Written into the Grave

Cash gave her a dark look. “Are you criticizing my behavior?’

“No, but … he seemed so confused and … Maybe he really has no idea what’s up?”

Cash leaned back on his heels. “He wrote the piece for the paper. If anybody knows what’s up, it’s him.”

“Yes, that certainly seems so, but …” Vicky’s thoughts raced. “Maybe Trevor discussed it beforehand with others. Maybe people knew he was sending it in. Maybe they took advantage of this opportunity. The doctor did use odd words for the dead man, that he was an unlikable type and even that he was guilty of something. If Goodridge had enemies …”

“Enemies who just happened to know what exactly Trevor was writing up for his contribution to the serial in our local paper? Doesn’t seem likely to me.”

“Well, at least you can explain to him what’s wrong.”

“I might get more while he’s still confused. I want to know where he was before he came here and how the gun came to be in the shed.”

Cash waved at her. “I have to get on it. You stay here with Mrs. Goodridge and take care of her until she is better or someone else is here to see to her needs. I’ll call you later, OK? Bye.”

Vicky sighed as Cash stalked off. She pulled out her phone again and called Marge. Her friend answered at the third ring. “Vicky! I’m so relieved. I heard something was up near the beach and when you didn’t turn up here, I thought—”

“You’re at the store?” Vicky interjected.

“Yes. The move has been postponed again so I came to work. Where are you?”

“With someone who’s feeling ill and needs someone to sit with her for a while. I’ll explain everything to you later, OK? Just take care of the store for me. I’ll stop by as soon as I’m done here.”

Vicky hung up before Marge could ask more.

Gunhild was lying on the couch, her hands over her face. Vicky heard her slow, deliberate breathing. She asked carefully, “How are you now?”

“I wish I had never read that paper. I can’t get the words out of my head, describing the dead body’s fall to the cliffs below. Describing Archie’s …” Her voice choked. “How can Trevor have thought up something so … terrible. And done it. Done it!”

Vicky said, “Take it easy now. No need to get all worked up.”

“Worked up?” Gunhild shot into a sitting position and stared at Vicky with burning eyes. “My husband’s dead. Dead because someone shot him. And that someone wrote about it in the newspaper as if it was some kind of an accomplishment. Something to gloat about! How can I not be worked up? I could kill Trevor right now.” She made a grabbing movement with her hands.

“How well do you know Trevor anyway?”

Gunhild took a moment to calm herself before she could reply. “Oh, he’s worked for us since we came to this house. He seemed a nice boy, really good with the flowers. There didn’t seem to be a violent bone in his body. And he liked my art. Or so he said.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Archie never liked him. He said Trevor was worshiping Kaylee. He always … got jealous of other men showing an interest in his daughter. Kaylee used to say she’d never find a boyfriend this way, because Archie scared them all off. It wasn’t that bad really. He was just protective of her. Afraid she’d make wrong decisions.”

Gunhild glanced at the open cupboard along the wall. It held several photographs in silver frames. “Have a look there, Vicky. See what a handsome man he … was.” Her voice cracked on the past tense.

Vicky went over and picked up a photograph of a man holding a trophy. “He liked sports?”

“Tennis foremost. A little golf. Always liked to be the best in everything he did.” Gunhild smiled thinly. “That was his way.”

Vicky put the photo back and studied the wedding picture beside it. The man in a suit, Gunhild in a stunning white dress with a big bouquet. There was also a girl of sixteen or seventeen in the shot, standing next to the man. She was smiling, but her eyes were full of a strange intensity. Daring maybe?

“Is that Kaylee? She’s the daughter from his first marriage, right?” Vicky asked.

Gunhild looked and nodded. “Yes. She came to live with us when we married. I’ll have to call her to tell her the news. But I really don’t want to do it. She’s a real Daddy’s girl, you know. This will completely destroy her. Oh, I can’t understand why Trevor did it.”

She began to sob again.

Vicky didn’t know what to say or do. She stayed in place, rubbing her hands together.

