Written into the Grave

by Vivian Conroy

  Vicky asked, “Do you have any idea how the investigation is coming along?”

  Marge grinned at her. “Funny you should ask. I happened to overhear the sheriff’s dispatcher talking to a friend at the diner. Of course she’s not supposed to tell a thing about what happens at the station, but we all know she does anyway, right?”

  Vicky nodded eagerly. “What did she say?”

  Marge grunted as she leaned down to clean the sponge in the bucket of clear water and started to wipe the soapy patches away. “Ballistics have confirmed the gun found in the shed at the Goodridges’ villa is the murder weapon. Kaylee and Trevor have both been interrogated again, and it seems their stories don’t quite add up. About how their fingerprints got on the gun and all that. They say that they did handle the gun but not to shoot anybody. It seems Kaylee showed Trevor the gun on some occasion and they both held it in their hands. Cash doesn’t believe them. I mean, how likely is this story?”

  Vicky pursed her lips. “It depends. Where on the gun exactly were their prints?”

  Marge looked at her. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if you’re holding a gun in your hands to show it to someone, you’re not holding it in the same way as when you’re about to fire it. Did the dispatcher mention where the fingerprints were?”

  “No, she’s not that thorough. Just likes to show off that she knows a lot about what Cash is doing. I bet he’ll be livid when he finds out.”

  Marge stepped back and studied the window critically. Then she sighed in relief. “All done.” She carried both her buckets into the store. Vicky followed her.

  Kyra sat in one of the two chairs by the fireplace, Coco in her lap, a cozy mystery in her hand.

  Doug leaned against the counter. He looked at Vicky. “Do you think I can go to the Gazette’s offices?”

  Vicky smiled. “Sure. We’ll keep an eye on …” She nodded at the girl who was lost in her book.

  Doug nodded and left softly.

  Marge had vanished into the pantry. Vicky heard the sound of water rushing through the sink, then the water cooker being turned on. Tea it was then.

  Suddenly she remembered her mother mentioning Marjorie’s phone call early in the morning. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in the B&B’s number.

  Marjorie answered after a few rings. “Sandy Shores B&B, good morning, how may I help you?”

  “Vicky Simmons here. You called my mother with a message for me? Something I had to call you back about?”

  “Yes. I only want to tell this to you, nobody else.”

  Marjorie fell silent a moment, and Vicky judged by the rustle that she was carrying the cordless phone into another room. Probably so she wouldn’t be overheard.

  “I really hate to gossip,” Marjorie said.

  Vicky suppressed a grin. “Of course.”

  “But this is a murder case, and Kaylee’s such a dear girl.” Marjorie’s voice caught. “I feel like I should tell someone. But not the police. I don’t want to be a snitch.”

  “I assure you I’ll be very discreet with whatever you tell me.”

  “You can tell Cash and not say you heard it from me. All right?” Marjorie sounded firmer again. “I was on the fence about it all night long. But for Kaylee’s sake I’ll tell you.”

  She took a deep breath. Vicky could hear a bird in the distance. So Marjorie had even moved outside the house for her confidential remark. It had to be something really important.

  “Yes?” she urged her.

  Marjorie said, “I don’t think Sam’s wife is ill. I mean, not like people think she is. I think she’s … pregnant.”

  Vicky stood motionless. “But I thought she was already in her forties.”

  “Yes, she is. I suppose that’s why they’re keeping it a secret. They might be worried something will go wrong. But I do think it’s a pregnancy.”

  Vicky clenched the phone. She saw Michael’s list, his note behind Sam ‘no future for …’ Had he known about the pregnancy?

  How?

  Why hadn’t he told her? She had asked about Sam’s wife. Did Michael suspect Sam was the killer?

