Written into the Grave
Vivian Conroy
‘the best book in the series to date’ - Rachel GilbeyCan fiction kill?Vicky Simmons’s life was supposed to be relaxing after she moved back home to the coast of Maine, but instead of baking bread and gardening she’s been chasing down killers and it’s time to stop. Vicky is ready to slow down again and vows to start focusing more on her roses than solving crime.That is until she reads the new serial in the paper over breakfast, describing a brutal murder that takes place on a cliff top road just above a beach. Only to find herself moments later, walking Coco and Mr. Pug, face to face with a dead body on the sand. The murder victim described exactly as he was in the story…Once again death has come to Glen Cove and this time Vicky and her friends won’t stop until they find the killer before they get away with murder.Don’t miss any title in the Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series:Book 1 - Dead to Begin WithBook 2 - Grand Prize: Murder!Book 3 - Written into the Grave
Can fiction kill?
Vicky Simmons’s life was supposed to be relaxing after she moved back home to the coast of Maine, but instead of baking bread and gardening she’s been chasing down killers and it’s time to stop. Vicky is ready to slow down again and vows to start focusing more on her roses than solving crime.
That is until she reads the new serial in the paper over breakfast, describing a brutal murder that takes place on a cliff top road just above a beach. Only to find herself moments later, walking Coco and Mr. Pug, face to face with a dead body on the sand. The murder victim described exactly as he was in the story…
Once again death has come to Glen Cove and this time Vicky and her friends won’t stop until they find the killer before they get away with murder.
Praise for VIVIAN CONROY (#ulink_99f89f63-e00c-5419-bf8d-04bd018d927d)
‘This book is a cross between Downton Abbey and Miss Marple … Perfect for the long winter nights ahead where comfort becomes a key word in everyone’s vocabulary.’ – Katherine (Goodreads), A Proposal to Die For
‘A Proposal to Die For is wonderfully smooth and glamorous, in the style of Agatha Christie combined with the beauty of Gatsby.’ – The Storycollector Blog
‘When it’s as charming as A Proposal to Die For mystery and history make the most wonderful combination.’ – Little Bookness Lane
‘Dead to Begin With is a charming, entertaining and absorbing cozy mystery and a great start to a new series.’ – Mystereity Reviews
‘Dead to Begin With by Vivian Conroy is a wonderful story, perfect for fans of Murder She Wrote, and I cannot wait for the next in the series!!’ – Books of All Kinds
‘What a cosy story featuring a cozy murder, and some cute dogs!’ – Rachel’s Random Reads, Dead to Begin With
Available from Vivian Conroy
ACountry Gift Shop Mystery series
Dead to Begin with
Grand Prize: Murder!
Written into the Grave
A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series
A Proposal to Die For
Diamonds of Death
WRITTEN INTO THE GRAVE
Vivian Conroy
VIVIAN CONROY
discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favorite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own missing heirs and priceless artifacts. Discover the glamour and secrets of the roaring twenties in Vivian’s Lady Alkmene Callender Mysteries and open up shop, with murder in the mix, in the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries. For news on the latest releases, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites (https://twitter.com/@VivWrites)
Contents
Cover (#uf63f46cb-3e78-58b6-87e8-a6c56db68091)
Blurb (#uabd24208-ffc8-56d0-9df2-29676f3e6083)
Praise (#ulink_e1e89c2e-f3d4-564d-a496-e3af35476f1a)
Book List (#ue3eff158-b3e2-5040-a5d0-5cedfe15c154)
Title Page (#ua20146fd-f5b4-52b6-b98f-e35573821057)
Author Bio (#u8602ccae-8f7b-5e5c-8307-a2008d8faa0d)
Acknowledgments (#ulink_b7f6b33d-168a-5d36-b268-b0d8238d362b)
Chapter One (#ulink_bd58ca55-8c7b-5e10-bd24-51d23e4b434d)
Chapter Two (#uf074a820-67af-59c5-82a0-178d86a838fc)
Chapter Three (#ue830001d-c54b-5ab3-b6c6-f15c99bbf10b)
Chapter Four (#ucde81395-d366-57ec-86fb-637e8c93b3cb)
Chapter Five (#u1ddf12b0-5feb-5c9b-869a-9b03f097a576)
Chapter Six (#u188ecf24-d36c-5457-b589-55dc3cfce5b8)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#ulink_2ed0e32c-e80f-5ca3-9d06-a9098e1b5f10)
Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.
A special thanks to my editor Victoria Oundjian for her enthusiasm for all my cozy mystery endeavors and to the design team for wrapping this story in a great cover.
Chapter One (#ulink_35b60c5d-c20b-53df-aece-2703d74371fc)
Vicky Simmons looked around the kitchen of her cute little cottage to ascertain everything was in order before her departure. She would not be back until late in the evening. The day ahead of her was full of activities both at her gift shop and with friends. The basket on her arm held new gauze bags for the soaps she sold, just completed last night.
Having established that everything was turned off, Vicky stepped out of the back door and walked around the cottage. The roses climbing up the trellis needed a little pruning and some more twined cord here and there to support the weight of all the blooms. Vicky made a mental note to take some time for it tonight or tomorrow. It was exactly the nice kind of chore that required little thinking so she could unwind after a busy day.