Gunhild said between sobs, “I liked him and wanted to keep him on while Archie wanted to fire him. If only I had listened to him. Then maybe Archie would still be alive.”

Vicky didn’t follow. “Why would he? If your husband had fired Trevor, he would only have made Trevor mad, giving him more of a reason to come after him and kill him. Right?”

Gunhild cried into her hands.

Vicky looked around. She wanted to get away from the woman’s raw grief but didn’t know if she could leave her alone in the emotional state she was in. Cash had told her to stay until somebody else could take over. But whom could she ask? “Anyone I can call to come over and be with you?”

Gunhild shook her head. “I don’t have close friends here. I have my art.”

“But surely you know someone who …”

“It’s all right; I can be alone.” Gunhild rubbed her smudged face. “I won’t hurt myself. I have to be strong now for Kaylee and Archie’s mother. The poor old woman. How will she endure this?”

Vicky said, “Are you sure I shouldn’t call someone? A neighbor maybe?”

“They never liked us buying this house. Out-of-towners, you know.” Gunhild sniffed. “Archie tried hard to make friends, but I … I like the quiet, you know. And people think I don’t speak English.”

“But your English is very good,” Vicky said. “How long have you lived in the United States?”

“For five years. But I always spoke English before that. I traveled with my art.”

“I see.” Vicky smiled at her. “You shouldn’t worry about your English. Locals here do tend to be a bit standoffish when they don’t know you, but that changes over time. I’d love you to come over to my store sometime or have dinner with me.”

“That’s kind, but I don’t need pity.”

Vicky shrank under the feisty tone. “It’s not …”

Gunhild held her gaze. “I’m a widow now. Widows are pitiful, right? My mother was a widow so I know. I had hoped never to be in that position.”

Her hand clawed at a pillow, crushing the edge. “But now it has happened, and there’s no way back. I’ll have to make the best of it. Thank you for your support, but I can manage now.”

Vicky stepped back. “If you’re sure …”

“Yes, I’m sure. I need to rest now and collect my thoughts so I can call Kaylee and Mother. It’ll be hard.”

“Yes …” Vicky gestured at the kitchen. “Then I’ll let myself out. Call me if you need anything. I’ll write down the number.” She took a pen and pad from her purse and scribbled her cell phone number on a sheet. She pulled it off the pad and put it on a side table. “I do realize we’re virtual strangers, but I want to help out, be there for you in this difficult time.”

“Thank you.” Gunhild rubbed her face again. “I’m sorry if I … I’m not myself. It’ll be better later, I’m sure.”

Vicky said goodbye and left the house. She stood a few moments, breathing the invigorating scents of blooms and herbs. The sun felt warm on her face, an odd sensation after the chill in the house.

She reached up and rubbed her arms. Cash had left her here without transportation. That meant she had to walk back to town. But she’d do anything rather than stay here and watch Gunhild’s despair, knowing there was nothing she could say or do to make it any better. Her husband had died, on their wedding anniversary, leaving her a widow like her mother had been.

And the unhappy task of informing a daughter and mother pressed upon her.

Vicky walked across the path to the entry gate.

Outside it, a mailman had just halted. He greeted her and held out the mail, apparently assuming she was the inhabitant of the house. Vicky shook her head. “I’m just leaving. I hardly know the family. You have to put those in the mailbox.”

The mailman eyed her. “Taking care of the house while they’re on holiday, are you? I heard their housekeeper had left. Couldn’t stand the arguments anymore.”

“Arguments?” Vicky asked. “Between Mr. and Mrs. Goodridge?”

“No, between him and his daughter. Odd girl, the housekeeper said. Spending money like water. Her father didn’t like it and took her to task for it. Their shouting could be heard all through the house.” The mailman grimaced. “Can’t say I blame her for leaving.”

“Well,” Vicky said, uncomfortable at this rather personal revelation. “I really don’t know them well and the daughter not at all so …”

The mailman had put his bike against the gate and was stuffing the letters into the mailbox. “You better hope you never meet her then. Nasty temper, they say. Good day.”

