Written into the Grave

Vicky grimaced. She was happy she had not had a big breakfast anyway. Her stomach was churning after what she had read. She said with difficulty, “The jogger plunges to his death. It’s described quite graphically. I won’t repeat it. In fact, I’m surprised that Michael accepted this to be printed in a newspaper that can be read by kids. I bet he’ll get angry phone calls about this.”

“People are used to a lot these days,” Claire said. “On television …” She made an eloquent hand gesture.

Vicky sighed. “I suppose so. I guess it’s just weird to read it when you know the person who wrote it—someone who seems to be the least likely person to ever have a violent thought in his head. I also don’t quite see how the installment relates to the previous one. I mean, who’s killed here? By whom and why?”

“That’s for us readers to find out.” Claire nodded. “I’m glad they switched it up and made it into a murder mystery. It makes for much more riveting reading. Now if you’re done with my newspaper, you can walk the dogs and I’ll go over the ads first to see if there’s anything interesting there.”

Vicky rose and handed the paper to her mother. “There you go. Shall I refill your coffee mug before I go?”

Without waiting for Claire’s reply she took the mug into the kitchen and refilled it at the sink. She was still a little cold from the words of the closing lines of Trevor Jenkins’ contribution to the serial.

She wondered if Marge had known that the story would take this morbid turn. Had there been some form of coordination of the end result, or had each participant really been free to write up whatever he or she wanted?

It would also be so awkward for the person who had to write the fourth installment. He or she had to insert the dead body into his or her tale while he or she had probably never intended anything like it.

Claire’s voice called out from the den, “Don’t you dare do my dishes. I can wash my own plates, you know … Victoria!”

Vicky rushed to carry the mug back into the den. “I wasn’t about to do your dishes, Mom. I was just thinking about the serial in the paper. I have to ask Marge what exactly they agreed on.”

“I think you’re making a big fuss about nothing,” Claire said, eyeing her. “It’s but a story.”

“Yes, well, you’re probably right.” Vicky forced a smile. She still thought the material was a little too graphic for the Glen Cove Gazette, but maybe she was old-fashioned in her views. Maybe the readers would gobble it up and clamor for more? Trevor Jenkins could become an overnight sensation.

Vicky snapped her fingers at the dogs. “Come on, Coco, Mr. Pug.”

The dogs got up from their beds at once and came over to her. She clipped on their leashes and picked up her basket with the sewn gauze bags for the soaps.

Claire was completely immersed in the newspaper and only replied with a vague ‘bye’ to her departing words.

Vicky left the cottage and turned left to where a steep path led down to the beach. The wind came to play with her hair at once. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the eerie feeling the installment in Seaside Secrets had left her with.

Still she was glad it wasn’t foggy today. Then she’d be listening for a footfall behind her, glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed by a dark figure with a hood pulled over his head.

On the beach two other people walked their dogs. Vicky greeted them in passing, her eyes trained on the cliffs in the distance. The story had mentioned cliffs with rocks at the foot of the drop. There was such a place up ahead. Trevor must have seen it once as he was himself jogging or perhaps bird watching. She had seen him walking around with binoculars.

Maybe the wild landscape had inspired him to write the story?

Maybe he hadn’t meant it to be morbid at all, just a nice bit of free imagination.

Vicky picked up a shell or two as she went and tried to focus on her soap display, the new gauze bags and some other orders that were coming in today. She wanted to change the window if Marge was free to help her. Marge had called the other night to say she might have to take the morning off as a friend of hers was moving house and she had promised to help out. But the exact date for the move kept being changed as the new house was still undergoing some quick repairs so a family could move in safely and then work on the rest.

From Marge’s story Vicky had gathered it was a fixer-upper that would take years to get completely set up right. Having dealt with some renovations in her store she knew how daunting it could be and was glad she wasn’t in those people’s shoes.