During her years in London, in a flat that was comfortable but didn’t even have a balcony, Vicky had rarely cared for plants other than a potted one in her living room. Here in Glen Cove she could grow her own vegetables and bind the roses and hydrangea into a stunning bouquet to put on her living room table or beside her bed.
Her mother Claire had even suggested Vicky might participate in the garden of the year contest, but knowing how strong the competition was, Vicky had politely declined. She loved a challenge but only when she had a fair chance of succeeding.
It was but a short walk from her own cottage down to her mother’s. The air was full of invigorating scents: the ocean, pine, a mowed lawn and just a hint of freshly baked bread.
Vicky had imagined herself taking time to bake, but so far it had proven hard to actually get round to it. What was supposed to have been a quiet small-town life had turned out to be as demanding on her time as her career as a reporter in London had been.
Getting the Country Gift Shop up and running was an ongoing process: after renovations, the grand opening and receiving a sign from the community as thanks for her involvement in solving an old mystery, Vicky had to keep coming up with ways to pull new customers to her store.
The tourist season was coming to an end, and soon she couldn’t rely on people just finding her store while they were exploring the scenic town. So she had decided on two strategies to expand her reach: do more bigger orders, such as for hen parties or businesses, and engage other business owners to organize some events during the slow season.
Vicky could just see Glen Cove turned into a big Christmas market, with gluhwein, hot chocolate with marshmallows, Christmas trees everywhere with little lights in them, market stalls selling tree decorations, napkins, china, nativity scenes … She could count on her friends Marge Fisher and Ms. Tennings to help set it up, as Marge had amazing organizational skills and Ms. Tennings was well-connected.
But convincing the other business owners to invest time and money in it was another matter. Things were done in a certain way in Glen Cove, and Vicky wasn’t considered established yet.The Joneses of the general store might prove especially hard to win over. And Vicky’s relationship with them was fragile as it was, after the two murder investigations that had rocked the town in the past few weeks. People had been played against each other, by suspicions, lies and outright fabrications, even in the media—and only time could heal the rifts and bring the community back together again, as it had once been.
As Vicky opened her mother’s garden gate, barking filled the quiet morning air, and a white ball of fluff came racing for her, circling her feet.
“Good morning, Coco,” Vicky said, leaning down to pat the doggy’s head. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”
As if on cue, the pug appeared at the porch steps and wagged his tail at her, not bothering to come up to her, but waiting until she came to him.
Vicky grinned. Mr. Pug liked to act as master of the house.
Coco had spotted the Glen Cove Gazette in the grass and ran for it, picking it up, then dropping it again. She didn’t see it as a precious source of local news, but as a cute, disposable toy, available especially for her.
Vicky put down her basket and hurried to extract the paper from Coco’s renewed grasp before the front page became illegible. Michael Dannings’s efforts to make a quality paper deserved better treatment.
She smoothed the wrinkles and smiled as her eyes slipped over his name at the top, with the designation ‘editor in chief’ behind it. Upon her return to Glen Cove she could never have guessed her college friend Michael would be back in town as well. After all, he had traveled the world on undercover assignments and to write up exciting news stories as they unfolded, and there had been no reason to assume he’d come back home to a small town where the local paper struggled to survive as people moved away or looked for news online rather than in printed pages.
Personally Vicky liked nothing better than a few minutes to leaf through the paper, smell the ink and read the words on the page before she rushed into her busy day. Carrying the paper and her basket inside, with both dogs on her heels, she called out to her mother. “Where are you?”
“Right here.”
Claire sat in her rocking chair. An empty plate on the table suggested she had just finished her breakfast. The smell of toast and scrambled eggs was still on the air.
Vicky wished for a moment she took more time to prepare a decent breakfast for herself. She had promised herself upon leaving London she’d quit breakfasting on coffee with a bun on the go and would invest in eggs fresh from a poultry farm and oranges to press herself. But now that she was actually living here, it turned out her schedule was still pretty full and she ran after all kinds of activities rather than staying in to bake bread or taking the Saturday morning off to get those fresh eggs at Sellers Poultry. Her breakfast usually consisted of overnight oats or a banana, still on the go.
“Ah, you got the Gazette. Good.” Claire extended her hand to receive the newspaper, but Vicky pretended not to notice and dropped herself on the sofa, opening the paper. “I’ll take the dogs for a walk on my way to the store. I’ll go via the seaside so they can have a run on the beach.”
Before Claire could start her well-known protestations that the beach got the dogs’ fur dirty, Vicky continued, “Ah, here it is. The third installment in the serial Seaside Secrets. This one’s written by Trevor Jenkins. Hmmm, I had no idea he was in Marge’s writing group.”
Marge Fisher, Vicky’s best friend in town and part-time employee at the Country Gift Shop, had started a writing group at the library where she volunteered. Upon hearing of this brand-new initiative Michael had offered the participants the opportunity to write a serial for the Gazette: one installment per participant. They had agreed on an overall scenario, but the exact contents of their individual contribution was completely at their discretion. Parts 1 and 2 had made for interesting reading, and Vicky was eager to dive into part 3 now.
“Trevor Jenkins, that gardener type?” Claire asked with a frown. “I had no idea he was literary-minded.”
