Written into the Grave

“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.