Most of all, her thoughts kept going back to the moment when Michael had said he didn’t want to see her anymore.
Of course he had said that in anger, right after having discovered Cash in the Gazette’s offices going through things Michael considered his own. She had sort of defended Cash or at least tried to explain why Cash was suspicious of Doug, but Michael had only hated her for that. Because of the whole stupid misunderstanding with Gunhild calling her Vicky Rowland as if she was married to Cash.
Vicky still couldn’t figure out how Gunhild had drawn that conclusion. Had she been so upset about the police turning up at her house that she hadn’t been paying attention?
Had she not caught Vicky’s name properly and concluded from Cash’s behavior toward Vicky that Vicky and he were partners, not just in crime solving, but also in their personal lives?
Somehow it didn’t make sense to Vicky, but then nothing made sense when people were overemotional. She just had to get up and make dinner and see to that little gardening chore she had made a mental note of this morning.
But she was too tired for it and too disappointed. Michael needn’t have turned on her like that to protect someone he barely knew. How much did he really know about Doug? How sure could he be that the young man hadn’t come to town with an ulterior motive?
Well, if he refused to look into Doug’s credentials, there was only one solution.
Vicky would have to do it herself.
She reached for the phone and punched in Marge’s number. Her friend answered at the third ring. Vicky asked, “Do you know where Doug Davis was staying?”
“I think I heard from someone he was renting a room.”
“He was staying at the B&B?” There he would have gotten into contact with Kaylee Goodridge after she had left home. Interesting.
“No, not there,” Marge said. “I’ll have to ask around. Give me half an hour, and I’ll call you back.”
Vicky stayed on the sofa, her eyes closed, her head full of images of pizzas that got delivered to her side without her having to get off the sofa for it. It seemed like only ten minutes instead of thirty when the phone rang.
Marge said, “It’s kind of odd. It seems one person thought Doug was staying with another, while that person believed he was staying with the first. And where he’s indeed staying isn’t clear at all.”
“See. He has something up his sleeve.”
“I’ll keep asking,” Marge said. “But I want to do it in an inconspicuous way, you know. I don’t want the town talking about Doug. They might start thinking he’s somehow involved in the current murder case and that would be sad if it turns out later he had nothing to do with it.”
“Right. Thanks. Keep me posted. If you have something, call me on my cell. I might not be at home.”
“Where are you going then? I thought you were bushed after this long day.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m going to Mom’s for dinner.”
And some information about the other people in the writing group.
But as it was Marge’s group, Vicky didn’t want to say that out loud. Her friend might be prejudiced when it came to the members, not wanting to get them into trouble with the law by revealing anything about them that might be incriminating.
Claire would have no such qualms.
Vicky pushed herself off the sofa and rubbed her face before setting out for the back door. Trevor and Kaylee were being held at the police station. For the sake of these two young people, who were no doubt afraid of what was awaiting them next, she had to try everything she could possibly think of. Right away.
Chapter Fifteen
Vicky found Claire about to have dinner and joined her, happy to sit back and scoop up the delicious pasta her mother had prepared. Mr. Pug sat at her feet following the movement of the fork to her mouth with alert brown eyes. He knew he wasn’t getting anything from her, but he also knew she felt kind of sorry for him and would give him hugs and cuddles as soon as she was done eating.
Claire groused that she was working too hard and that she had to stay after dinner to watch a costume drama with her. That they could have ice cream from the freezer for dessert while they watched.
It was tempting—especially the ice cream bit—but Vicky was determined to tackle the writing group members just as soon as she had emptied her plate. While her mother was preparing dessert in the kitchen, Vicky looked for the Gazette with the picture of the writing group and found it in the twine basket where Claire kept all her old newspapers to go back to, to prove the long-term weather forecast had been all wrong, or do the crossword on a rainy afternoon. With the picture she settled herself on the sofa again, Mr. Pug and Coco in her lap. Both dogs snuggled against her, making satisfied sounds.
“There we are.” Claire carried in two bowls and put the orange one down on the little table beside the sofa. “Double chocolate for you.”
“Before we dig in, I want to know something about this picture. The other members of Marge’s writing group.”
“Oh, no no no.” Claire wagged a finger at her. “I want to eat my dessert in peace and watch my costume drama.”
“But, Mom, Marge is in serious trouble because of the piece in the Gazette this morning, describing the murder. People have been calling her all day long, even library patrons, to complain about it and ask her if she knew more about it. The sooner we can prove that the piece wasn’t written by Trevor or anybody else in the group, the better.”
Vicky exhaled hard. “It has to have been someone who knew everything about the group though, so he or she could use the serial for the plan to kill Goodridge.”
Claire sighed, threw a regretful look at her TV set and scrunched up her face to study the picture.
“That’s Barnie Woods.” Her thin finger jabbed at an elderly man in the back row. “Considers himself the literary genius of the county. He has been in writers’ groups at the library since I came to live here with your dad. If you’re wondering if he might have shot Goodridge, think again. He’s too old to go traipsing around the cliffs early in the morning.”
