Written into the Grave

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.”