Vicky opened the gate and let herself out. She stared after the mailman who cycled on, whistling.

So Goodridge’s daughter had been arguing with him, violently. Recently, which suggested she had been here. Staying at the house even? Why then had Gunhild spoken as if she had to call her far away? Had she left again?

Or was she still around town?

Chapter Six

Vicky had just walked for a few minutes when a car engine came up from behind her. A horn honked cheerfully, and she looked over her shoulder to see a bright red compact approach. It halted beside her, and Vicky leaned over to look who was inside it.

To her surprise she spotted Ms. Tennings behind the wheel. The retired nanny and royalty expert helped out at the Country Gift Shop and via her many contacts at bridge clubs engaged new customers for the store.

“What a cute little car,” Vicky exclaimed as she looked it over.

Ms. Tennings grinned. “I thought you’d like it. A friend of mine was getting rid of it as she’s moving away to live with her eldest daughter and her family. They have two cars there so she said bringing a third was complete nonsense. I bought it from her for a very reasonable price and I thought we could use it between us. It’s handy for you to have access to a car to make deliveries for the store.”

“But …” Vicky’s mind was quickly going over her financial situation, calculating if she could afford to pay for half of this car this month.

Ms. Tennings lifted a hand off the wheel. “It’s mine for now, and you can use it for the store whenever you like. Just let me know, and I’ll put it in the church parking lot where you can easily get it. I don’t want any money for it. I’m happy to be part of the team. Now can I give you a lift into town?”

“Yes, please.” Vicky opened the passenger door and got in. As she settled into the seat, she felt how tired she was. She closed her eyes a moment.

Ms. Tennings said, “Marge called me and told me that you were out on some errand and had sounded a bit … stressed.”

“Stressed is an understatement,” Vicky said. She opened her eyes again and related the story of how her nice, innocent beach walk with the dogs had ended in a confrontation with a crime scene and the realization it was a lot like the installment of Seaside Secrets in the Gazette

Ms. Tennings nodded fervently. “Oh, yes, I read it this morning over breakfast. Quite engaging. I thought to myself that Trevor might have a gift for writing a darker type of crime book. To be honest, I had wanted to ask Marge if Trevor was writing a novel. I wanted to suggest to Marge to encourage Trevor to submit his work to a publisher and see if there’s any interest for it.”

Vicky sucked in air. It felt cold in her dry throat. “I don’t think Trevor’s mind is on writing and finding a publisher right now. Cash took him down to the station, handcuffed and all.”

“Why? Does he know for sure Trevor has anything to do with what happened at the cliffs?”

Vicky told her about the victim, the fall, the doctor’s mention of bullets in the chest, her visit with Cash to the distraught widow, the gun in the shed.

Ms. Tennings listened with deep concentration, all the while steering the compact along the road into town. They arrived in the church parking lot just as Vicky came to the part about Trevor’s arrest and Gunhild’s collapse. “I feel bad for having left her alone, but she wanted it and she was also mentioning having to call people to tell them of her husband’s death. I felt a bit superfluous there.”

Ms. Tennings nodded. “I’ve been to their house when they gave a housewarming party after they moved in. Gunhild Goodridge struck me as a very calm and capable woman who doesn’t let things go to her head. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I even think she feels awkward now about having shown tears in front of you and having collapsed when the police were there. I wonder what exactly made her collapse.”

“Well, it was a bit much—all on top of each other. Especially Trevor appearing on the scene, acting perfectly normal while he had written that terrible piece in the Gazette. Gunhild mentioned in passing that Trevor worshiped Goodridge’s daughter Kaylee. And the mailman told me she left the house after violent altercations with her father. Maybe Trevor cared so much for Kaylee he took it out on Goodridge?”

Ms. Tennings had turned the ignition off and extracted the key. She looked at Vicky. “You’ll have to ask Marge. She knows Trevor much better. Not only is he in her writing group but he even comes to her home to play with her kids.”

“What?” Vicky shivered. “Imagine discovering that a guy you let come play with your kids is a cold-blooded killer.”