Vicky nodded. “I suppose so. But he could be a close friend of Sam’s, the gardener who got fired without having stolen any money, if his story is to be believed. You don’t know how people react to injustice.”
Claire hmmm-ed. “Well, those two are a couple. Pickles and Fran Riber. Don’t ask me why he’s called Pickles. It has been his nickname for all of his life. The two of them are inseparable. I have no idea why they would want to kill Goodridge. They never had anything to do with him.”
“Goodridge was an investment banker, right? Could they have lost money because of him?”
“They own a home, without a mortgage as they got it straight down from Pickles’ parents. They don’t have much, but they don’t have to borrow either. And they aren’t violent.”
Vicky sighed. Her mother’s assessment was only that: an assessment, but it did seem unlikely that these elderly people who had no clear reason to hate Goodridge would go after him in such a complicated way.
Vicky said, “We can scratch Marge because she’s certainly not involved. So we’re left with Kaylee and Trevor anyway.”
She studied the two in the picture. Kaylee with her curls making her look older and more sophisticated, Trevor in the front row sitting on his haunches, a notebook on his knee. He looked serious, pensive, probably the way he thought a writer should be portrayed.
She asked Claire, “What did Trevor do beside being a gardener at the Goodridges’?”
Claire shrugged. “They all say he’s a student of some kind, but nobody seems to know what he’s majoring in. I think he made it all up to have a reason to be here. Yes, Mr. Pug, come on over.” She patted the sofa’s pillow beside her to lure the dog. “You’re not going to get anything from her, but I brought you a cookie.”
Vicky shook her head. “You should stick to dog treats, Mom.”However, she wasn’t really focused on the present, but on Claire�
�s revelation about Trevor maybe having made up a reason to stay in Glen Cove. Just like Doug? Had the two of them known each other?
Doug had spoken so disparagingly about guys who wrote poetry with little old ladies at the library that it seemed unlikely they had been friends.
Still it was odd that both of them should have invented a story to live in Glen Cove for a while. Where was Doug really staying? Would Marge be able to find out?
Vicky let a bite of ice cream melt on her tongue and leaned back in the sofa’s padding.
Claire said, “If Cash Rowland believes Kaylee was dating Trevor, he’s so wrong.”
Vicky studied her mother’s smug expression. “You know more.”
Claire shrugged. “Just hearsay.”
“Of course. But what did the hearsay say then?”
“That Trevor didn’t go to the villa to see Kaylee, but her stepmother.”
“Gunhild?” Vicky asked.
“She’s the sort of older woman young men fall for,” Claire said with a prim little nod.
“Mom, you don’t know that. Besides, Gunhild would never have encouraged him.”
“How do you know that?”
Vicky considered her mother’s indignant question seriously. How did she know that? Kaylee had said that if Gunhild had collapsed, it was an Oscar-worthy performance. A spiteful comment, or the right assessment of a woman she had lived with?
Thing was, people who didn’t like each other rarely had a realistic image of each other.
Kaylee had also said Gunhild was now a rich widow, while it turned out Gunhild wasn’t getting anything, financially, off her husband’s death.
Claire said, “I’m telling you that there has to be some love triangle behind this. Gunhild might have driven Trevor to kill her husband for her.”
“But Trevor denies having killed Goodridge and even having written the piece that was put in the paper. Anybody could have sent it from that computer café.”
Even the computer café’s owner, she supposed.
If Cash had been right in assuming he liked Kaylee …
Had he wanted to rid the girl of her oppressive father?
There were just too many possibilities and not enough solid evidence to go on.
Vicky emptied her ice cream bowl, yawned and checked her watch. “I’m going home, Mom. I need some sleep. Thanks for letting me eat half of your dinner. No, don’t get up; I’ll get out by myself. Maybe if you turn on the costume drama, you can still catch up?”
Vicky pecked her mother on the cheek, got her bag and went for the door, followed by the dogs who wanted to say goodbye as well.
Vicky took her time, sitting on her haunches, patting them and scratching behind their ears. “Yes, you’re a good boy, Mr. Pug. Yes, you are. Now you have to go to sleep, huh? See you again tomorrow. You too, Coco. Pretty little girl. I’ll stop by to take you walking. Yes, we’ll go to the beach again and play. Good night now, little ones.”
Outside she breathed the clear air and looked up at the skies that were still full of thin clouds. A lighter patch indicated where the moon would have been visible, had it been clear.
Vicky followed the path she always took, suddenly finding it a bit lonely and eerie. A branch snapping overhead made her jerk upright and clench her hands into fists. She began to walk faster.
In fact, when her cottage came into sight, she was practically running. She raced down her driveway, rounded the house to the back and let herself in via the back door. Inside she stood, catching her breath. The house seemed eerily empty. Her mind circled on Trevor and his violent act against Cash. The way he had suddenly lashed out when he had felt threatened.
But Trevor was locked up. He couldn’t get to her.
However, if he wasn’t the killer, the killer was still on the prowl.
But what reason would the killer have to come after her? She knew next to nothing about the case.
Right?