  Marjorie said in her ear, “I don’t want to get Sam into any kind of trouble really. Especially not if what I’m guessing is the truth. A baby shouldn’t be born with its father in jail. But Sam might have killed Goodridge because he blamed him for his dismissal, the accusations of stealing and their money troubles. Just while his wife was expecting and all. And Kaylee’s being blamed for a murder she didn’t commit. I’m sure she’s innocent and I want her to be cleared, you understand? She’s just a girl. Yes, she had arguments with her father, but what teen doesn’t? She didn’t shoot him.”

  Vicky said, “Thanks for your information. I’ll handle it with care. Yes, of course. Bye-bye.”

  She disconnected before Marjorie could say more to clear Kaylee.

  Vicky didn’t want to see the girl in jail either. But Sam? The friendly gardener, wrongly accused, having lost most of his work around town, his wife maybe really … After so many years of hoping and waiting, finally …

  And then … a murder charge hanging over their heads?

  “There we are.” Marge carried in a tray with several colorful mugs, the dotted teapot, the cookie tin.

  Mr. Pug ran at her to be first in line for a treat. Kyra didn’t seem to hear anything but turned the page of her book and read on. It was the first time since Vicky had gotten to know her at the resort that she saw the girl’s face really relaxed.

  Marge put the tray on the counter and poured the tea. “You look bemused,” she said to Vicky.

  Vicky said, “Yes, well, I had an odd phone call. But never mind. I need to check on this first. With Michael.”

  “After tea.” Marge handed her a mug. “I doubt you had any breakfast either.” Her frown said enough. Take better care of yourself!

  “On the contrary,” Vicky rushed to say. “It was a huge breakfast. So no cookies for me. And none for the dogs either. Mom is spoiling them enough as it is.”

  As if he had understood her every word, Mr. Pug sank on his rear, giving her a reproachful look. Coco snuggled in Kyra’s lap and didn’t make a sound.

  Vicky took a careful sip of the hot tea, then said, “It’s not drinkable yet. I’ll make that call to Michael first. In the back room.” Ignoring Marge’s protests that she needed a break or she’d get burnout, she put down her tea mug and went into the back.

  She called Michael and was relieved when he answered right away. “Are you at the Gazette?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Doug with you?’

  “Yes, he just came in, and I gave him a nice bit on a sports team to work on for distraction. How come?”

  “No, fine. His sister is here. Marge and I’ll keep an eye on her. I just wanted to ask you a quick question. You’ve seen Sam, talked to him. Is … his wife pregnant?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s not showing herself anywhere because she doesn’t want talk.”

  “I see. Do you think it gives Sam more motive or less?”

  Michael exhaled. “With a baby on the way, this is of course the worst of times to be out of work. So he did blame Goodridge even more for spreading those lies that he had stolen money. But on the other hand, Sam now has a real incentive to improve his prospects. He told me that he started a course in garden architecture so he can’t just do digging and planting, but design complete gardens and carry out his own designs start to finish. He sounded enthusiastic and full of plans. Not like a man who’ll lie in wait and kill another over some old score. And the bit in the paper and all. It’s so theatrical, melodramatic. Not at all the MO of a down-to-earth, practical man.”

  But of someone artistic? Kaylee had called Gunhild’s behavior a performance.

  The whole thing when she had heard about her husband’s death: her disbelie
f, the fallen tool, the shaking hands, her tears … Later her dive into Michael’s arms.

  A performance?

  Gunhild had led Vicky straight to the shed where the gun had been hidden. How convenient to have someone with her when it appeared. A witness who would be readily believed.

  But Gunhild couldn’t have known Cash would bring her along. She had made no attempt to drag Cash into the shed.

  Maybe Vicky was taking her theories too far?

  Still she asked Michael, “When you interviewed Gunhild about her art, did she tell you she once had an exhibition in Oslo? As part of a group project for athletes?”

  “She did mention Oslo, but I don’t think she could have been in any group project for athletes.”

  Vicky ignored the latter remark and said, “Do you know her maiden name?”

  “No. I do know her work is sold under the name Gunhild Gynt, but I’m not sure that’s her actual name. Why all these questions about Gunhild? You don’t suspect her, do you? That would be cruel.”

