Written into the Grave

Vicky came with her, noticing that Trevor followed them like a puppy dog. Her stomach knotted, thinking he might really have shot Goodridge at the cliffs that morning and was now here like nothing had happened. What kind of person was he really?

They went through the back door into the laundry where a washing machine whirred. Then into the kitchen.

Gunhild sank onto a chair. Trevor went to the sink. “Tea?” he asked and without waiting he filled the water cooker.

Vicky stared at him. He acted like he was right at home here. Like he had done this countless times before.

Gunhild sat at the table, shivering. She leaned her elbows on the table’s surface and stared at Vicky. “What was that thing doing in the shed?”

Vicky shrugged. “That’s for Cash to find out.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. She didn’t want a discussion about the gun with Trevor present.

“What are you doing?” Trevor asked in a sharp tone. He had turned the water cooker on and stood eyeing her.

“Just making a call,” Vicky said as casually as she could. Her back was cold with the intensity of his gaze. She had never really paid attention to him before, but now she started to wonder if he was in any way emotionally unbalanced.

Dangerous.

The dispatcher answered, and Vicky said, “Could you ask Cash to come out here at once? He knows where I am. Vicky Simmons. It’s urgent.”

She hoped Cash would understand that something was wrong at the Goodridge residence and would hurry out here.

She pushed disconnect. Trevor asked, “Why are you calling for the sheriff?”

So he knew who Cash was. Vicky had somehow hoped he wouldn’t.

“We made a discovery in the shed, and the police have to look at that.” Vicky smiled at him. “Nothing serious. Oh, the water is ready. Can you make the tea?”

Trevor nodded and picked up a tin that stood on a shelf over the sink. He wriggled the lid off and pulled a tea bag out. He held it up for Gunhild to see. “Your favorite. Cookies?”

Gunhild shook her head. “I can’t eat anything right now.”

“Well, I can. I had no breakfast.”

Vicky stared at the young man. Was it possible to kill in cold blood and hours later drink tea with the widow of your victim like nothing had happened?

But wait.

All she knew for sure was that Trevor had written up a rather chilling piece for the local paper and that someone had died in a manner very similar to it. She didn’t know for sure if Trevor was actually involved in the death.

“So you’re in Marge’s writing group?” she said.

Trevor had opened a cupboard to get out another tin. He pulled the lid off and helped himself to two chocolate-covered cookies, putting them between his teeth while he put the lid back on and returned the tin to the cupboard shelf.

“Hmmm,” he grunted in affirmation of her question.

“You’re all in the newspaper these days with an installment in the serial Seaside Secrets,” Vicky continued. She didn’t know if it was smart to discuss this topic, but she’d feel better if she could ascertain how much Trevor knew about his contribution bearing a striking resemblance to a real-life incident in town.

Trevor had pulled the cookies out of his mouth again, resting one on the edge of the sink while he broke the other in halves. He pushed a half into his mouth and nodded again.

“Your entry was today, right?” Vicky continued, determined to keep the conversation going so Trevor wouldn’t get spooked until Cash arrived. “I wasn’t quite sure about the details of the serial idea. Does everybody get to choose the contents of their own entry?”

Trevor nodded. “We agreed on the theme summer and secrets, but the rest is up to each writer. It helps to get the creative juices flowing.”

“And how do you send it in?” Vicky asked.

“Via email. They then get it in the paper.” Trevor ate the rest of the cookies and nodded again. “I heard that they cut it off if it’s over word length. I hope mine wasn’t. The last sentence was quite a cliffhanger.”

The word cliff made Vicky cringe.

Gunhild looked up. “Really? I haven’t read it yet. Where’s the paper? It might take my mind off all this miserable mess today.”

Vicky jumped. “No, you shouldn’t read it. It’s not … uh wise in your state of mind.”

Gunhild hitched a fine brow. “I don’t understand.” She looked at Trevor and smiled. “Have you added in some naughty bits?”

Trevor flushed. “Of course not. They told us from the start we weren’t supposed to shock people. Danning doesn’t want to lose readers.”

Vicky was stunned. “And you don’t think your piece was shocking?”

“Not really. I stuck to the rules.” Trevor shrugged. “I like my writing darker, but hey, if you’re part of a group project, you have to stick to the rules.”

Darker than a man plummeting to his death off the cliffs? Damaging his face so even his own wife might not be allowed to see him anymore?

Vicky swallowed. Outside she heard a police siren. Relief flooded her.

Trevor perked up. “What’s that? Why did you call the police to arrive like …” He fell silent.

Gunhild also shook her head. “I know it can’t be kept a secret for long, but I can’t stand the idea of all those people feeling sorry for me.” She hid her face in her hands. A sob rang out.

Trevor came over at once and put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed. “Don’t cry. I’m here for you.”

Vicky inched back. If Trevor was the killer, his behavior was … most peculiar.

Or maybe not? Did he really think that he could support Gunhild now that her husband was gone for good?

The back door was torn open so hard it almost came off its hinges, and Cash stormed in. When he saw Vicky, he exhaled. “You look all right. Good. Great. You gave me a scare. Why leave such a cryptic message with my dispatcher?”

He focused on Gunhild at the table. “Are you all right, Mrs. Goodridge?”

His expression darkened as he saw Trevor. “Jenkins … What are you doing here?”

Trevor seemed surprised at the question. “Working of course.”

“He’s our gardener,” Gunhild said. “He tends to the lawn and all.”

Meaning Trevor came into the shed often. Where the gun had been found. Hidden in the cotton pocket organizer for the tools.

Cash hmm-ed.