Vicky folded the paper so she could hold it without having to stretch her arms and leaned back. “Let’s see. I’ll read his piece aloud to you. Oh, it’s in first person. Quite a deviation from the first two pieces.”
Claire shook her head. “I don’t like first person usually. Too much inside the person’s head, I say.”
“Well, this starts out with action. Listen: My sneakers make no sound on the path as I walk in the quiet morning air. The sea sings its song ahead of me, not loud and bragging as it can do on stormy nights, but soft and luring, a siren song. I reach inside my right pocket and clench the steel. It was cold to my touch when I took it from the drawer, but now it’s warm as if my lifeblood runs through it.”
Claire huffed. “A bit poetical if you ask me.”
“Shhhh. Just listen.” Vicky read on. “I had always imagined people to feel wild when they did something like this, but I feel quite calm. I listen for a sound that betrays he is coming. There is nothing yet. But I know he’ll be here. He is a creature of habit. He runs every morning. Not because he likes it, but because it’s fashionable. Or because he can brag about it. Well, at least he is not one of those men who buy sweat pants and a pair of expensive running shoes only to leave them in the closet, gathering dust.”
“Are you sure this is written by Trevor Jenkins?” Claire asked with a frown. “It has more of a feminine vibe to me.”
Vicky eyed her across the paper. “Maybe the I in the story is a woman, and Trevor tried to capture her female voice? I do think he makes us curious as to what will happen next. Who is the person the point-of-view character is waiting for? And what’s that object of steel in the pocket?”
Claire sighed but didn’t protest as Vicky read on once more. “Fog is rolling in from the sea dampening the sounds around me, locking me into a little world. I know it will make things much easier. People don’t like to go for morning walks when it’s foggy. There is not a lot to see. And the cliffs can be dangerous. Unless you know the paths well, you might venture too closely to the edge and take a tumble. It isn’t a long drop, but the rocks at the foot of it are unforgiving.”
Vicky glanced at Claire. “It does get positively sinister here. I mean, I’m asking myself what exactly the character is waiting for.”
“You read too many cozy mysteries,” Claire said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The I in the story is probably some woman waiting for the man she’s in love with and we’ll be forced to witness their tryst in the sand. Please stop reading when it gets R-rated.”
Vicky couldn’t quite picture Trevor Jenkins writing that kind of material but then she didn’t know him well. She pushed on. “I look at my watch. He should be here any moment now. My hand seems to have become one with the metal under my touch. It doesn’t feel alien anymore but like it belongs there, a natural extension of my arm.”
“Yada yada,” Claire said.
Vicky waved her off. “Mom, give it a chance. I think it’s quite creative. These writers really deserve their shot at showcasing their talent in the local paper. Hear: Then out of nothing he is there. The canary yellow stripes on his sweat shirt glow like light in the fog. That is what they are meant for: to make sure the runner is visible. To prevent him being run down by traffic. There is no traffic here. It’s just him and me. He halts at the edge of the cliffs as he always does, to look down and see the sea. He can’t see it now because it’s foggy, but as he likes his habits, he does it anyway. Or maybe he just needs to catch his breath before he can push on. He’s not in great shape, although he thinks he is. I step up. A small bit of rock makes a sound under my sneaker. I meant it to. I want him to turn. The surprise on his features as he sees me. Confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
“I extract my hand. I extend my arm. Confusion turns to alarm. He steps back. Toward the edge. He staggers. He will probably fall. But I’m not sure. And I need to be sure now. He has seen me; he knows. I fire. Once, twice. The shots ring out in the air. Even the fog can’t dampen them.”
Vicky stopped reading aloud. Her mouth was dry, and her hands gripped the paper’s pages. Her eyes flew over the next few lines.
“Why do you stop at the exact moment when it gets exciting?” Claire asked in a petulant tone. “So the thing in the pocket was a gun, and the narrator is now shooting at this jogger. What else?”
Vicky grimaced. She was happy she had not had a big breakfast anyway. Her stomach was churning after what she had read. She said with difficulty, “The jogger plunges to his death. It’s described quite graphically. I won’t repeat it. In fact, I’m surprised that Michael accepted this to be printed in a newspaper that can be read by kids. I bet he’ll get angry phone calls about this.”
“People are used to a lot these days,” Claire said. “On television …” She made an eloquent hand gesture.
Vicky sighed. “I suppose so. I guess it’s just weird to read it when you know the person who wrote it—someone who seems to be the least likely person to ever have a violent thought in his head. I also don’t quite see how the installment relates to the previous one. I mean, who’s killed here? By whom and why?”
“That’s for us readers to find out.” Claire nodded. “I’m glad they switched it up and made it into a murder mystery. It makes for much more riveting reading. Now if you’re done with my newspaper, you can walk the dogs and I’ll go over the ads first to see if there’s anything interesting there.”
Vicky rose and handed the paper to her mother. “There you go. Shall I refill your coffee mug before I go?”
Without waiting for Claire’s reply she took the mug into the kitchen and refilled it at the sink. She was still a little cold from the words of the closing lines of Trevor Jenkins’ contribution to the serial.
She wondered if Marge had known that the story would take this morbid turn. Had there been some form of coordination of the end result, or had each participant really been free to write up whatever he or she wanted?
It would also be so awkward for the person who had to write the fourth installment. He or she had to insert the dead body into his or her tale while he or she had probably never intended anything like it.
