Written into the Grave

by Vivian Conroy

  “I thought you knew Kaylee was in the writing group. When the serial started, there was a picture of all the participants in the paper. And of course Kaylee knew the schedule and the email address. She had to deliver her installment next.”

  “Yes, thanks, that could be very important.”

  Marge said, “Are you now suspecting Kaylee? I do want Trevor to go free, but Kaylee is just a girl. I can’t see her shooting someone. Certainly not her own father!”

  “Yes, well, we’ll talk more about that when you get here,” Vicky said and disconnected.

  She looked at Michael, who was eyeing her expectantly. Apparently he had caught on to her surprise and believed the call had delivered a major revelation.

  Vicky said slowly, “I think I just found a local who knows all of the information needed in order to frame Trevor Jenkins for murder.”

  Chapter Nine

  Michael tilted his head after she had mentioned the name. “Kaylee Goodridge? But why would she want to kill her father?”

  “It seems she has modeling ambitions and her father had other plans for her future. Something more serious, involving his own business even.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Trevor’s original entry of the Seaside Secrets serial was about a girl with modeling ambitions being kept down by her father. That’s what Doug told me. He read the piece when it came in. He called it sappy.”

  Michael grinned. “Doug’s my kind of guy. Look, maybe Kaylee mentioned to Trevor that she wanted to model and her father didn’t support her. But was it really a big family crisis, or was that what Trevor made of it in his entry for the serial? He might have taken the seed of an idea and worked it into a story. It need not have been the truth.”

  “I guess not. Cash will have to talk to Kaylee Goodridge as soon as possible though. He can ask her why she suggested the serial, if she talked to Trevor about his entry, and if she knew when he was going to send it.”

  “If she had access to his email as well?” Michael hitched a brow. “It seems far-fetched to me.”

  “Maybe they were closer than we know now? Trevor is the Goodridges’ gardener. He spends quite a bit of time at their house. Maybe he saw Kaylee there and fell in love with her?”

  Michael still seemed skeptical. “I’ve never seen them around town together. If he did like her, it must have been one-sided.”

  “He might have taken her out to another town. To avoid talk here in Glen Cove.” Vicky was determined to stand her ground with this new theory. “Cash will have to talk to all people involved so why not to Kaylee? The gun was found in the shed on the grounds of the Goodridge home. If Kaylee lives there or stays there regularly, she also had access to the shed and could have planted the gun there to incriminate Trevor.”

  Michael nodded, a look of concentration on his face. “Fingerprints?” he asked.

  Vicky pursed her lips and considered. “My guess is the weapon will have been wiped clean before it was put there. I don’t think someone can actually have gotten Trevor’s prints on the gun. How?”

  Michael leaned back on his heels. “Well, I suppose Cash will tell you soon enough.”

  “Cash doesn’t have to report back to me.”

  “He doesn’t have to, but it appears he does.”

  Vicky felt a flush come up. “I’m just interested in the case. For Trevor’s sake. If he’s innocent, he’s in a spot. And Marge organized the serial because she runs the writing group. It seems people are calling her with questions about Trevor’s contribution in the Gazette and the murder as if Marge is somehow to blame for it all. If we can prove quickly that someone used the serial to frame Trevor, Marge won’t be blamed anymore.”

  Michael raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose you’re right.” He sounded tired. “I’d better get on with my work. Call that doctor and see if I can unearth anything about the suggestion Goodridge was dishonest in his business dealings.” He turned away from her.

  “Wait!” Vicky took two paces after him. “How about lunch? I was just about to step out to have a bite. I think I saw the diner’s special today is fried chicken?”

  Michael turned to her. It seemed he hesitated a moment, searching her expression as if he wanted to know why she was inviting him to lunch. Vicky just hoped he’d accept and she could sort of smooth over the bad patch they’d had in their friendship as a consequence of the earlier murder case.

  Then the sound of Vicky’s phone broke the silence. She reached into her pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s Cash.”

