Written into the Grave

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#ulink_2ed0e32c-e80f-5ca3-9d06-a9098e1b5f10)

Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

A special thanks to my editor Victoria Oundjian for her enthusiasm for all my cozy mystery endeavors and to the design team for wrapping this story in a great cover.

Chapter One (#ulink_35b60c5d-c20b-53df-aece-2703d74371fc)

Vicky Simmons looked around the kitchen of her cute little cottage to ascertain everything was in order before her departure. She would not be back until late in the evening. The day ahead of her was full of activities both at her gift shop and with friends. The basket on her arm held new gauze bags for the soaps she sold, just completed last night.

Having established that everything was turned off, Vicky stepped out of the back door and walked around the cottage. The roses climbing up the trellis needed a little pruning and some more twined cord here and there to support the weight of all the blooms. Vicky made a mental note to take some time for it tonight or tomorrow. It was exactly the nice kind of chore that required little thinking so she could unwind after a busy day.

During her years in London, in a flat that was comfortable but didn’t even have a balcony, Vicky had rarely cared for plants other than a potted one in her living room. Here in Glen Cove she could grow her own vegetables and bind the roses and hydrangea into a stunning bouquet to put on her living room table or beside her bed.

Her mother Claire had even suggested Vicky might participate in the garden of the year contest, but knowing how strong the competition was, Vicky had politely declined. She loved a challenge but only when she had a fair chance of succeeding.

It was but a short walk from her own cottage down to her mother’s. The air was full of invigorating scents: the ocean, pine, a mowed lawn and just a hint of freshly baked bread.

Vicky had imagined herself taking time to bake, but so far it had proven hard to actually get round to it. What was supposed to have been a quiet small-town life had turned out to be as demanding on her time as her career as a reporter in London had been.

Getting the Country Gift Shop up and running was an ongoing process: after renovations, the grand opening and receiving a sign from the community as thanks for her involvement in solving an old mystery, Vicky had to keep coming up with ways to pull new customers to her store.

The tourist season was coming to an end, and soon she couldn’t rely on people just finding her store while they were exploring the scenic town. So she had decided on two strategies to expand her reach: do more bigger orders, such as for hen parties or businesses, and engage other business owners to organize some events during the slow season.

Vicky could just see Glen Cove turned into a big Christmas market, with gluhwein, hot chocolate with marshmallows, Christmas trees everywhere with little lights in them, market stalls selling tree decorations, napkins, china, nativity scenes … She could count on her friends Marge Fisher and Ms. Tennings to help set it up, as Marge had amazing organizational skills and Ms. Tennings was well-connected.

But convincing the other business owners to invest time and money in it was another matter. Things were done in a certain way in Glen Cove, and Vicky wasn’t considered established yet.The Joneses of the general store might prove especially hard to win over. And Vicky’s relationship with them was fragile as it was, after the two murder investigations that had rocked the town in the past few weeks. People had been played against each other, by suspicions, lies and outright fabrications, even in the media—and only time could heal the rifts and bring the community back together again, as it had once been.

As Vicky opened her mother’s garden gate, barking filled the quiet morning air, and a white ball of fluff came racing for her, circling her feet.

“Good morning, Coco,” Vicky said, leaning down to pat the doggy’s head. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”

As if on cue, the pug appeared at the porch steps and wagged his tail at her, not bothering to come up to her, but waiting until she came to him.

Vicky grinned. Mr. Pug liked to act as master of the house.

Coco had spotted the Glen Cove Gazette in the grass and ran for it, picking it up, then dropping it again. She didn’t see it as a precious source of local news, but as a cute, disposable toy, available especially for her.

Vicky put down her basket and hurried to extract the paper from Coco’s renewed grasp before the front page became illegible. Michael Dannings’s efforts to make a quality paper deserved better treatment.

She smoothed the wrinkles and smiled as her eyes slipped over his name at the top, with the designation ‘editor in chief’ behind it. Upon her return to Glen Cove she could never have guessed her college friend Michael would be back in town as well. After all, he had traveled the world on undercover assignments and to write up exciting news stories as they unfolded, and there had been no reason to assume he’d come back home to a small town where the local paper struggled to survive as people moved away or looked for news online rather than in printed pages.

Personally Vicky liked nothing better than a few minutes to leaf through the paper, smell the ink and read the words on the page before she rushed into her busy day. Carrying the paper and her basket inside, with both dogs on her heels, she called out to her mother. “Where are you?”

“Right here.”

Claire sat in her rocking chair. An empty plate on the table suggested she had just finished her breakfast. The smell of toast and scrambled eggs was still on the air.

Vicky wished for a moment she took more time to prepare a decent breakfast for herself. She had promised herself upon leaving London she’d quit breakfasting on coffee with a bun on the go and would invest in eggs fresh from a poultry farm and oranges to press herself. But now that she was actually living here, it turned out her schedule was still pretty full and she ran after all kinds of activities rather than staying in to bake bread or taking the Saturday morning off to get those fresh eggs at Sellers Poultry. Her breakfast usually consisted of overnight oats or a banana, still on the go.