Claire’s voice called out from the den, “Don’t you dare do my dishes. I can wash my own plates, you know … Victoria!”
Vicky rushed to carry the mug back into the den. “I wasn’t about to do your dishes, Mom. I was just thinking about the serial in the paper. I have to ask Marge what exactly they agreed on.”
“I think you’re making a big fuss about nothing,” Claire said, eyeing her. “It’s but a story.”
“Yes, well, you’re probably right.” Vicky forced a smile. She still thought the material was a little too graphic for the Glen Cove Gazette, but maybe she was old-fashioned in her views. Maybe the readers would gobble it up and clamor for more? Trevor Jenkins could become an overnight sensation.
Vicky snapped her fingers at the dogs. “Come on, Coco, Mr. Pug.”
The dogs got up from their beds at once and came over to her. She clipped on their leashes and picked up her basket with the sewn gauze bags for the soaps.
Claire was completely immersed in the newspaper and only replied with a vague ‘bye’ to her departing words.
Vicky left the cottage and turned left to where a steep path led down to the beach. The wind came to play with her hair at once. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the eerie feeling the installment in Seaside Secrets had left her with.
Still she was glad it wasn’t foggy today. Then she’d be listening for a footfall behind her, glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed by a dark figure with a hood pulled over his head.
On the beach two other people walked their dogs. Vicky greeted them in passing, her eyes trained on the cliffs in the distance. The story had mentioned cliffs with rocks at the foot of the drop. There was such a place up ahead. Trevor must have seen it once as he was himself jogging or perhaps bird watching. She had seen him walking around with binoculars.
Maybe the wild landscape had inspired him to write the story?
Maybe he hadn’t meant it to be morbid at all, just a nice bit of free imagination.
Vicky picked up a shell or two as she went and tried to focus on her soap display, the new gauze bags and some other orders that were coming in today. She wanted to change the window if Marge was free to help her. Marge had called the other night to say she might have to take the morning off as a friend of hers was moving house and she had promised to help out. But the exact date for the move kept being changed as the new house was still undergoing some quick repairs so a family could move in safely and then work on the rest.
From Marge’s story Vicky had gathered it was a fixer-upper that would take years to get completely set up right. Having dealt with some renovations in her store she knew how daunting it could be and was glad she wasn’t in those people’s shoes.
Her eyes picked up on activity in the distance by the rocks at the foot of the cliffs that might have inspired Trevor Jenkins. It seemed several people were walking there, looking down. Maybe they were searching for small creatures like crabs hiding? Vicky wasn’t quite sure if the high tide reached those rocks but if it did, there might be wildlife there that visiting biologists found fascinating. Glen Cove had always attracted people who came for nature, be it birds, sea mammals or smaller life on the shore.
But her supposition didn’t ring true to her own mind. That one person on the left was wearing a hat. Looking a lot like a sheriff’s hat.
And was that a flash of light overhead near the top of the cliffs?
As of a police car?
Vicky shook her head. The story in the Gazette had really driven her imagination wild. She had started to see police activity near a perfectly innocent little spot along the coast just because there were cliffs like in the story. She had to tell Marge that Trevor’s piece had been good enough to get her completely spooked. The gardener would be pleased to hear it.
A Labrador came running for her, circling her before he licked her hand. Vicky patted him a moment, then focused on the owner who wasn’t far behind. “Good morning, Ms. Templeton. How are you today?”
Ms. Templeton was a customer who bought lots of gifts for friends at the store. Her friendly face was wrinkled in a worried frown, and her tone was urgent as she said, “You’d better not go in that direction, Vicky. Turn back or use the path just there …” she pointed to Vicky’s right “… to get up to the road. You don’t want to go anywhere near those cliffs today.”
“Why not?” Vicky asked, her heart pounding.
“I think there has been an accident. The police are there. I wouldn’t like to see something gruesome so I decided to walk down the beach and warn everyone I meet.”
“But have you actually seen what the police are doing there? Have you talked to Cash or one of his men?”
Cash Rowland was the local sheriff and an old friend of Vicky’s. They had been to school and college together and although they had not seen each other for years after that, they had picked up on their old friendship again once they were both back in town. Vicky had helped Cash with two murder cases, more or less against his will, but he had admitted later she had done a good job.
Ms. Templeton eyed her as if she had gone crazy. “Of course I’ve gone nowhere near the scene. I have no idea what they’re doing there, but as they came with lights and all, I suppose it’s serious. Some people like to run to accident sites to see all the bloody details, but I’m not one of those people.”
Vicky hastened to assure her she wasn’t either and to thank her for her concern and good advice.
But as Ms. Templeton rushed on to warn the other dog walkers on the beach, Vicky stared ahead at the cliffs in deep thought.
She had no wish to see anything gruesome herself, especially not after the rather vivid description of the victim falling to his death in Trevor’s offering in the Glen Cove Gazette. Still she was worried by the police activity on that particular spot and sort of … intrigued what it could be.
If something had happened there, today of all days, it would be an odd coincidence.
She put Mr. Pug and Coco on their leashes and led them up the path Ms. Templeton had indicated, then walked along the road to where the police car stood. As long as she stayed away from the edge, she ran no risk of seeing anything horrible down there at the foot of the cliffs.
