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.”
“Also about fingerprints on it,” Vicky added.
Marge waved both her hands. “Cash will look into all that, I’m sure. Right now I want to know something else first. Could somebody else have sent the piece for the serial, in Trevor’s name? If we want to prove he was framed, that’s the most important part of it, right?”
Marge pointed a finger at Vicky. “Can you check with Michael? When Trevor’s contribution arrived and all? Just making sure all details fit. Goodridge must have had plenty of enemies, you know. People were none too happy when he swooped in and took the cups.”
“Cups?” Vicky asked, puzzled by the reference.
Marge waved a hand. “You know, the cups for the auction? The rare pre-WWII swan cups? It seems Goodridge contacted the seller and offered an insane amount of money to own them. So they might not be offered up for sale anyway. I had so looked forward to seeing them and having a chance to bid on them. But no, Mr. Hotshot had to ruin everything by claiming the cups before they had even been offered to others. No idea what he wants with them either. I suppose he’d just lock them in some closet and never look at them again. If we had managed to get them for the store, we could have displayed them here.”
Vicky looked doubtful. “If they cause such a craze, I doubt it would be smart to leave them in your store when you lock up for the night. I wouldn’t want this place to be burglarized for a few pieces of china.”
“Rare china,” Marge emphasized. “But anyway … You know Michael well, please go ask him about Trevor’s contribution to the serial.”
Vicky nodded. “All right. I’ll do it right away.”
She did know Michael pretty well and she also knew Michael wasn’t a fan of Cash and vice versa. If Cash went to the Gazette’s office to demand some cooperation, Michael might buck just for the sake of bucking.
She went for the door and waved at her friends. “Will be back soon, hopefully with more to tell you.”
Chapter Seven
Vicky enjoyed the warmth of the intermittent sunshine on her face as she walked to the Gazette’s offices. The wind blew clouds across the bright orb every now and then, drawing all light from the street, then turning it on again. Gulls cried overhead as they circled, waiting for someone to throw a fry or bit of sandwich onto the pavement. Used to people as a source of food, they were pretty brazen. In the harbor area they sometimes even dived down to try and snatch something from an unsuspecting tourist’s hand.
Vicky smiled to herself as she crossed the street to the building with 1908 engraved in the lintel. A guy in his twenties stood beside the door, holding a coffee mug emblazoned with the logo of a football team. He grinned at her as she came up. “Can I help you? I’m all alone here for the time being.”
Vicky hitched a brow. “There’s no one else around? Michael Danning?”
The guy shook his head. “He went out with a photographer to do an item on a rare bird that popped up down the coast.
He found the sighting on a special social media account for birders. I think it’s a rare … petrel or something. Or maybe a duck or a goose. I don’t know much about birds. But Michael won’t be back here any time soon. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. Uh … There was a piece in the paper this morning, a fiction piece, an installment in the serial Seaside Secrets. Written by a local named Trevor Jenkins.”
“Oh, yeah.” The guy nodded. “I remember. He changed his entry last minute.”
“Changed it?” Vicky pounced on this revelation at once.
“Yes, he had already submitted it so we could get it in on time, and then last night around seven, just as I was having some takeout, he sent another version. He wasn’t happy with his earlier work and he wanted to do something different. Well, different it was. But hey, his name’s over it, so he can get it the way he wants it.”
Vicky stared at the young man. “Could you do me a big favor and check a thing or two for me? It could be really important.”
The guy put the mug in his other hand and reached out to her. “Let’s get introduced then. Doug Davis. Assistant editor for the time being.”
“Vicky Simmons. I run the Country Gift Shop down Main Street. Michael and I went to college together.”
“I see.” Doug emptied his mug. “Coffee break done. Let’s go in then.”
Inside it was so silent Vicky almost started to walk on tiptoe. “Where are the others?” she whispered. “Normally it’s loud here.”
“Oh, yes, Michael is after this rare bird like I told you, and the other people who normally sit here, doing acquisitions, the website and all that stuff, are in training. I don’t know what it’s for exactly, but Michael said he wanted his people to have the latest knowledge. A van picked them up this morning to take them to some resort for it.”
“Fancy stuff,” Vicky said. “Michael is a good boss then.”
“You can say that again. He took me on even though I didn’t finish my degree.” Doug sat down behind a desk and used the mouse to bring the computer screen to life. “What did you want to know about the piece handed in by this Trevor Jenkins?”
“Uh, you said there were two versions, an earlier one and a later one. Could you check for me if they came from the same email address?”
Doug clicked on a few keys, staring at the screen in concentration. “Yes, they came from the same email address.”
“And was the text basically the same? Or were there major changes?”
“Major changes. The first piece was about a girl having modeling ambitions and her father not supporting her. Sappy soap opera stuff. The second was much better. Can’t blame him for wanting to exchange it.”
“So the first piece didn’t involve a killing?” Vicky asked, her heart pounding.
“No, not at all.”
“And you’re sure they’re from the same sender?”
“Yes.” Doug glanced at her. “How do you mean?”
“I was just wondering if someone pulled a prank on Trevor Jenkins and sent in some stuff in his name, that’s all.” Vicky stepped back. She didn’t want to tell him what was up, so maybe it would be better to leave and let Cash handle the investigation into the emails sent.
“Well, of course we only know they came from the same email address.” Doug leaned back in his chair. “We can’t say for sure who sent them.”