“Ah, you got the Gazette. Good.” Claire extended her hand to receive the newspaper, but Vicky pretended not to notice and dropped herself on the sofa, opening the paper. “I’ll take the dogs for a walk on my way to the store. I’ll go via the seaside so they can have a run on the beach.”

Before Claire could start her well-known protestations that the beach got the dogs’ fur dirty, Vicky continued, “Ah, here it is. The third installment in the serial Seaside Secrets. This one’s written by Trevor Jenkins. Hmmm, I had no idea he was in Marge’s writing group.”

Marge Fisher, Vicky’s best friend in town and part-time employee at the Country Gift Shop, had started a writing group at the library where she volunteered. Upon hearing of this brand-new initiative Michael had offered the participants the opportunity to write a serial for the Gazette: one installment per participant. They had agreed on an overall scenario, but the exact contents of their individual contribution was completely at their discretion. Parts 1 and 2 had made for interesting reading, and Vicky was eager to dive into part 3 now.

“Trevor Jenkins, that gardener type?” Claire asked with a frown. “I had no idea he was literary-minded.”

Vicky folded the paper so she could hold it without having to stretch her arms and leaned back. “Let’s see. I’ll read his piece aloud to you. Oh, it’s in first person. Quite a deviation from the first two pieces.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t like first person usually. Too much inside the person’s head, I say.”

“Well, this starts out with action. Listen: My sneakers make no sound on the path as I walk in the quiet morning air. The sea sings its song ahead of me, not loud and bragging as it can do on stormy nights, but soft and luring, a siren song. I reach inside my right pocket and clench the steel. It was cold to my touch when I took it from the drawer, but now it’s warm as if my lifeblood runs through it.”

Claire huffed. “A bit poetical if you ask me.”

“Shhhh. Just listen.” Vicky read on. “I had always imagined people to feel wild when they did something like this, but I feel quite calm. I listen for a sound that betrays he is coming. There is nothing yet. But I know he’ll be here. He is a creature of habit. He runs every morning. Not because he likes it, but because it’s fashionable. Or because he can brag about it. Well, at least he is not one of those men who buy sweat pants and a pair of expensive running shoes only to leave them in the closet, gathering dust.”

“Are you sure this is written by Trevor Jenkins?” Claire asked with a frown. “It has more of a feminine vibe to me.”

Vicky eyed her across the paper. “Maybe the I in the story is a woman, and Trevor tried to capture her female voice? I do think he makes us curious as to what will happen next. Who is the person the point-of-view character is waiting for? And what’s that object of steel in the pocket?”

Claire sighed but didn’t protest as Vicky read on once more. “Fog is rolling in from the sea dampening the sounds around me, locking me into a little world. I know it will make things much easier. People don’t like to go for morning walks when it’s foggy. There is not a lot to see. And the cliffs can be dangerous. Unless you know the paths well, you might venture too closely to the edge and take a tumble. It isn’t a long drop, but the rocks at the foot of it are unforgiving.”

Vicky glanced at Claire. “It does get positively sinister here. I mean, I’m asking myself what exactly the character is waiting for.”

“You read too many cozy mysteries,” Claire said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The I in the story is probably some woman waiting for the man she’s in love with and we’ll be forced to witness their tryst in the sand. Please stop reading when it gets R-rated.”

Vicky couldn’t quite picture Trevor Jenkins writing that kind of material but then she didn’t know him well. She pushed on. “I look at my watch. He should be here any moment now. My hand seems to have become one with the metal under my touch. It doesn’t feel alien anymore but like it belongs there, a natural extension of my arm.”

“Yada yada,” Claire said.

Vicky waved her off. “Mom, give it a chance. I think it’s quite creative. These writers really deserve their shot at showcasing their talent in the local paper. Hear: Then out of nothing he is there. The canary yellow stripes on his sweat shirt glow like light in the fog. That is what they are meant for: to make sure the runner is visible. To prevent him being run down by traffic. There is no traffic here. It’s just him and me. He halts at the edge of the cliffs as he always does, to look down and see the sea. He can’t see it now because it’s foggy, but as he likes his habits, he does it anyway. Or maybe he just needs to catch his breath before he can push on. He’s not in great shape, although he thinks he is. I step up. A small bit of rock makes a sound under my sneaker. I meant it to. I want him to turn. The surprise on his features as he sees me. Confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

“I extract my hand. I extend my arm. Confusion turns to alarm. He steps back. Toward the edge. He staggers. He will probably fall. But I’m not sure. And I need to be sure now. He has seen me; he knows. I fire. Once, twice. The shots ring out in the air. Even the fog can’t dampen them.”

Vicky stopped reading aloud. Her mouth was dry, and her hands gripped the paper’s pages. Her eyes flew over the next few lines.

“Why do you stop at the exact moment when it gets exciting?” Claire asked in a petulant tone. “So the thing in the pocket was a gun, and the narrator is now shooting at this jogger. What else?”