Written into the Grave

by Vivian Conroy

  Vicky relished the quiet moments when there was nobody around to take some quick pics with her phone for the store’s social media accounts. She combined items into gift ideas and posted those with a few relevant hashtags. A mug, boxed toffees and a mini book for a friend or a scarf with flowers and a botanical calendar for a garden enthusiast. She usually got a few likes or shares and even a customer or two messaging that they were interested.

  This time Vicky put together a letter holder in a Dachshund shape, notepaper with dogs on it and a wax seal with stub of red sealing wax as a snail mail set for dog lovers. She snapped a few pictures of it, using different backgrounds, and then posted them with a short message.

  The first like she got came from her former colleague, Anne, writing: Stop posting this cute stuff to distract me from work. Got an assignment to finish. Call me sometime.

  Vicky stared at the words, uncertain what to reply. She had promised several times to call Anne, but finding a convenient moment for both of them proved to be hard. Staying in touch was tough living in different time zones. But at least she knew her former colleagues were following her store online and cheering her success. Their understanding for her move back home had meant a lot to her.

  The door burst open, and Marge rushed in with Kyra. “Sorry we’re late. We met Claire and had lunch with her. She took the dogs home again. She wanted to know if you talked to Marjorie and I said you had.” It was clear Marge wanted to know what all that had been about, but Vicky didn’t intend to share Sam’s happy secret just yet. Not until she was certain that the gardener was out of the danger zone.

  Marge asked, “How were things at the police station?”

  Kyra shrank at the mention of a police station, and Vicky said quickly, “Fine. There were some tourists trying to file a complaint about a fishless fishing trip.”

  Kyra had to laugh, and Vicky felt relieved. She didn’t want the girl to be spooked all the time. She had a safe place here. Nobody would drive her away or try to separate her from her brother.

  Marge checked her watch. “Listen, I promised to lend a hand at the library getting some things ready for a kids’ event. Can you manage without me?”

  “Sure. Go. I can always call Ms. Tennings, should I need more help. But Kyra’s here. I’m sure she can help me as well.”

  “I’ve never worked in a shop,” the girl said hesitantly.

  “But you’d like to.” Marge winked at her. “Maybe you can think up some new ways to decorate our soaps. We’re always using ribbons and herbs, and that’s just boring.”

  Vicky hitched a brow at the careless dismissal of their successful decorations, but suspected Marge had a plan with this suggestion.

  At once Kyra went to the soap display to have a look. “I do know something.”

  “Great.” Marge winked at Vicky. “You can work on it right away. See you later.”

  The door closed behind her, and Vicky focused on Kyra. “What are you thinking?”

  “Well, you have these.” The girl showed her a low glass bowl. “You can put in potpourri like nesting material and the soaps can be eggs. Like this.” She demonstrated it, then made a face. “Of course the soaps are square, and it does look odd. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s a great idea. I do know they also make round soaps. I’ll ask them if they can make them in egg shape for me. I can then make real nests. That would be fun for bird watchers who come to town all the time. Thanks for the fab idea.”

  Kyra’s expression lit. “Really? Wow.”

  “You can even help me make the nests as soon as the material has come in. I’ll give them a call to ask about it right away.”

  It was fun working with the girl that afternoon, letting her make the tea and put some new books in place. Vicky thought to herself that if Doug and his sister would like to stay around town, Kyra could help at the Country Gift Shop more often. But of course that would depend on how the murder case panned out.

  Around five Kyra said she was heading to the Gazette to see Doug and ask if they could have pizza for dinner. “This was a fun day.” Her face set. “I haven’t had such a fun day in a long time.”

  Vicky smiled at her. “There are many more fun days to come. Trust me.”

  She watched as the girl jogged away from the store to the newspaper building in the distance.

  Then Vicky exhaled, her shoulders slumping. It was good to be positive, and she’d never show a sad face to a girl who’d already had a tough time, but to be honest, things were far from clear.

  She had tried to convince Cash that somebody had been planning this murder for some time, incriminating people and planting leads. It could have been Gunhild. She had accused Sam of stealing; she had accused Doug’s father of assault. And the anonymous witness calling in the license plate had also been a woman.

  That all fit.

  But why would Gunhild have killed her husband?

  She had known she’d get nothing after his death, would even have to leave the villa and most of her belongings behind.

  Vicky looked at her reflection in the large mirror over the store’s fireplace. She tried to see the truth in her own eyes. Why was she doing this? Why was she trying so hard to find something against Gunhild?

  For the sake of the case? Kaylee, Trevor?

  For Doug and his sister, who deserved to be happy after all the bad luck in their lives?

  Or … for something else that wasn’t quite as pretty?

  After all, Vicky hadn’t forgotten Gunhild’s plunge into Michael’s arms, or the stab of jealousy she had felt when Michael had told about his visits to Gunhild at the villa to talk about her art.

  Vicky had to admit she didn’t like the woman for that very reason. Prejudice against someone was dangerous in a case. If she tried to accuse Gunhild without a decent foundation, she’d just be making a complete fool out of herself. She’d only make her already difficult relationship with Michael even more complicated.

