild!”

His calls were like those of a child for a mother he is separated from.

The despair in his face seemed real.

Vicky swallowed as she followed the men who carried the collapsed woman back into the house.

Chapter Five

After they had put Gunhild on the couch to come to her senses, Cash said to Vicky, “You have to stay here with her. She can’t be alone like this.”

Vicky checked her watch. “I should have been at the store already. There might be customers. Marge isn’t there because she’s helping a friend with a move and …”

“Call Ms. Tennings or somebody else,” Cash said brusquely. “This is more important.”

Vicky eyed him. “Trevor just showed up here, acting like nothing was wrong. He was making tea for us and all.” She gestured at the teapot and cups on the sink. “Can he really have believed he could get away with it?”

“Maybe he’s mentally unstable.” Cash shrugged. “Doesn’t have a conscience or a sense of guilt like other people do. I’ll have to bring someone in to assess him, I suppose. The risk he poses to others and possibly to himself. If we’re locking him up, I don’t want to take any chances of him hurting himself and escaping his trial.”

Vicky said, “I think he’s still very confused as to why he’s being taken in. You didn’t exactly explain it to him.”

Something about Trevor’s bewildered cries at Gunhild made her pity the young man. He might be a clever actor, or someone who was falling from one emotion into the other without having control over it himself, but he also might genuinely be ignorant of the developments.