“We don’t know yet if he is.” Ms. Tennings wagged a finger at Vicky and then opened the car door on her side. “Time to go ask Marge what she thinks. She might be able to tell us more about Trevor’s feelings toward the Goodridge family, including the daughter.”

“OK.” Vicky clambered out as well and shut her door. The sun shone friendly and warm down on them through a crack in the clouds but the wind breathing down the street carried a chill.

In front of the diner the two flowerpots didn’t hold geraniums anymore but held heather instead.

And the chalkboard that had advertised iced coffee now advertised spiced latte.

Fall was on its way into town. There were subtle little changes, but it was as if people weren’t quite ready yet to let go of the bountiful summer season.

Vicky herself had felt a little dread as she had turned the calendar in the store from August to September and realized that the tourist stream would be drying up. School was starting again; people were going back to work; the pull of the ocean for summer sports was disappearing.

The beach would again become the territory of local dog owners and kids with kites who braved the hard wind. If the fall had sunshine and mild temperatures, there might be another influx of elderly couples who didn’t have work or children to think of and who’d rent cottages and take boat trips and come to the diner for spiced latte with cinnamon buns.

But if fall decided it would show its grim face with overcast skies—or even worse full-blown storms that lasted for days—nobody would drive down Main Street but the random local who needed a few supplies. All the stores would have to struggle to make it through the upcoming months and revive again in spring.

Vicky shook herself from her somber thoughts and followed Ms. Tennings to the Country Gift Shop. Marge stood on the sidewalk, her head tilted to one side, staring intently into the window. Ms. Tennings came upon her softly and grabbed her shoulders.

Marge gasped. “Don’t sneak like that!” She pushed her hand to her heart.

Ms. Tennings pulled a contrite expression. “I’m sorry. You were just so lost to the world. What are you doing?”

“I’m figuring out the best way to display the dogs.” Marge nodded at the window.

Vicky had finally been able to offer stock from a big-name company who created tiny porcelain hand-painted dogs. All different breeds in very lifelike colors and postures.

They demanded you carried a minimum amount of their line, which had meant a substantial investment on Vicky’s part. But she had wanted them so badly. Through the years she had sent Claire a few as birthday presents and knew there would be fans in the area who’d be delighted that they could browse the assortment in a physical store. Of course she’d also offer them online in her web shop that had just gone live last week.

Marge said, “They’re relatively small so they sort of vanish among the other items on offer. I was thinking up a way to give them some more attention but I hadn’t quite figured it out yet.”

Vicky leaned over to her friend and said in a low voice, “Did you happen to read Trevor Jenkins’ installment in your writing group serial in the Gazette this morning?”

Marge slapped her flat hand against her forehead. “Forgotten all about it. It was kind of crazy this morning over breakfast as a full carton of milk got spilled across the floor and gym clothes happened to have vanished overnight. I didn’t have time to pour myself a cup of coffee, let alone read the paper. Was it any good? I do hope it was, for Trevor’s sake. He’s so serious about his writing.”

“It was sensational,” Vicky said in a sour tone. “You’d better come in with us so we can fill you in.”

Marge hitched a brow at her tone and expression, but turned to the store’s door.

At that moment a voice rang out on the other side of the street. “I’m not letting them lie here on offer. It’s shameful!” Mrs. Jones of Jones General Store plucked the Gazettes from their display despite protestations from her husband who was standing next to her and trying to pull the newspapers from her grasp. To put them back in place it seemed.

“What are they arguing about?” Marge asked with a hitched brow.

They could hear Mrs. Jones screech, “I’ll not let an advertisement for murder lie around my store.”

“Did she say murder?” Marge asked, even more surprised.

Vicky patted her shoulder to usher her onward to the store’s door. “Inside, and we’ll tell you all about it.”

Marge froze and glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me we’ve had another murder in Glen Cove. It can’t be so soon after the others.”

Vicky nodded at the store’s door. “Inside. Please.”

They went in and closed the door. Marge leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who’s dead?”

“Archibald Goodridge. Shot while he was jogging along the cliffs.”