  But Vicky told herself she was just investigating all possible angles.

  And if she didn’t find anything, Michael need never know.

  Vicky left the store and locked up for the day, waving at the Dawson brothers across the street who were also bringing in the goods that had been on display in front of their hardware store. Then nibbling on a muesli bar she had found in her purse she went to the Gazette’s offices. Kyra sat behind a desk, looking self-important. She told Vicky Doug was with Michael in his office.

  Vicky went over and knocked. Michael called, “Enter,” in an irritated tone. Vicky poked her head around the door. “Is this a bad time?”

  Michael’s heavy frown and Doug’s fiery red cheeks seemed affirmation enough, but Michael waved her in. “Nothing we can’t talk about some other time.”

  Doug said, “I just don’t understand why you can’t believe me.”

  Michael exhaled. “Look, Doug, I want to. But it’s hard. You tell me that Goodridge swindled your father. That he ended up with almost no money left because Goodridge asked him for an extra investment to keep the business from bankruptcy and in the end that money was gone. Right?”

  Doug nodded.

  “However, the paperwork on the firm Goodridge left when he retired shows that the company was healthy. There have been no extra investments made. How does that fit?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know my father lent Goodridge money and he never gave it back.”

  “That’s what your father said.”

  “I believe him.” Doug stood. “He’s my father.” He walked out of the office, shouting to his sister to come along.

  “Where are you going?” Vicky called out, worried at his mood.

  “Just for pizza.” Doug put his arm around Kyra’s shoulders. His eyes challenged her to say anything in front of the girl. As she had just declared it had been such a fun day, Vicky said nothing. She wished them a great time and returned to Michael in his office.

  Micha
el sat with his hands folded behind his head, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “How can this be? It’s the exact opposite thing.”

  “It’s like the theft of the money. Everybody is saying something but it just doesn’t fit. Who took the money Goodridge had put in the golf bag? Who saw whom where at what time? Was Gunhild at home or not? Did she see Sam near the house or not? Was she assaulted or not? If not, how did she get a baseball cap from her supposed assailant to show to the police? Did she take it earlier to use later on? It seems so complicated. And for what anyway?”

  Michael took a deep breath. “I hope Doug won’t do anything silly. He got so angry when I told him about what I had found out about the business’s financial condition when Goodridge retired. He thinks I’m trying to discredit his story. But I’m not. I’m just looking into things to make sure we can best defend him when he has to fess up to Cash. Cash will also check on his statement, and if it falls through, it’ll even look worse for Doug and for Kyra.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about it. Doug cares for his sister. He’ll behave for her sake.”

  “I hope so.”

  Michael rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, I agreed with Doug that he has to talk to Cash tonight so I’m taking him to the station later. I’m just wrapping up some paperwork that might help his case. I also called a friend who knows a thing or two about getting permission for Doug to care for his sister while their father is still locked up.”

  “If we could just arrange for bail money, he might be released and they can live here together awaiting his trial.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’m waiting for a return call from a lawyer who might be able to help with that.”

  Vicky looked him over. “You’ve really been digging into this.”

  “I want to help Doug. But he doesn’t like my questions. He still suspects me of being on the other side.” Michael looked disappointed. “I had hoped that … Well, never mind.”

  Vicky crinkled the empty muesli bar wrapper in her hand. “I’ll let you finish all the details you need for the talk with Cash. Good luck. And uh … as you have to drop Doug at my cottage for the night, you might stay for a nightcap and we can talk some more. About the case.”

  Michael nodded. “That would be nice.” His phone rang, and he grabbed for it.

  “Later,” Vicky said and walked out of the door.

  Outside the Gazette’s building she stood thinking for a few moments. Michael seemed to have the whole thing figured out for Doug and his sister. The murder case, however, was still not so clear-cut. The will bothered Vicky. Why had Goodridge changed it in favor of his mother? An elderly woman who would most likely die before he did?

  Why had he wanted to cut off his wife from any funds after his death?

  If he had loved her so much, it didn’t make sense to assume he had wanted to leave her unprotected. Not even to favor his daughter. He could have split the inheritance between Gunhild and Kaylee, right? Why make over half to his mother?

  Would the old woman know?

  Would she have arrived yet, to see to her son’s funeral?

  Vicky didn’t look forward to meeting an old distraught woman, but information from her could be very valuable for the case.

  So Vicky got into her new car again, this time to drive out to the Goodridges’ villa.

  ***

  Upon arrival Vicky left the car at the gate and went up the drive on foot. She wanted to see quietly what was happening at the house. If it was a bad time to call, she might sneak away again.

  A dark station wagon was beside the house. Vicky walked up to the car. The back was open, and there were lots of boxes there. Vicky lifted a flap to peek in. Sculptures.

  Gravel crunched, and Vicky looked up. Gunhild stood on the path, another box in her hands. She was wearing a dark sweater with dark pants and sneakers. Her blonde hair was combed back and held in place by a black knit cap. All in all she looked like a very attractive burglar.

  Vicky almost had to laugh at her own thoughts. Of course Gunhild wouldn’t be wearing her best clothes, as she had to pack boxes and move things.