  “I suppose you better take the call then. See you later.” And Michael walked out of the door, drawing it shut with an impeccably soft click.

  Vicky sighed in frustration, then answered the phone. “Yes?” Her impatience rang through.

  “Whoa, is this a bad moment to call?” Cash asked. He sounded chipper, as if he had just reached a major breakthrough in the case.

  Vicky said, “No, not really.” She was curious how things were developing.

  Through her store window she saw Michael cross the street and enter Jones General, probably to get a hamburger on the go. He should take better care of himself.

  Cash said, “My computer expert just called, and guess what? The entry about the killing that was sent from Trevor Jenkins’ email address was sent from a computer in a computer café some twenty miles from town. My deputy contacted the owner to ask if he has any idea who was there last night, but he told him the place is usually pretty full and he doesn’t have cameras installed that we could use for footage. Taking fingerprints off the computer used would be pointless too, as countless people use it in quick succession. They’re even open until after midnight, and this morning some students came in to work on assignments.

  “But in any case we know it wasn’t sent from Trevor’s computer. Of course he could have been smart enough to send it from the computer café himself to throw us off his scent but … I do think we should follow up on the idea that someone could have framed him. I’m going out to the computer café straight away to show pictures of people in the writing group to the owner. Maybe he can identify someone who was there last night around seven when the piece about the killing was sent to the Gazette. Can I pick you up? We could do lunch after we’ve been there.”

  Vicky hesitated a moment. If Michael saw Cash arrive to pick her up—and there was a pretty big chance that he would—he might draw a wrong conclusion, again.

  On the other hand she did enjoy the thrill of the investigation and Cash was involving her of his own accord this time, so why not?

  “OK,” she said, “but don’t pick me up at the store, pick me up at my mom’s. I want to take out a few groceries to her.”

  “In twenty minutes then?”

  “Fine. See you then. Oh, in case you need pictures of the participants in the serial, Marge just told me there was a group shot of them in the paper when the serial started. No idea if it’s any good for recognizability, but it might be easier than hunting down individual photos.”

  “Right, thanks, I’ll have a look.”

  Vicky closed the store, knowing Marge would be coming soon to open it up again, and crossed the street to the Joneses. The place where the Gazettes usually lay was conspicuously empty after Mrs. Jones had removed them in her indignation about the murder story.

  Inside the store Mr. Jones had just handed Michael his hamburger. “I can list at least ten people who won’t be sorry Archibald Goodridge is dead,” he said in a ‘told you so’ tone. “He created a real row last year during the golf tournament, claiming a participant was cheating and had stolen the win from him. Couldn’t take a loss like a man, I say. And that former business partner of his was here a few months ago and left Goodridge’s house in such a fury he almost drove right across a cyclist. The poor guy had to jump off his bike into the brush to avoid being run over. A witness took a note of the license plate and reported it to the police who followed up and asked abou
t the incident. That’s how I know it was his former business partner.”

  Michael had taken a big bite of his burger and was chewing fast as Mr. Jones spoke. He swallowed and said, “Do you have the name of this business partner? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “That I never heard. But it should be easy enough to find out. They had an investment business together, and Goodridge sold his share to him to retire early.”

  Michael nodded. “I can look it up, I suppose.” He threw Vicky a quick glance. She bet he was thinking about the call he had gotten about Goodridge’s actions before he had retired. Had he ripped off his business partner somehow? Was that sufficient motive for murder?

  Michael said to Mr. Jones, “Any other people with a grudge against Goodridge?”

  “His old gardener,” Mrs. Jones piped up. She leaned her hands on the counter, nodding emphatically. “The one he had before Trevor Jenkins. Did a fine job, even getting the garden nominated for garden of the year. They didn’t win that year, but I think they were runners-up.”

  “Like that matters, woman,” Mr. Jones said. “Get to the point!”

