Written into the Grave

by Vivian Conroy

  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

  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 do
nation 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.