  Gunhild said with a smile, “I’m almost done. It’s a terrible thing to have to be doing on a day like this, but I can’t just cancel arrangements made months ago. My work is going on exhibition. I have to bring these boxes out there.”

  “I understand,” Vicky said.

  Gunhild put the box in the car and closed the trunk. “I just need to get one more thing from the shed. Then I’m on my way. I also have to pick up my mother-in-law from the airport, you know.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” Vicky was left standing as Gunhild walked off again. So her mother-in-law wasn’t here yet. Too bad. She might have been able to shed some light on the will and the business arrangements when Goodridge had retired. Had the business been healthy or not? Had cash money vanished? Where to?

  Vicky’s phone dinged to indicate email.

  Vicky pulled it up and saw the email came from Diane’s daughter. Mom is so organized I didn’t have to search long. I scanned all the photos from the Oslo trip that have art in them. Hope it helps. XXX.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Gunhild had re-emerged, carrying an object in her hand that was covered with cloth. She looked at Vicky with a vague frown as if she didn’t understand why she was still here.

  Vicky smiled. Her fingers itched to pull up the photos Diane’s daughter had just sent, but she didn’t even know if they were relevant. “I just wanted to say that if you need anything, you can always call on me. This must be a difficult time for you. And for your mother-in-law.”

  “Yes, she was devastated when she heard the news. To be honest, I don’t look forward to getting her from the airport. If she starts asking me why Archie had to die, what do I say?”

  Gunhild turned to the car, then said casually, “Why don’t you come along to lend me a hand with the boxes at the exhibition room? You can then also meet my mother-in-law. It will be easier for me if I’m not alone when I meet her.”

  Vicky was overtaken by the invitation, but having just offered her help it would be a little odd to bow out right now.

  And a car ride, close confines, would make it easier to ask some questions. “All right,” she said hesitantly.

  Gunhild put the object in the back of the car and gestured for her to get in on the passenger side.

  Vicky opened the door and seated herself, pulled the seat belt across her chest. As it clicked shut, she felt a shiver down her spine as if this was somehow not very smart. If she honestly suspected Gunhild of killing her husband, she shouldn’t have gotten into the car with her.

  On the other hand, Gunhild couldn’t know she suspected her. And Vicky would never have anything substantial against her if she didn’t dig deeper. Both Michael and Cash didn’t want to believe for one moment that Gunhild should even be on the suspect list!

  Gunhild sat down beside her and started the engine. She handled the big car without any trouble.

  Vicky said, “Kaylee’s still at the station. Did you get a lawyer for her?”

  “I thought the police were taking care of that.”

  “Yes, but I suppose she does want to see a friendly face. Shouldn’t you be going to see her?”

  “Kaylee never liked me. That won’t change now that her father’s dead.” Gunhild’s voice sounded tight. “If I show up, there will just be a scene.”

  At the end of the driveway she turned left, and soon they were on the coastal road.

  “Where’s this exhibition?” Vicky asked.

  “You’ll see. It isn’t far.”

  Vicky was still clutching her phone. She looked down at the screen.

  “There’s no reception here,” Gunhild said.

  Vicky smiled. “I don’t need reception. I just wanted to look at some photos I took this afternoon of stock in my store. I’m trying to find new customers through social media.”

  “I see.”<
br />
  Having given this innocent explanation for her actions, Vicky opened the attachments Diane’s daughter had sent her and looked at the photos. A statue of a horseman obviously taken out of doors. No.

  Then some couple embracing. No.

  Vicky clicked through them quickly, half thinking she wouldn’t find anything.

  But then there it was. A jumping dolphin in the recognizable style. Diane had taken the photo through the glass of the display case. There was a little white edge visible of a card that had been with it. Vicky zoomed in on it.ld Anderson, biathlete.ld had to be the last two letters of Gunhild. Her last name was written as Anderson here with an o. Cash had said it was Andersen with an e.

  But he had also said it was quite a common name in Scandinavia, in different variations. O, e, it came down to much the same thing.

  Biathlete.

  Vicky lowered her phone. Biathlete? Weren’t those the people who skied a distance and then took shots at targets?

  Suddenly her mind whirled. Gunhild had claimed she couldn’t run far because she had a lung condition. Of course it was possible she had some health problem now that she hadn’t had two decades ago but … Nobody had actually checked whether Gunhild had a lung condition. They had simply assumed she was telling the truth.

  Vicky cleared her throat. “You’re Norwegian, right?” she asked. “I think someone mentioned it.”

  “Here almost nobody knows the difference between Norwegian, Danish and Swedish,” Gunhild said.

  It didn’t really answer the question. Vicky’s heart rate sped up. “I know,” she forced herself to say lightly. “When I was still in the UK to report on hidden gems of the countryside, I also noticed that sometimes it’s hard to convey the differences between areas.”

  She was barely conscious of what she was saying. “To the inhabitants it’s quite clear, but to an outsider …”

  Gunhild stared ahead onto the road. “I’ve been an outsider for all my life. You get by.”

  “I guess your art helped you to fit in. People like it when someone’s talented.”