  His tone irked Vicky but she said casually, “I was just wondering about something Diane told me. But it’s probably unrelated. Talk to you later.”

  Vicky disconnected and pulled up a search engine and typed in: Gunhild Gynt art animal sculptures Oslo exhibition.

  Too many hits of course, most of which had nothing to do with the woman she wanted.

  Twenty years ago the internet hadn’t played a big part in people’s lives, and it wasn’t logical to assume that the exhibition had left any online traces. Diane’s daughter was going to look for photos of that trip, but Vicky had no idea when she’d get back to her about it. And if the photos would even deliver anything useful.

  Vicky shook her head and put her phone back in her pocket. Cash had talked to the family lawyer about Goodridge’s will. He’d know Gunhild’s maiden name.

  And he could also tell her where exactly on the gun Trevor and Kaylee’s fingerprints had been.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As Vicky left to visit the police station, Marge said she’d take Kyra for a bite in the diner during lunchtime. Kyra herself was too wrapped up in her cozy mystery to object to anything. Vicky waved goodbye and took the red compact from the church parking lot.

  The hum of the engine sounded cheerful, and she was glad she had her own means of transportation now. Ms. Tennings had been a doll to think this up.

  Inside the police station there was a buzz of voices. A couple of tourists dressed in capri pants and straw hats were explaining, all at the same time, how Harry’s Boat Trips had cheated them. They had signed up for an early morning fishing trip, but they had caught nothing.

  The deputy behind the reception desk raised his hands to calm them down. “The fishing trip doesn’t come with a guarantee of catching anything, I suppose?”

  With a grin Vicky walked past the disgruntled men and knocked at the door to Cash’s office. As she was a familiar face around here, she could move around freely.

  Cash called, “Enter,” and she went in.

  He was sitting at his desk, typing with two fingers. As he saw her, he said, “Give me a sec to wrap this up.”

  He typed on, then reread it and pressed a button. “Sent. Hate these little administrative jobs. But part of the deal too. Sit down. What can I do for you?”

  “I want to know on what part of the gun the fingerprints were found.”

  “Part of the gun?” Cash repeated.

  “Yes. You told me that fingerprints from both Trevor and Kaylee were found on the gun. Where on the gun?”

  Cash leaned back in his chair, studying her with a frown. “What are you up to?”

  “I was just wondering about it all. Were the prints in a position where they would be if Kaylee or Trevor had held the gun to fire it?”

  “Well, that’s the odd thing,” Cash admitted. “Kaylee claims Trevor held the gun in his hands in a firing position. She said she was scared to death when he was holding it like that, because she figured he was really going to fire.”

  “At her father?” Vicky asked.

  “No, at the wall. They were both in the study. Kaylee showed Trevor the gun. It was part of a conversation they had about her father feeling threatened. Kaylee claimed that he was under threat, while Trevor said he just made it up to make himself interesting. Kaylee didn’t like that suggestion and then showed Trevor the gun in the drawer. She took it out, and Trevor accepted it from her hands and held it up in a firing position as if he was going to shoot one of Dad’s paintings off the wall, quote unquote.”

  “So Trevor knew how to handle a gun?”

  “Or he had just watched a lot of TV and was mimicking what he had seen there. He never actually fired any shot.” Cash shifted his weight in the chair. “The odd thing is that the prints on the gun are on the barrel, not on the grip where they should have been if the gun had been held to fire it.”

  “So,” Vicky said, “it’s possible that both Kaylee and Trevor held the gun at some moment before the killing and that the killer took the gun to use, wiping the grip clean after using it.”

  “It’s possible,” Cash said.

  “It’s more than possible. Think of it this way. If Trevor or Kaylee had done it, they would have wiped the entire gun clean, not just the grip. But the real killer would only have cleaned the grip. Their prints had to stay on the barrel, to incriminate them. Don’t you see that the killer has to be somebody else?”

  Cash leaned far back, stretching his arms ahead of him. “But how would the killer have known both Kaylee and Trevor had held the gun?”