One of the deputies was with the police car, talking to the dispatcher over the radio. He just ended the conversation and looked at her.
Vicky flashed a smile. “Is the sheriff here?”
“Down there.” The deputy gestured behind him. “But you can’t go there. We’re keeping this whole area locked off for the moment.”
“Has something happened?”
The deputy took a breath as if he wanted to tell her it was none of her business, then he hesitated. Did he remember her connection to Cash, or was he just aware that something sensational could never stay under wraps for long in a place like Glen Cove?
He said, “Someone took a fall off the cliffs. He must have ventured too near to the edge. Or maybe he wanted to look at the view and got dizzy? He might even have had a heart attack or stroke. That sometimes happens when you’re jogging.”
“Jogging?” Vicky asked, her heart skipping a beat again.
“Yes, this route is popular with runners. And … he’s dressed in running gear.” The deputy perked up as if he was happy he could show off his deductive talent.
“Oh,” Vicky said, looking around. “I don’t suppose a car can have gotten near him. You do hear stories about people getting hit by a car when they’re out running at twilight.”
“Cars don’t come near that edge,” the deputy said with determination. “Besides, his running shirt had those distinctive stripes on it to improve visibility.”
“Yellow?” Vicky asked, her mouth dry.
“Yes. Well, at least as far as I could see from up here. It’s not a long drop, but those rocks are …”
“Unforgiving.” Vicky tried to smile, but she felt queasy. The deputy was just about quoting Trevor Jenkins’ little story. Not a long drop, but those rocks …
Someone had died here, this morning, in the same way as in Trevor’s contribution to the writing group’s serial!
Chapter Two (#ulink_7751a22e-6848-53ae-a64f-5fbaae072ea9)
Of course not, Vicky tried to rally herself. In the story the person is shot by the narrator. Here it was simply a matter of someone falling. Having a dizzy spell, maybe even a heart attack, like the deputy suggested.
An odd coincidence, nothing more.
Still she wanted to know just a little bit more about the circumstances of this sudden death. She asked, “And how did you hear about it? Did somebody call it in?”
“Yes, some man walking his dog. Saw the body on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs and called the police. Sheriff’s talking to him down there.”
Vicky felt a moment’s regret she was not down there herself to ask that man a question or two. Like whether he had happened to glance up at the cliffs and had seen movement there?
Or whether he had heard gunshots, huh, she chided herself. Will you stop going on about that story in the paper? There’s nothing sinister to it.
“If you have anything relevant to report about this case …” the deputy said with a probing look.
“Oh, no, I just wanted to talk to Cash for a moment.” Vicky tried to smile again. “I can wait. I suppose he’ll come up here again, when he’s through down there.”
“The doctor is coming to look at the body. I assume he can tell us what caused the fall. Or at least guess at it. I think doctors can see whether somebody had a heart attack or seizure. By the color of the face, the lips. Maybe how the eyes are?”
Vicky tried not to think of the dead body. “Probably,” she said briskly. “Well, must be a weird start to your day.”
“No weirder than chasing loose cattle and almost getting run over by an angry bull.” The deputy shook his head. “That beast had horns … You don’t want to know. At least that body down there is dead and can’t hurt anybody.”
It can when it’s murder, Vicky thought. Then we’ll actually have to start looking for a killer.
Again.
But she said nothing.
Vaguely, they caught voices down below, but no words could be made out. After a few minutes a car came up to them, and a tall, gray-haired man climbed out. He retrieved a black leather bag from the back seat and came toward the deputy with an outstretched hand. “Got a body for me? Nasty business if he fell down there. Hello.” The latter was said to Vicky.
“Oh, doc …” Cash had just come up the cliff path. His face was purple, and he was panting. He leaned on the police car’s hood to catch his breath again. Mr. Pug came over to say hello, but Cash didn’t notice. He huffed, “Pretty steep, those cliffs, huh …”
“Or you’re out of shape, Sheriff,” the doctor said with a sly smile. “Maybe lay off the beer and pizza, huh? And you should take up running.”
“And end up like that poor guy down there? No thanks.” Cash wiped sweat off his brow.
“Do you think he died of exertion?” Vicky asked quickly.
Cash looked her over. “Good morning.”
Vicky flushed. “Good morning, Cash. I was walking the dogs when I saw the commotion. I was just curious what was up.”
Cash tilted his head as if he didn’t believe her.
“Do you think he died of exertion?” Vicky repeated before he could start asking about her reasons for butting in.
Cash shrugged. “Don’t know. I went over and had a look to ascertain the victim was dead. Not that it was necessary. He was lying at an angle that isn’t quite natural for the human body. But I didn’t look too close.”
Cash grimaced. “He was dead—that was for sure—and the rest I leave to the police doctor here and the medical examiner if need be.”
The doctor took this as his cue, excused himself and went down, balancing himself with his bag held high in the air.
Cash patted Mr. Pug and Coco who vied for his attention. They associated him with the roadside restaurant where Vicky had met Cash during the last investigation to wean some information away from him. To the dogs’ minds the sheriff came with the promise of sausages.
Vicky asked Cash, “But do you think someone can really fall down here by accident? You’d have to get close to the edge.”
“Some people take risks for the view. If he got dizzy …” Cash shrugged and studied her. “What do you think? That he was pushed?”