Her eyes picked up on activity in the distance by the rocks at the foot of the cliffs that might have inspired Trevor Jenkins. It seemed several people were walking there, looking down. Maybe they were searching for small creatures like crabs hiding? Vicky wasn’t quite sure if the high tide reached those rocks but if it did, there might be wildlife there that visiting biologists found fascinating. Glen Cove had always attracted people who came for nature, be it birds, sea mammals or smaller life on the shore.

But her supposition didn’t ring true to her own mind. That one person on the left was wearing a hat. Looking a lot like a sheriff’s hat.

And was that a flash of light overhead near the top of the cliffs?

As of a police car?

Vicky shook her head. The story in the Gazette had really driven her imagination wild. She had started to see police activity near a perfectly innocent little spot along the coast just because there were cliffs like in the story. She had to tell Marge that Trevor’s piece had been good enough to get her completely spooked. The gardener would be pleased to hear it.

A Labrador came running for her, circling her before he licked her hand. Vicky patted him a moment, then focused on the owner who wasn’t far behind. “Good morning, Ms. Templeton. How are you today?”

Ms. Templeton was a customer who bought lots of gifts for friends at the store. Her friendly face was wrinkled in a worried frown, and her tone was urgent as she said, “You’d better not go in that direction, Vicky. Turn back or use the path just there …” she pointed to Vicky’s right “… to get up to the road. You don’t want to go anywhere near those cliffs today.”

“Why not?” Vicky asked, her heart pounding.

“I think there has been an accident. The police are there. I wouldn’t like to see something gruesome so I decided to walk down the beach and warn everyone I meet.”

“But have you actually seen what the police are doing there? Have you talked to Cash or one of his men?”

Cash Rowland was the local sheriff and an old friend of Vicky’s. They had been to school and college together and although they had not seen each other for years after that, they had picked up on their old friendship again once they were both back in town. Vicky had helped Cash with two murder cases, more or less against his will, but he had admitted later she had done a good job.

Ms. Templeton eyed her as if she had gone crazy. “Of course I’ve gone nowhere near the scene. I have no idea what they’re doing there, but as they came with lights and all, I suppose it’s serious. Some people like to run to accident sites to see all the bloody details, but I’m not one of those people.”

Vicky hastened to assure her she wasn’t either and to thank her for her concern and good advice.

But as Ms. Templeton rushed on to warn the other dog walkers on the beach, Vicky stared ahead at the cliffs in deep thought.

She had no wish to see anything gruesome herself, especially not after the rather vivid description of the victim falling to his death in Trevor’s offering in the Glen Cove Gazette. Still she was worried by the police activity on that particular spot and sort of … intrigued what it could be.

If something had happened there, today of all days, it would be an odd coincidence.

She put Mr. Pug and Coco on their leashes and led them up the path Ms. Templeton had indicated, then walked along the road to where the police car stood. As long as she stayed away from the edge, she ran no risk of seeing anything horrible down there at the foot of the cliffs.

One of the deputies was with the police car, talking to the dispatcher over the radio. He just ended the conversation and looked at her.

Vicky flashed a smile. “Is the sheriff here?”

“Down there.” The deputy gestured behind him. “But you can’t go there. We’re keeping this whole area locked off for the moment.”

“Has something happened?”

The deputy took a breath as if he wanted to tell her it was none of her business, then he hesitated. Did he remember her connection to Cash, or was he just aware that something sensational could never stay under wraps for long in a place like Glen Cove?

He said, “Someone took a fall off the cliffs. He must have ventured too near to the edge. Or maybe he wanted to look at the view and got dizzy? He might even have had a heart attack or stroke. That sometimes happens when you’re jogging.”

“Jogging?” Vicky asked, her heart skipping a beat again.

“Yes, this route is popular with runners. And … he’s dressed in running gear.” The deputy perked up as if he was happy he could show off his deductive talent.

“Oh,” Vicky said, looking around. “I don’t suppose a car can have gotten near him. You do hear stories about people getting hit by a car when they’re out running at twilight.”

“Cars don’t come near that edge,” the deputy said with determination. “Besides, his running shirt had those distinctive stripes on it to improve visibility.”

“Yellow?” Vicky asked, her mouth dry.