Written into the Grave

Chapter Two

Of course not, Vicky tried to rally herself. In the story the person is shot by the narrator. Here it was simply a matter of someone falling. Having a dizzy spell, maybe even a heart attack, like the deputy suggested.

An odd coincidence, nothing more.

Still she wanted to know just a little bit more about the circumstances of this sudden death. She asked, “And how did you hear about it? Did somebody call it in?”

“Yes, some man walking his dog. Saw the body on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs and called the police. Sheriff’s talking to him down there.”

Vicky felt a moment’s regret she was not down there herself to ask that man a question or two. Like whether he had happened to glance up at the cliffs and had seen movement there?

Or whether he had heard gunshots, huh, she chided herself. Will you stop going on about that story in the paper? There’s nothing sinister to it.

“If you have anything relevant to report about this case …” the deputy said with a probing look.

“Oh, no, I just wanted to talk to Cash for a moment.” Vicky tried to smile again. “I can wait. I suppose he’ll come up here again, when he’s through down there.”

“The doctor is coming to look at the body. I assume he can tell us what caused the fall. Or at least guess at it. I think doctors can see whether somebody had a heart attack or seizure. By the color of the face, the lips. Maybe how the eyes are?”

Vicky tried not to think of the dead body. “Probably,” she said briskly. “Well, must be a weird start to your day.”

“No weirder than chasing loose cattle and almost getting run over by an angry bull.” The deputy shook his head. “That beast had horns … You don’t want to know. At least that body down there is dead and can’t hurt anybody.”

It can when it’s murder, Vicky thought. Then we’ll actually have to start looking for a killer.

Again.

But she said nothing.

Vaguely, they caught voices down below, but no words could be made out. After a few minutes a car came up to them, and a tall, gray-haired man climbed out. He retrieved a black leather bag from the back seat and came toward the deputy with an outstretched hand. “Got a body for me? Nasty business if he fell down there. Hello.” The latter was said to Vicky.

“Oh, doc …” Cash had just come up the cliff path. His face was purple, and he was panting. He leaned on the police car’s hood to catch his breath again. Mr. Pug came over to say hello, but Cash didn’t notice. He huffed, “Pretty steep, those cliffs, huh …”

“Or you’re out of shape, Sheriff,” the doctor said with a sly smile. “Maybe lay off the beer and pizza, huh? And you should take up running.”

“And end up like that poor guy down there? No thanks.” Cash wiped sweat off his brow.

“Do you think he died of exertion?” Vicky asked quickly.

Cash looked her over. “Good morning.”

Vicky flushed. “Good morning, Cash. I was walking the dogs when I saw the commotion. I was just curious what was up.”

Cash tilted his head as if he didn’t believe her.

“Do you think he died of exertion?” Vicky repeated before he could start asking about her reasons for butting in.

Cash shrugged. “Don’t know. I went over and had a look to ascertain the victim was dead. Not that it was necessary. He was lying at an angle that isn’t quite natural for the human body. But I didn’t look too close.”

Cash grimaced. “He was dead—that was for sure—and the rest I leave to the police doctor here and the medical examiner if need be.”

The doctor took this as his cue, excused himself and went down, balancing himself with his bag held high in the air.

Cash patted Mr. Pug and Coco who vied for his attention. They associated him with the roadside restaurant where Vicky had met Cash during the last investigation to wean some information away from him. To the dogs’ minds the sheriff came with the promise of sausages.

Vicky asked Cash, “But do you think someone can really fall down here by accident? You’d have to get close to the edge.”

“Some people take risks for the view. If he got dizzy …” Cash shrugged and studied her. “What do you think? That he was pushed?”

“It’s possible,” Vicky said.

“No doubt. But we’d need evidence to support that. And I don’t see right now how we could collect it.”

“The person who reported the body didn’t see anything suspicious?”

“Not that I know of.” Cash studied her, mopping more sweat away. “Why are you asking all those questions? Do you suspect foul play? We did have two murders here recently, but those were clearly murders.”

“It has nothing to do with the earlier murders,” Vicky assured him quickly. She wasn’t too eager either to tell Cash that she had read it in the morning paper. He’d probably think she had gone crazy. “I just don’t see as I stand here and look around me how you can go over the edge by accident. The deputy and I were just discussing that there’s no traffic here that can hit you. Or that you can move away from and take a tumble.”

Cash raked a hand through his hair. “How it happened might not be important if the doc establishes that the deceased had a clogged artery or a seizure. Maybe once we know who the victim is, it’ll turn out he had some medical condition that explains his fall.”

Vicky pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure how to address Trevor Jenkins’ story in the Gazette this morning. She didn’t want to get the young gardener in trouble for nothing, but as the deputy had mentioned yellow stripes on the victim’s clothes, it was a weird coincidence.