Marge grimaced. “Robbery? I didn’t know him well, but I did see once that he had this expensive gold watch on him and gold cuff links.”

“Probably not while jogging,” Vicky said. “Besides, the impact of the bullets made him fall down the cliffs so the killer would have had to clamber down to get anything off him.”

Marge grimaced even more. “The body must have been … How do you know this?”

“I hit on the crime scene while I was walking Mr. Pug and Coco.”

“Did you see … Oh, Vicky, I’m so sorry for you.” Marge reached out to her to hug her.

Vicky smiled at her friend in reassurance. “I didn’t see anything gruesome fortunately. The police were already there. Tipped off by someone walking his dog, I heard. Cash told me a thing or two. And … I also knew details. From the Gazette.”

“The Gazette?” Marge echoed. “You’ve lost me. How would you know details of a murder from a newspaper that you read before you went for the walk with Mr. Pug and Coco?”

“Yes. But the piece in the Gazette described the murder. In details that couldn’t be mistaken.”

Marge stared. “What? So that’s why Mrs. Jones doesn’t want it to stay on offer. Because as she puts it, it advertises murder. But why on earth would Michael Danning write about a murder that was still to happen?”

“Not Michael,” Vicky said. “Trevor Jenkins. His entry in your writing group serial described the murder exactly as it happened in real life.”

Marge stared at her, mouth open. “That can’t be.”

“Yes. I read the piece to my mother when I was at her home to get the dogs for our morning walk. I was kind of struck by the details and the raw emotion in the piece. Then when I met Cash and heard about the victim—what he wore, what he had been doing there, how it had happened, with two gunshot wounds to the chest …”

“And you told Cash about the newspaper piece?” Marge asked at once.

“Yes, I had to. Cash even has Trevor at the station right now.” Vicky checked her watch. “I bet Cash has never had a crime where the presumed culprit was under lock and key so soon after the discovery of the crime.”

Marge shook her head. “There must be some kind of mistake. Trevor is a perfectly nice guy. He came to our home, played with the boys. He helped baking pizza. He’s not a murderer. I’m going to the police station right now. Trevor needs a lawyer.”

“Marge …” Vicky caught her friend’s arm. “Before you rush in and start defending Trevor, you should know he might have had a motive for the murder.”

“A motive? What then?”

Vicky told her everything that had happened during her visit to the Goodridge home, ending with the mailman’s remark about Kaylee and her father having a bad fallout after which Kaylee had left the house. “Gunhild said that Trevor worshiped Kaylee and Goodridge couldn’t stand that. Maybe he talked to Trevor about it, told him to stay away from his daughter? Trevor lashed out at Cash the second he felt intimidated. Maybe he has a violent streak he can’t control?”

Marge had listened without interjecting, her brows drawing together in concentration. “I do know Trevor mentioned Kaylee didn’t have it easy because her father expected a lot of her. I think he wanted her to take an interest in his business, maybe come work there when she had her college degree? From Trevor I got the impression Kaylee wanted to do other things. Something more creative like modeling. Trevor thought she had talent and wanted to support her.”

Ms. Tennings made a gesture. “There you go. Motive. With her father out of the way, Kaylee could pursue her modeling dream.”

Marge leaned back on her heels. “I’m not buying into it. Yes, Trevor might have a temper but does that fit with the way in which this murder was set up, with the piece in the paper and all?”

Vicky and Ms. Tennings looked at each other.

Marge continued, “Maybe it was the real killer’s intention to create a scenario in which a quick arrest was inevitable and the police would be fully focused on the wrong suspect. The gun could have been put in the shed by anybody. I don’t suppose that the shed door is locked?”

Vicky shook her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see a lock on the door.”

Ms. Tennings asked, “And where did the gun come from in the first place? Did Goodridge own a gun?”

“No idea. Gunhild didn’t mention that her husband owned a gun.”

“She was upset,” Ms. Tennings said. “She might not have thought about it. But it would be poignant if Goodridge was shot with his own gun. Cash will have to find out as soon as possible.”

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