“How do you mean?” Vicky asked, blinking in confusion. “It’s his email address, right?”
“Of course, but if you know someone’s user name and password you could access his email account and send email as if you’re him. I guess to be sure you’d have to know from which computer the emails were sent. If they were sent from the same computer, in Trevor’s home for instance, or another computer someplace else.”
“Yes, of course.” Vicky stood motionless. “Don’t do anything with those emails yet. Cash will have to look at them as quickly as possible. Suppose someone else did send the piece in Trevor’s name.” Marge had suggested it and would be elated there was a chance they could actually prove it.
Doug studied her. “If it’s just a prank, why do the police have to look into it?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “It’s more than just a prank. I can’t give you details right now, but please believe me that the emails are part of an official investigation. Doing anything to them might even make you liable.”
Doug hitched a brow. “Thanks for telling me. I won’t touch a thing then. Will you call the police, or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” Vicky pulled out her cell phone. She punched in the number and held the phone to her ear. The dispatcher said Cash was in the interrogation room and could not be disturbed. But she’d make a note of the information and Cash would be on it as soon as he was free.
Vicky disconnected.
Doug Davis was still studying her. “What’s up anyway?” he asked. “I was on the beach running this morning when I saw a police car racing along the road. Sirens and all. Has something happened, some accident?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “You could say that.”
Doug’s gaze became penetrating. “And you ask me about Trevor Jenkins’ piece. Which described a death on the cliffs. Let me guess. Somebody broke his neck, and now you’re wondering if poor Trevor has anything to do with it.”
He laughed softly. “He should have stuck to his sob story about the modeling girl and her big bad daddy, huh?”
“You talk about Trevor like you know him.”
“Not at all, but some guy who writes up poetry in a class with little old ladies at the library …” Doug grimaced. “He’d never be a friend of mine.”
“Lots of great poets throughout history were men. It all started with Homer.”
Doug waved a hand. “Probably, but I’m not into literature and all that. I like people who do something instead of just reading and writing about it.”
Vicky tilted her head. “Have you ever been in touch with Trevor, except for his piece for the Gazette ending up with you the other day?”
Doug pursed his lips. “I’ve seen him around town of course. Grocery shopping for that Goodridge woman.”
The contempt in his voice was thick. Vicky looked him over to gauge the feeling. “You don’t like Gunhild Goodridge?”
“I hardly know her. I just meant Trevor was acting like a lapdog running to do tricks for her.”
“I thought it was Kaylee he liked. The daughter?”
“Don’t know her.” Doug leaned back in the chair again, so far he almost toppled out of it. “Oh, but wait here. If he wrote about a girl in trouble with her daddy, it might have been this Kaylee and her father, right? So maybe he did like Kaylee. How do I know?”
Vicky nodded. “Well, you might have picked up a thing or two. Glen Cove is a talkative little town.”
Doug grinned. “Yes, you know about a death sooner than we do here at the paper. I guess that’s not very flattering for us, hey?”
He leaned forward, supporting his hands on the edge of his desk. “With Danning away chasing that rare bird, I could get a scoop. I could write about the death for tomorrow’s paper.”
Vicky leaned back on her heels. She hadn’t expected Michael to be away and some eager assistant editor jumping her for the story. On the other hand, Michael only hired people he believed in, and you couldn’t blame a journalist for wanting a nice headline. Word of the death would be going around already, as Ms. Templeton had warned people on the beach to stay away from the site of the fall to avoid a glimpse of the body.
Vicky said, “You might, but you have to ask Cash when he gets here what you can print and what you should keep under wraps for the time being.”
“Of course. I’m a professional.” Doug reached for a notepad in the corner of his desk. “So may I ask first what you have to do with all of this?”
“Nothing. I don’t want my name mentioned in the newspaper.” With her having been involved in two other murder in
vestigations since her return to town in early summer, people might start wondering if they wanted to get near her and her store anymore.
Doug made a face. “I can quote you as a witness, without giving your name. I only want to know what happened. Before the phone starts ringing and I have no idea what to say.”
He gave her a pleading look. “Danning took me on because he believed in me even without a degree. Now I can prove to him that I can do a good job. Please help me?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “All right then. It was like this. There has been a death on the cliffs this morning. Someone jogging was shot in the chest and he fell down the cliffs.”
“Like in Trevor Jenkins’ piece.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to say that.”
Doug leaned back in his chair, his chin up in a challenging gesture. “Come on, the entire town read it. They’ll be able to put two and two together.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Vicky rubbed her forehead. “You might mention that there was a remarkable similarity et cetera.”
Doug rolled his eyes, but he took notes obediently.
Vicky didn’t know if Cash would make the discovery of a gun in the Goodridges’ shed known at this point in the investigation, so she didn’t say a thing about that.
Or about her visit with Gunhild and what she had heard and seen there.
Doug said, sitting hunched over the pad on his knee, “So who died?”
“You’ll have to ask the sheriff to tell you that. I don’t want to ruin his investigation in any way.”
“I see. But man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Local?”
“Yes.”
“OK. I can then write: a local. Maybe an age estimate?”
Vicky shook her head. “Ask Cash. I don’t want to …”
“Ruin his investigation. I understand.” Doug put the pad on his desk. “Can I get you some coffee while we wait for the sheriff?”
Vicky wanted to say she wasn’t waiting for Cash, but to be honest she was curious how things had panned out with the interrogation of the furious Trevor Jenkins.
Written into the Grave Page 6