“It’s possible,” Vicky said.
“No doubt. But we’d need evidence to support that. And I don’t see right now how we could collect it.”
“The person who reported the body didn’t see anything suspicious?”
“Not that I know of.” Cash studied her, mopping more sweat away. “Why are you asking all those questions? Do you suspect foul play? We did have two murders here recently, but those were clearly murders.”
“It has nothing to do with the earlier murders,” Vicky assured him quickly. She wasn’t too eager either to tell Cash that she had read it in the morning paper. He’d probably think she had gone crazy. “I just don’t see as I stand here and look around me how you can go over the edge by accident. The deputy and I were just discussing that there’s no traffic here that can hit you. Or that you can move away from and take a tumble.”
Cash raked a hand through his hair. “How it happened might not be important if the doc establishes that the deceased had a clogged artery or a seizure. Maybe once we know who the victim is, it’ll turn out he had some medical condition that explains his fall.”
Vicky pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure how to address Trevor Jenkins’ story in the Gazette this morning. She didn’t want to get the young gardener in trouble for nothing, but as the deputy had mentioned yellow stripes on the victim’s clothes, it was a weird coincidence.
The doctor came back up, looking grim. “Not a pretty sight.”
“Tell me something I don’t know yet,” Cash said ironically.
The doctor came back at him at once. “How does this grab you? The victim has two bullets in his chest.”
Vicky gasped. So it was murder. And it had happened in the exact same way as in Trevor Jenkins’ story. Two shots. Two bullets. A fall. Dead.
“Bullets in the chest?” Cash echoed. “But … I thought he had fallen.”
“Oh, he did fall, and it’ll be hard to say which killed him. If one of the bullets struck the heart, the victim might have been dead upon impact, so well before he hit the rocks below. An autopsy can tell you more about that. Also time of death and all.”
Cash shook his head. “Bullets,” he repeated. “So there must have been shots. Somebody should have heard those, right?”
“Not if it happened early.” The doc gestured around them. “Who would be around here at an early hour?”
He shook his head. “No, I think it would have been relatively easy to wait for someone here and shoot him.”
“But why do it?” Cash mused. “Premeditated murder, with a gun brought to the spot, not an altercation and a push in a rage. That means someone hated the victim enough to plan his demise.”
“No wonder.” The doctor looked even more grim. “Archibald Goodridge was an extremely unlikable type. The way he did business.” He shook his head. “You might not know too much about it, Cash, as you’ve been away from town, but that man was a predator. He used people. He’s even guilty of …” He fell silent.
Cash looked him over. “Yes?”
“Nothing. I shouldn’t judge someone who’s now dead.” The doc stepped away. “Let the autopsy fill you in on all the details.”
“Well, the autopsy won’t tell me what he was supposedly guilty of,” Cash said to Vicky as the doc hurried off. “I wish people wouldn’t drop hints, then retreat.”
“I guess he spoke half in shock, then realized he might say the wrong thing. Once it’s a murder investigation, you have to be careful.”
“Once it’s a murder investigation,” Cash repeated with a grimace. “Again, Vicky, again. I can’t believe it.”
“Who is this Archibald Goodridge anyway?” Vicky asked. “You might as well tell me. It’ll be all over town soon. I met Ms. Templeton on the beach and she was warning everybody who walked there with their dogs that something had happened at the cliffs and it could be a gruesome sight. Once somebody starts to call around about it, the town will be buzzing with rumors.”
Cash shrugged. “I hardly know Archibald Goodridge. He’s an investment banker who has a second house here.”
Vicky frowned. “I never met him, but I did meet his wife Gunhild. She makes lovely sculptures. In fact, I was thinking of getting Mom one for the garden, for her birthday.”
Cash seemed to perk up. “You know Goodridge’s wife? You’ve been to her place?’
Vicky made a dismissive gesture. “Only once, with Marge, to ask Gunhild Goodridge if she wanted to donate a sculpture for our auction. For the old lighthouse, the renovations?”
Cash waved it off and said in an eager tone, “The occasion isn’t important. You know her, that counts. You’re coming with me to give her the bad news.”
Vicky was stunned by the suggestion. “What? Why? I hardly know her. You’re in an official capacity. I can’t just tag along.”
Cash looked her over with a hitched brow. “You’re always tagging along, never caring for my so-called official capacity. Now you can do me a favor and help me solve a very sensitive issue. I have to tell that woman that her husband’s dead, will never come home again. Not just fallen down the cliffs by accident, but murdered. How do you think she’ll take it?”
“Well …” Vicky considered it, going back over her brief encounter with the woman. “She struck me as a very composed, rational person.”
“Nonsense, she’s an artist so she’s bound to go all hysterical on me. She might even faint. I have no idea how to handle such a thing. You’ve got to help me.”
“What about the dogs? I can hardly take them along to Gunhild Goodridge.”
“My deputy can take them back to your mother’s when he’s done here.”
Vicky sighed. She wasn’t keen on her mother hearing she was en route with Cash for an investigation. Claire had never liked her sleuthing and pressed her several times to stay away from anything potentially dangerous.
But Cash had merely asked her to help him convey the news of Goodridge’s death to his widow. There wasn’t any danger in that.