The doctor came back up, looking grim. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Tell me something I don’t know yet,” Cash said ironically.

The doctor came back at him at once. “How does this grab you? The victim has two bullets in his chest.”

Vicky gasped. So it was murder. And it had happened in the exact same way as in Trevor Jenkins’ story. Two shots. Two bullets. A fall. Dead.

“Bullets in the chest?” Cash echoed. “But … I thought he had fallen.”

“Oh, he did fall, and it’ll be hard to say which killed him. If one of the bullets struck the heart, the victim might have been dead upon impact, so well before he hit the rocks below. An autopsy can tell you more about that. Also time of death and all.”

Cash shook his head. “Bullets,” he repeated. “So there must have been shots. Somebody should have heard those, right?”

“Not if it happened early.” The doc gestured around them. “Who would be around here at an early hour?”

He shook his head. “No, I think it would have been relatively easy to wait for someone here and shoot him.”

“But why do it?” Cash mused. “Premeditated murder, with a gun brought to the spot, not an altercation and a push in a rage. That means someone hated the victim enough to plan his demise.”

“No wonder.” The doctor looked even more grim. “Archibald Goodridge was an extremely unlikable type. The way he did business.” He shook his head. “You might not know too much about it, Cash, as you’ve been away from town, but that man was a predator. He used people. He’s even guilty of …” He fell silent.

Cash looked him over. “Yes?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t judge someone who’s now dead.” The doc stepped away. “Let the autopsy fill you in on all the details.”

“Well, the autopsy won’t tell me what he was supposedly guilty of,” Cash said to Vicky as the doc hurried off. “I wish people wouldn’t drop hints, then retreat.”

“I guess he spoke half in shock, then realized he might say the wrong thing. Once it’s a murder investigation, you have to be careful.”

“Once it’s a murder investigation,” Cash repeated with a grimace. “Again, Vicky, again. I can’t believe it.”

“Who is this Archibald Goodridge anyway?” Vicky asked. “You might as well tell me. It’ll be all over town soon. I met Ms. Templeton on the beach and she was warning everybody who walked there with their dogs that something had happened at the cliffs and it could be a gruesome sight. Once somebody starts to call around about it, the town will be buzzing with rumors.”

Cash shrugged. “I hardly know Archibald Goodridge. He’s an investment banker who has a second house here.”

Vicky frowned. “I never met him, but I did meet his wife Gunhild. She makes lovely sculptures. In fact, I was thinking of getting Mom one for the garden, for her birthday.”

Cash seemed to perk up. “You know Goodridge’s wife? You’ve been to her place?’

Vicky made a dismissive gesture. “Only once, with Marge, to ask Gunhild Goodridge if she wanted to donate a sculpture for our auction. For the old lighthouse, the renovations?”

Cash waved it off and said in an eager tone, “The occasion isn’t important. You know her, that counts. You’re coming with me to give her the bad news.”

Vicky was stunned by the suggestion. “What? Why? I hardly know her. You’re in an official capacity. I can’t just tag along.”

Cash looked her over with a hitched brow. “You’re always tagging along, never caring for my so-called official capacity. Now you can do me a favor and help me solve a very sensitive issue. I have to tell that woman that her husband’s dead, will never come home again. Not just fallen down the cliffs by accident, but murdered. How do you think she’ll take it?”

“Well …” Vicky considered it, going back over her brief encounter with the woman. “She struck me as a very composed, rational person.”

“Nonsense, she’s an artist so she’s bound to go all hysterical on me. She might even faint. I have no idea how to handle such a thing. You’ve got to help me.”

“What about the dogs? I can hardly take them along to Gunhild Goodridge.”

“My deputy can take them back to your mother’s when he’s done here.”

Vicky sighed. She wasn’t keen on her mother hearing she was en route with Cash for an investigation. Claire had never liked her sleuthing and pressed her several times to stay away from anything potentially dangerous.

But Cash had merely asked her to help him convey the news of Goodridge’s death to his widow. There wasn’t any danger in that.

Of course Vicky didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, but she did know Gunhild a little and could try to soften the blow. Cash wasn’t known for his subtle touch with people and he had obviously already formed an opinion of Gunhild as prone to hysterics, which would make him even more awkward around her.

Besides, Vicky hadn’t told Cash yet about the odd bit in the newspaper this morning. The striking similarities between Trevor Jenkins’ contribution to Seaside Secrets and the murder here at the cliffs.

Cash needed to know that before he met the newly minted widow.

Just in case.

So after Cash had instructed the deputy what to do on the scene and to deliver Mr. Pug and Coco safely to Claire’s cottage, Vicky got into the police car with Cash, and they set out for the home of the Goodridges.

Chapter Three

As they were driving, Vicky asked, “Did you read the Glen Cove Gazette this morning?”