Or had there already been some information, hidden among all the statements, that could lead her in the right direction? Did she already know the killer’s identity if she could just separate fact from fiction? From the stories told by everybody involved, who all seemed to have some reason to tell the tale to their own advantage …
Her nerves jittery, Vicky turned on the lights in the kitchen as if those would make anybody with evil intentions stay away from her back door. She bolted it with extra care and even moved a small table with old flowerpots in front of it.
She checked all of the windows to make sure they were closed. Normally she never made a fuss about that, but tonight she was on edge and just wanted to reassure herself. She needed her rest and didn’t want to lie in bed, shrinking at every sound of a creaking beam.
The sound of her phone ringing almost made her jump against the ceiling. Scoffing at her own skittishness, she sank down on the edge of her bed and answered the call. It was Ms. Tennings. She said cheerfully, “I wonder if there ever was money stolen from Goodridge. I heard that the day before he died, Goodridge was looking for a buyer for an old-time car he had restored himself. Seems he was pretty attached to it and yet he considered selling it. That could mean he had fallen on hard times financially. Would he really consider selling a car he was attached to and give away a large sum, in cash, to a charity?”
“So you think he lied about having money in the envelope in the golf bag?”
“Maybe he had to explain for the disappearance of a sum of money and he used the theft as an excuse?”
Vicky nodded. “But why?”
“I have no idea yet. I’m just telling you what I learned from the people I talked to. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Putting the phone down, Vicky became conscious of a sound.
Tapping on a window.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Who was there? Had someone followed her to the cottage?
Of course not. She had to be imagining the sound.
But it persisted. It came from the kitchen.
She left the bedroom without making a sound and grabbed a large vase from the hallway.
She took a deep breath, counted to three and barged into the kitchen. There on the other side of the window, looking in on her, was a man. Tall, broad, his hand pressed to the glass.
Vicky gasped, then realized that she knew that face.
It was Michael.
She lowered the vase with a huff and went to open the back door. She had to move the little table first and remove the bolt.
Michael smiled apologetically. “I thought I’d knock on the kitchen window because your light was on. I thought you’d be home.” He looked her over. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I just came in.” She didn’t want to say anything about her extra security measures because she had felt unsafe.
Michael nodded. “So I’m in luck.” His tone wasn’t happy though, and his expression was tight.
Vicky looked him over better. His shirt was crumpled, and there were stains on his pants. Michael normally looked crisp and clean at all times, conscious of the eyes on him because he was the editor in chief of the Gazette and some sort of an authority around town. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, I dug a hole in my garden.”
“At this hour?” Vicky turned away from him and waved him along into the kitchen. She was glad he hadn’t meant it with his crude ‘I don’t want to see you again’. She just wanted to talk to him now, normally, acting like nothing had happened. “I don’t have any beer, but I can open up some wine.”
Michael looked at her as if he was unsure. Unsure if he could just accept this invitation after their row?
Vicky suddenly saw how gray with fatigue he was. She didn’t believe for a moment he had really been digging a hole in the ground. He had been doing something else, something that had to do with Doug maybe? Her heart clenched at the idea that he had
discovered the truth. That Doug had been lying to him, using him.
She reached out and squeezed his arm. “Sit down in the den. I’ll pour the wine and take it out to you. Go on. It’s OK.”
Michael nodded and went into the den. She could hear her old rocking chair creak as he sat down in it. Suddenly her eyes stung.
Michael was ready to leave Glen Cove for some west coast job, and she had no idea why. She didn’t know how to ask about it without betraying how much she wanted him to stay. She was afraid he would understand how she felt about him and it would change things between them forever. Their friendship meant a lot to her and …
Yes, it was more comfortable to have Michael believe that she liked Cash, even if that wasn’t true, than ever have him suspect that she …
Vicky shook her head. Michael was here now, to talk about something, and she had to be open to whatever he wanted to say. He trusted her enough to turn to her, even after their argument, and that was a lot.
She carried the glasses into the den.
Michael sat with his eyes closed, his head back against the chair, rocking it gently.
Vicky smiled when she looked down at him. She wished he sat there more often and kept her company.
She put the wineglasses on the table and sat down on the sofa, waiting for him to speak. There was nothing but the ticking of a clock and the creaking of the rocking chair. It was so peaceful. So right.
At last Michael jerked upright. He stared at her. “I think I must have dozed off for a sec. I’m sorry.”
“No wonder if you’ve been digging in the garden. There’s your wine.”
She picked up hers and lifted it, toasting him. “To health and … happiness?”
Michael gave her a sad smile. “Happiness.”
He picked up the glass and toyed with it. “It’s all so complicated.”
He took a sip and leaned back in the chair. “I was digging, digging, just … I guess I wanted to dig a hole to Australia. To crawl into and never come out of again.”
“Why? What happened?”
“What happened? You know it all. Doug.”
Vicky cringed under the name that had caused all the strain between them. She knew Doug had been lying about where he was staying, but saying that now might just make it worse. She had to listen to what Michael had discovered.
Written into the Grave Page 15