  Vicky’s heart pounded. The killer could have known if he had been in the house with them.

  Gunhild, spying on the young people through the door that was ajar?

  She had said Kaylee went into her father’s study to look at paperwork because she was worried she wasn’t getting enough money. Gunhild had sounded like she blamed Kaylee for snooping in her father’s things. Maybe Gunhild had kept an eye on Kaylee and had witnessed the little scene with the gun?

  Maybe that had given her the first idea for the murder and she had built the scenario from there?

  Cash said, “What are you thinking? There’s this huge frown over your eyes.”

  “I assume you questioned Trevor and Kaylee again.” She didn’t want to mention the talkative dispatcher. “What did Kaylee say about Trevor supposedly worshiping her?”

  “Well, she can’t deny he wrote that initial installment for the Gazette about a girl in trouble with her father over her modeling ambitions. That was clearly inspired by what he had heard from her.”

  “Yes, but does it prove he worshiped her as Gunhild put it?”

  “Not exactly.” Cash leaned over and lowered his voice as if the information shared was somehow confidential. “Kaylee claimed Trevor was in love with her stepmother. That he was like a puppy dog following her around, begging for her approval.”

  Vicky nodded slowly. “When you took him away from the villa yesterday, he was calling out for her like … I can’t put it into words but he was so upset that she was angry with him. And he was acting like he knew his way around the house and like he was protective of her. Maybe he was in love with her in his own way, resenting her husband for not appreciating her or something.”

  “That gives him motive, right?” Cash scratched his head. “Are you trying to clear him or accuse him?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how much Gunhild knew about him. Was he just a gardener she hardly met, or did they spend time together? Did Trevor tell her of his ambitions to write, did he maybe even share material with her? Could Gunhild have gotten access to his email account?”

  “Maybe, but …” Cash shook his head. “I don’t see what Gunhild could have gained from killing her husband. The new will leaves her with nothing. She has no motive.”

  “And all the others have one,” Vicky said thoughtfully. “Just think about it. Goodridge had just changed his wil
l. He had fought with his daughter and sent her away from their house. His wife had claimed that his former business partner had attacked her. Oh, he had also fired his gardener for allegedly stealing from him. All these motives, there for the taking.”

  “But those actions you’re just mentioning were almost all undertaken by Goodridge himself. He changed the will, fired his gardener, threw his daughter out of the house. Are you saying the murder victim has been creating motives for his own murder? Helping out his killer that way?”

  Vicky had to admit this was rather unlikely. Somehow the pieces didn’t really fit together. She asked, “Did you come across Gunhild’s maiden name?”

  “Yes. How come?”

  “I want to look up a bit about her background before she came to the United States.”

  Cash shook his head. “Won’t be easy. Her maiden name is Andersen. That’s a common name in Scandinavia, in several variations.”

  Vicky exhaled. “Too bad.”

  Cash looked her over. “Why do you suddenly have it in for Gunhild?”

  Vicky flushed. “I don’t have it in for Gunhild. I just don’t want everybody dismissing her because she has no clear motive. Maybe we don’t understand her motive.”

  She added quickly, as if it was but an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, Doug is back at the Gazette’s offices. He’s very sorry for what he did the other day. I think he’ll come over today or tomorrow to talk to you and explain. Please don’t be too harsh on him.”

  Cash looked her over with a suspicious frown. “What do you know about him or about what he was up to? I know that look in your eyes. You feel sorry for the kid. Why?”

  “You’ll hear it from him. Just don’t judge too quickly.” Vicky retreated to the door. She was hoping for a big break in the case before Cash could learn about Doug’s true identity. No doubt the fact that Doug was the son of the maltreated business partner, conveniently around town when the victim met his end, would hit Cash as highly significant.

  Significant enough to have a real deep chat with Doug and perhaps even for …

  Arrest?

  ***

  At the store Vicky found Marge and Kyra still absent, probably detained at the diner by the great lunch offer or a meeting with a friend of Marge’s.