Of course Vicky didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, but she did know Gunhild a little and could try to soften the blow. Cash wasn’t known for his subtle touch with people and he had obviously already formed an opinion of Gunhild as prone to hysterics, which would make him even more awkward around her.
Besides, Vicky hadn’t told Cash yet about the odd bit in the newspaper this morning. The striking similarities between Trevor Jenkins’ contribution to Seaside Secrets and the murder here at the cliffs.
Cash needed to know that before he met the newly minted widow.
Just in case.
So after Cash had instructed the deputy what to do on the scene and to deliver Mr. Pug and Coco safely to Claire’s cottage, Vicky got into the police car with Cash, and they set out for the home of the Goodridges.
Chapter Three (#ulink_53442db8-84c0-50f6-b7de-da7940f34ce8)
As they were driving, Vicky asked, “Did you read the Glen Cove Gazette this morning?”
Cash shook his head. “Didn’t have the time. Besides, those newspaper delivery boys take a different route every day and half the time they don’t even get to my house before I leave for work. What about it? Shocking headline?”
“No, it wasn’t on the front page.” Vicky waited a moment. “Did you know Marge’s writing group has a serial in the paper? All participants deliver an installment following their own creative ideas for the story.”
“I never read fiction,” Cash said with his eyes on the road.
Vicky sighed. “Well, sometimes fiction can take on a rather ominous real-life dimension. I happened to read today’s installment in the Seaside Secrets serial before I started out on my morning walk with the dogs. I was at Mom’s and grabbed her paper there and read the serial’s installment to her. It was a story from first-person point of view about someone going out to the cliffs in the fog to wait for someone. For a jogger.”
Cash’s expression had been neutral, even a bit bored, until Vicky mentioned the latter. He glanced at her. “A jogger?”
“Yes. The I in the story is waiting until he sees the jogger and then goes to him. The jogger hears the sound of a footfall on a bit of loose stone and turns around. The point-of-view character wants to see shock and confusion in the face of his … victim I might as well call it. For the story then related how the perpetrator takes a gun out of his pocket and shoots the victim. Two shots. Two bullets in the chest. And the jogger in the story is dressed in a shirt with yellow stripes. Your deputy happened to mention to me that the victim was dressed in such a shirt.”
Cash nodded. “But I don’t get any of this. How can this story be in the newspaper when the accident at the cliffs wasn’t even known yet?”
Vicky exhaled. “That’s the whole point. I read the story, and half of Glen Cove probably did, when the murder had just happened at the cliffs in the same manner as described in the story. What the writer described matched the killing of Archibald Goodridge.”
“So …” Cash glanced at her again. “What you’re saying is that our killer wrote up a story to be put in the paper to advertise his murder while he was committing it?”
Put like that, it did sound totally unbelievable.
Vicky shrugged. “All I’m saying is that the story is a pretty accurate description of what actually happened. Whatever it means is up to you to discover.”
Cash whistled. “So if I figure out who sent this story to the paper I might have my killer?”
Vicky pursed her lips. “It’s not hard. The name was over it. I just told you it’s part of a serial from the local writing group. Today’s installment was written by Trevor Jenkins.”
Cash let it sink in a moment. “So I can go and arrest Trevor Jenkins because he admitted to all of Glen Cove in the local paper that he’s the murderer of Archibald Goodridge?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “It seems so. I mean, I assume that Trevor Jenkins delivered the story to the paper, or the paper would have suspected it wasn’t his. It’s quite a morbid little piece if you’re sensitive to it, so they must have double-checked.”
“Are you sure about that? Danning has these summer aides, students and all, who help him with stuff. Maybe one of them simply put the item in place, not even checking what it was or who wrote it.”
Vicky shrugged. “That’ll be easy enough to find out.” She waved ahead. “We might hit the offices of the Glen Cove Gazette first, before we see Mrs. Goodridge.”
“No, no, no.” Cash shook his head. “You aren’t getting away from this unpleasant chore, Vicky. I need your help with this, and you’ll give it to me. After that we can decide what to do.”
“But what are you going to tell Gunhild? That you suspect Trevor Jenkins of killing her husband while you don’t even know a thing for sure?”
“Of course not. I’ll tell her that he’s dead. Period. I’m not telling anything about the investigation, about what we know or whom we suspect. And neither are you.”
“I’m not saying anything.” Vicky lifted two hands in a gesture to ward off his suggestion. “You asked me to step in, and I’m only doing this as a favor to a friend. It’ll be awkward enough as she really doesn’t know me well.”
Cash steered the car down a long lane that led to a villa. To the left was a dark shed with blossoming roses in front. Further into the neat garden sat a construction of a conical slated roof on six pillars. The wind could breathe freely through it, and rain and sleet had changed the pillars’ original white color into a smudged green. In it was a giant sculpture of a running horse. A woman stood at it, a tool in her right hand. She circled the sculpture as if looking for the right spot to apply some finishing touches.
“That’s her.” Cash parked the car and rubbed his hands. He was clearly nervous about this, and Vicky gave his arm a reassuring pat. “We’ll manage together. Come on.”
They got out and crossed the neat lawn to where Gunhild Goodridge was working.
Tall, trim, with white-blonde hair, she was fully focused on her sculpture and didn’t hear a thing until Cash stepped on the lowest step of the three leading up into the structure. It creaked, and Gunhild turned with a jerk. “Oh, you startled me.”