  Before she could do so, he said himself, “As thanks for all of his efforts Sam got accused of theft.”

  “I was telling the story,” Mrs. Jones said indignantly. Leaning over the counter she said in a confidential tone, “Goodridge had this open sports car. He always put his golf clubs in the back. One day he had also put an envelope in the golf bag with cash money. It was for a good cause he had promised to donate to, and he was to hand over the money to a board member of the charity whom he would meet at the golf course. He was inside the house for a few minutes to get something he had forgotten and when he came back out, the envelope was gone.

  “Goodridge claimed that as he walked up the stairs to go to his study he hadn’t heard the lawn mower’s engine anymore so he concluded that the gardener saw him go inside the house, turned off the mower, went over to the car that was parked in front, took the envelope out of the golf bag and went back to continue mowing like nothing happened. He could never make it stick, but he did fire poor old Sam.”

  Vicky asked, “But if he discovered the disappearance of the envelope right away, he could have confronted Sam and seen if he had the envelope on his person.”

  Mr. Jones said, “He did confront him, but he didn’t find the envelope. Sam always claimed he had been nowhere near that car or the golf bag. But Goodridge fired him anyway.”

  Mrs. Jones nodded, her hands now on her hips. “And because of the talk about him stealing, other people also didn’t want to hire him anymore. He lost a lot of money.”

  Vicky said pensively, “If this Sam used to work in the garden before Trevor Jenkins was hired, I assume he would know his way around the shed where the tools are kept?”

  “I suppose so,” Mr. Jones said. “How come?”

  Vicky shrugged. “Just a thought. I’d like some coffee for my mom, some biscuits and butter. Oh, maybe also a few oranges? They look delicious.”

  Mr. Jones started to collect the items for her order, knowing by heart which brands Claire always had. That was the advantage of shopping in town: people knew what you liked.

  Michael devoured the burger and used a napkin to rub some ketchup off his hand. He said to Vicky, “Seems Archibald Goodridge had enough enemies.” He threw the napkin into the small plastic bin by the counter and waved at her. “I’m going to see Sam right away and find out how much he knows about what happened this morning.”

  “Don’t tell him too much. Cash might want to talk to him later and if he already knows certain things …”

  Michael didn’t seem to hear her and walked out of the store. Vicky sighed. Cash would not be happy with what he considered interference in his investigation. Then again she was curious what Michael would get from Sam. And from the doctor who had called Goodridge guilty of something. Not to mention the former business partner who had driven off in a rage. The list of possible suspects was growing quickly.

  “There you are.” Mr. Jones shoved a brown paper bag with groceries across the counter.

  Vicky paid for them and with the bag balancing on her arm she walked to her mother’s cottage. Claire was pulling some weeds from her flower beds. Judging by her slow painful movements, her joints were acting up again.

  “Hello, Mom.” Vicky came over and pecked her mother on the cheek. “Why don’t you let me do that? Or better even, hire a gardener. I heard Sam still has some room in his schedule.”

  “I bet he does,” Claire responded, “after him stealing at the Goodridges’.”

  “It was never proven he took the money.”

  Claire looked thoughtful. “Maybe, but he did need money. His wife used to bring in her own money, cleaning at the Fisherman’s Haven resort, but since she had a bad flu, she hasn’t fully recovered again. Barely leaves the house. People are whispering about it, speculating what might be wrong with her.”

  “Oh. The Joneses didn’t mention that at all.” Maybe her mother’s friends were making a lot out of a little thing?

  On the other hand, if Sam knew his wife wouldn’t be able to work again, his family would depend on his income alone and the loss of work around town would be an even heavier blow. Giving him more of a reason to hate Goodridge.

  And maybe to blame Trevor for having taken his place? In that case it seemed logical Sam had cast the new gardener as the prime murder suspect, to take a double revenge for the injustice done to him.

  But would a man who knew his wife depended on him, on his care for her, risk being caught for murder and ending up in jail?