Cash shook his head. “Didn’t have the time. Besides, those newspaper delivery boys take a different route every day and half the time they don’t even get to my house before I leave for work. What about it? Shocking headline?”

“No, it wasn’t on the front page.” Vicky waited a moment. “Did you know Marge’s writing group has a serial in the paper? All participants deliver an installment following their own creative ideas for the story.”

“I never read fiction,” Cash said with his eyes on the road.

Vicky sighed. “Well, sometimes fiction can take on a rather ominous real-life dimension. I happened to read today’s installment in the Seaside Secrets serial before I started out on my morning walk with the dogs. I was at Mom’s and grabbed her paper there and read the serial’s installment to her. It was a story from first-person point of view about someone going out to the cliffs in the fog to wait for someone. For a jogger.”

Cash’s expression had been neutral, even a bit bored, until Vicky mentioned the latter. He glanced at her. “A jogger?”

“Yes. The I in the story is waiting until he sees the jogger and then goes to him. The jogger hears the sound of a footfall on a bit of loose stone and turns around. The point-of-view character wants to see shock and confusion in the face of his … victim I might as well call it. For the story then related how the perpetrator takes a gun out of his pocket and shoots the victim. Two shots. Two bullets in the chest. And the jogger in the story is dressed in a shirt with yellow stripes. Your deputy happened to mention to me that the victim was dressed in such a shirt.”

Cash nodded. “But I don’t get any of this. How can this story be in the newspaper when the accident at the cliffs wasn’t even known yet?”

Vicky exhaled. “That’s the whole point. I read the story, and half of Glen Cove probably did, when the murder had just happened at the cliffs in the same manner as described in the story. What the writer described matched the killing of Archibald Goodridge.”

“So …” Cash glanced at her again. “What you’re saying is that our killer wrote up a story to be put in the paper to advertise his murder while he was committing it?”

Put like that, it did sound totally unbelievable.

Vicky shrugged. “All I’m saying is that the story is a pretty accurate description of what actually happened. Whatever it means is up to you to discover.”

Cash whistled. “So if I figure out who sent this story to the paper I might have my killer?”

Vicky pursed her lips. “It’s not hard. The name was over it. I just told you it’s part of a serial from the local writing group. Today’s installment was written by Trevor Jenkins.”

Cash let it sink in a moment. “So I can go and arrest Trevor Jenkins because he admitted to all of Glen Cove in the local paper that he’s the murderer of Archibald Goodridge?”

Vicky took a deep breath. “It seems so. I mean, I assume that Trevor Jenkins delivered the story to the paper, or the paper would have suspected it wasn’t his. It’s quite a morbid little piece if you’re sensitive to it, so they must have double-checked.”

“Are you sure about that? Danning has these summer aides, students and all, who help him with stuff. Maybe one of them simply put the item in place, not even checking what it was or who wrote it.”

Vicky shrugged. “That’ll be easy enough to find out.” She waved ahead. “We might hit the offices of the Glen Cove Gazette first, before we see Mrs. Goodridge.”

“No, no, no.” Cash shook his head. “You aren’t getting away from this unpleasant chore, Vicky. I need your help with this, and you’ll give it to me. After that we can decide what to do.”

“But what are you going to tell Gunhild? That you suspect Trevor Jenkins of killing her husband while you don’t even know a thing for sure?”

“Of course not. I’ll tell her that he’s dead. Period. I’m not telling anything about the investigation, about what we know or whom we suspect. And neither are you.”

“I’m not saying anything.” Vicky lifted two hands in a gesture to ward off his suggestion. “You asked me to step in, and I’m only doing this as a favor to a friend. It’ll be awkward enough as she really doesn’t know me well.”

Cash steered the car down a long lane that led to a villa. To the left was a dark shed with blossoming roses in front. Further into the neat garden sat a construction of a conical slated roof on six pillars. The wind could breathe freely through it, and rain and sleet had changed the pillars’ original white color into a smudged green. In it was a giant sculpture of a running horse. A woman stood at it, a tool in her right hand. She circled the sculpture as if looking for the right spot to apply some finishing touches.

“That’s her.” Cash parked the car and rubbed his hands. He was clearly nervous about this, and Vicky gave his arm a reassuring pat. “We’ll manage together. Come on.”

They got out and crossed the neat lawn to where Gunhild Goodridge was working.

Tall, trim, with white-blonde hair, she was fully focused on her sculpture and didn’t hear a thing until Cash stepped on the lowest step of the three leading up into the structure. It creaked, and Gunhild turned with a jerk. “Oh, you startled me.”