Her eyes went even wider as she studied Cash’s appearance. “Sheriff … Is something up? Have I forgotten to pay my parking ticket? I know I was wrong; I shouldn’t have left the car where I did but I was in a terrible hurry to get back home to Archibald. We were entertaining some friends that night, and we were very short on white wine. I just wanted to get a few bottles quickly. I didn’t know there was a deputy anywhere near.”
Her expression was pleading as she reached out a delicate hand. “I’ll pay the ticket, cash if you want, on the spot. Can we please then not make a fuss about it?”
“It’s not the ticket I’m here for,” Cash said. “I uh …” He cleared his throat. “Your husband, he left this morning to go jogging?”
“Yes, he always does. Whether the weather is good or not. He likes to stay in shape.”
Gunhild smiled apologetically. “ I always turn over one more time when he leaves. Do you want to talk to him?”
The relief was visible in her features that someone else might be the reason for this official visit, not her.
Cash shook his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be talking to him, Mrs. Goodridge, right now or any other time. You see, he uh … He took a fall off the cliffs. He’s dead.”
Gunhild didn’t seem to understand the words at first. She kept looking at him, with a vaguely apologetic half smile.
Then, as the meaning sank in, her face turned pale. She swung away from them, clutching the tool in her hand. “Dead?” Her voice was unstable.
“Yes,” Cash said. “Do you have any idea if he … was feeling ill? If he might have had a heart attack?”
“A heart attack?” Her voice pitched. “No. He was a strong man. He always jogged and played tennis with friends.”
“Well, even professional sportsmen sometimes turn out to have a heart condition nobody ever knew about,” Vicky said. She didn’t know why she was saying it, as she already knew about the two bullets in Archibald Goodridge’s chest, but she wanted to keep the conversation going so Gunhild could work through her initial shock. Before she would have to deal with the next one: that her husband’s death hadn’t been natural, but murder.
Cold-blooded murder as far as they could tell right now, carefully planned and executed.
Cash said, “Did your husband say anything special before he left? Maybe that he was meeting someone today?”
“While jogging?” Gunhild sounded incredulous. She still stood with her back turned on them, the muscles of her hand working as she clutched the tool like a lifeline.
“No, in general,” Cash said. “Was today a special day somehow?”
Gunhild took a deep breath. “You could say that, Sheriff. It was our anniversary. I had … baked a cake the other day.” Her voice trembled. “Like I did when we first met. He fell in love with me for my Scandinavian cooking, you know. I had planned to present the cake to him when he got home. I …”
Vicky glanced at Cash. He glanced at her in return, helplessness in his features. How dreadful it was to hear of your husband’s death on the very day you had planned celebrating togetherness and love.
Vicky said, “We’re very sorry that it happened today of all days.”
Gunhild turned to them. Her face was mottled. “You said he … had an accident? Is he … Can I still see him?”
Cash winced. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. He took a fall down the cliffs and …”
Gunhild stared at him. “His body, it’s … disfigured?”
Cash tried to soothe her. “Better not think of that.”
“Not think of that? He’s my husband. He’s suddenly dead. And you’re telling me I can’t even see him again.”
Cash glanced at Vicky again. She bet this was the hysteria he had been afraid of. But to Vicky’s mind Gunhild was still quite calm and only expressing logical thoughts.
“I think,” she said softly, “that it would be best to ask the advice of your doctor as to whether you should see him again or not. I have no idea what might be worse. Seeing him and remembering that sight or not ever knowing what you might have seen.”
Gunhild’s eyes locked on her. “You understand. I need to know. I would go crazy not knowing. I would picture it in my mind ten times worse than it really is.”
“You don’t know how it really is,” Cash said tightly.
Vicky took a step to Gunhild. “You must make the right decision for you. But please consider it carefully. You’ll never have a chance to undo it again.”
Gunhild nodded. She seemed to steady herself now that her mind was turning to practical matters. She said low, as if talking to herself more than to them, “So many things have to be arranged for. I’ll have to call Archibald’s daughter. And his mother. She’s still alive, you know. She’ll be so upset. Then I have to think about funeral arrangements. I don’t think he ever wrote down what he wanted. He didn’t see the need. He thought he’d live to be a hundred. And why not? He was fit, healthy.”
Gunhild pushed a hand to her face. “I’ll have to make so many decisions. And I’m not used to that. He used to decide it all around here.”
She gestured around her with both hands. “It’ll be so … silent without him.”
She turned her back on them again and stood, taking deep breaths.
Vicky looked at Cash. Cash wasn’t moving to say or do anything. She bet he just wished he could disappear from the garden and find himself at the police station again.
Vicky said, “There’s one more thing you should know, Gunhild.”
Gunhild stood and waited. “Yes?” The tightness in her shoulders betrayed she was bracing herself for another blow.
Vicky felt terrible having to be the one to say it, out loud. “There’s no exact cause of death determined yet, but the doctor who came to see the body did report that … there were two bullets in his chest.”
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 (#ulink_81610d22-a5d5-5c2c-aa67-f96e8c3499ca)
“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 (#ulink_2dc4d60f-4829-5111-8317-2c1708150bdd)
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.
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 (#ulink_10cb9dd7-ee50-5015-87d8-b4cd15145e7f)
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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