  Vicky leaned down to pat Mr. Pug, who had come up to her, wagging his curly tail. He stared up at the brown paper bag, apparently hoping it held dog treats. “Just some human food, boy,” Vicky said, stroking his back. “Nothing for you.”

  Claire rubbed her dirty hands together. “How about lunch?”

  “Cash is picking me up to go see someone.”

  “Cash?” Claire gave her a hard stare. “It doesn’t involve a crime, does it?”

  “Well, uh …”

  Claire shook her head. “Oh, no, Vicky. I already had a bad feeling about it this morning when the deputy dropped off the dogs. But he told me you had to go someplace for work and you had sent the dogs home with him. I thought by ‘work’ he meant store business. But now it turns out it was some crime again. Last time you promised me you wouldn’t do any sleuthing anymore. That it was over and done with now. Why would you …”

  “Mom, I’m only going with Cash to a computer café to show the owner a picture or two for identification. There’s absolutely zero percent risk in that. Cash is handling a sensitive case, and I just want to help him a little.”

  “The sheriff is a big man, he doesn’t need your help.” Claire huffed. She went up the porch steps and into the house.

  Vicky carried in the grocery bag, Mr. Pug hard on her heels. Coco met them in the kitchen, circling them and barking to express her happiness at seeing Vicky again.

  Claire said, “I think I heard the phone ring while I was in the garden but I really wanted to finish that little job before lunch.”

  Vicky knew it had most likely been one of her mother’s ‘informers’ to talk about Archibald Goodridge’s plunge off the cliffs and rushed to say, “Cash will be here any moment. Hope you have a lovely afternoon. Bye, Mr. Pug.”

  She gave the dog a quick scratch behind his ear. “Bye Coco.”

  The white fluff ball accompanied her down the garden path to the gate.

  Cash’s Jeep had already pulled up. Vicky waved at him, then brushed Coco’s head. “Go back inside, girl. There’ll be something to eat, I bet.”

  Coco barked and turned to run back to the house.

  Vicky took care to close the garden gate and went to the Jeep, pulling the passenger door open. A voice speaking over the radio said, “Shocking the residents of small-town Glen Cove. The body at th
e cliffs is believed to be of businessman and investment banker Archibald Goodridge, who had a second house on the outskirts of the town. The cause of death has not yet been revealed by the police, but there’s a suspicion of foul play.”

  Cash snapped off the radio and said, “Your young friend Doug Davis apparently didn’t keep his word. He was supposed to have kept the identity of the victim a secret for the moment.”

  “Who says Doug gave the name to the news station? I heard from Marge that the news of the death is all over town. It could just as well have been somebody else.”

  Cash shrugged. “Maybe. I just feel like I should have said no when he asked if he could cover it. But since you insisted …”

  Vicky didn’t like his reproachful tone and said defensively, “I just wanted to give him a chance. Obviously he wants to make a good impression on Michael.”

  Cash grimaced as he drove away. “Maybe Michael is grooming him to take his place when he leaves town again?”

  “Leaves town again?” Vicky echoed. “I thought Michael planned on staying here.”

  “Well, I heard through the grapevine that he’s in talks with a big west coast paper who want him. I don’t see why he wouldn’t take the offer. Not much to do for him here.”

  Vicky sat motionless. Her relationship with Michael hadn’t exactly been easy or comfortable, but at least he had been around. At least she had felt like it was her choice whether to take it further or leave it at what it was. Now it seemed that chance would be snatched away from her. A big west coast paper … A challenge …

  How could Michael say no?

  Cash said, “I hope the owner of the computer café will recognize someone in the picture. Then we’ll have a lead to act on. I already have Trevor under lock and key, so if the man recognizes him, it’s clear to me it was him all along, just trying to throw us off the scent. Should it be Kaylee, or someone else in the writing group … I brought that picture from the paper you mentioned over the phone. It’s full color, and all the faces are clearly recognizable.”