Her eyes went even wider as she studied Cash’s appearance. “Sheriff … Is something up? Have I forgotten to pay my parking ticket? I know I was wrong; I shouldn’t have left the car where I did but I was in a terrible hurry to get back home to Archibald. We were entertaining some friends that night, and we were very short on white wine. I just wanted to get a few bottles quickly. I didn’t know there was a deputy anywhere near.”

Her expression was pleading as she reached out a delicate hand. “I’ll pay the ticket, cash if you want, on the spot. Can we please then not make a fuss about it?”

“It’s not the ticket I’m here for,” Cash said. “I uh …” He cleared his throat. “Your husband, he left this morning to go jogging?”

“Yes, he always does. Whether the weather is good or not. He likes to stay in shape.”

Gunhild smiled apologetically. “ I always turn over one more time when he leaves. Do you want to talk to him?”

The relief was visible in her features that someone else might be the reason for this official visit, not her.

Cash shook his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be talking to him, Mrs. Goodridge, right now or any other time. You see, he uh … He took a fall off the cliffs. He’s dead.”

Gunhild didn’t seem to understand the words at first. She kept looking at him, with a vaguely apologetic half smile.

Then, as the meaning sank in, her face turned pale. She swung away from them, clutching the tool in her hand. “Dead?” Her voice was unstable.

“Yes,” Cash said. “Do you have any idea if he … was feeling ill? If he might have had a heart attack?”

“A heart attack?” Her voice pitched. “No. He was a strong man. He always jogged and played tennis with friends.”

“Well, even professional sportsmen sometimes turn out to have a heart condition nobody ever knew about,” Vicky said. She didn’t know why she was saying it, as she already knew about the two bullets in Archibald Goodridge’s chest, but she wanted to keep the conversation going so Gunhild could work through her initial shock. Before she would have to deal with the next one: that her husband’s death hadn’t been natural, but murder.

Cold-blooded murder as far as they could tell right now, carefully planned and executed.

Cash said, “Did your husband say anything special before he left? Maybe that he was meeting someone today?”

“While jogging?” Gunhild sounded incredulous. She still stood with her back turned on them, the muscles of her hand working as she clutched the tool like a lifeline.

“No, in general,” Cash said. “Was today a special day somehow?”

Gunhild took a deep breath. “You could say that, Sheriff. It was our anniversary. I had … baked a cake the other day.” Her voice trembled. “Like I did when we first met. He fell in love with me for my Scandinavian cooking, you know. I had planned to present the cake to him when he got home. I …”

Vicky glanced at Cash. He glanced at her in return, helplessness in his features. How dreadful it was to hear of your husband’s death on the very day you had planned celebrating togetherness and love.

Vicky said, “We’re very sorry that it happened today of all days.”

Gunhild turned to them. Her face was mottled. “You said he … had an accident? Is he … Can I still see him?”

Cash winced. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. He took a fall down the cliffs and …”

Gunhild stared at him. “His body, it’s … disfigured?”

Cash tried to soothe her. “Better not think of that.”

“Not think of that? He’s my husband. He’s suddenly dead. And you’re telling me I can’t even see him again.”

Cash glanced at Vicky again. She bet this was the hysteria he had been afraid of. But to Vicky’s mind Gunhild was still quite calm and only expressing logical thoughts.

“I think,” she said softly, “that it would be best to ask the advice of your doctor as to whether you should see him again or not. I have no idea what might be worse. Seeing him and remembering that sight or not ever knowing what you might have seen.”

Gunhild’s eyes locked on her. “You understand. I need to know. I would go crazy not knowing. I would picture it in my mind ten times worse than it really is.”

“You don’t know how it really is,” Cash said tightly.

Vicky took a step to Gunhild. “You must make the right decision for you. But please consider it carefully. You’ll never have a chance to undo it again.”

Gunhild nodded. She seemed to steady herself now that her mind was turning to practical matters. She said low, as if talking to herself more than to them, “So many things have to be arranged for. I’ll have to call Archibald’s daughter. And his mother. She’s still alive, you know. She’ll be so upset. Then I have to think about funeral arrangements. I don’t think he ever wrote down what he wanted. He didn’t see the need. He thought he’d live to be a hundred. And why not? He was fit, healthy.”

Gunhild pushed a hand to her face. “I’ll have to make so many decisions. And I’m not used to that. He used to decide it all around here.”

She gestured around her with both hands. “It’ll be so … silent without him.”

She turned her back on them again and stood, taking deep breaths.

Vicky looked at Cash. Cash wasn’t moving to say or do anything. She bet he just wished he could disappear from the garden and find himself at the police station again.

Vicky said, “There’s one more thing you should know, Gunhild.”

Gunhild stood and waited. “Yes?” The tightness in her shoulders betrayed she was bracing herself for another blow.

Vicky felt terrible having to be the one to say it, out loud. “There’s no exact cause of death determined yet, but the doctor who came to see the body did report that … there were two bullets in his chest.”