Written into the Grave. Vivian Conroy

I’m done here.”

      Vicky hung up before Marge could ask more.

      Gunhild was lying on the couch, her hands over her face. Vicky heard her slow, deliberate breathing. She asked carefully, “How are you now?”

      “I wish I had never read that paper. I can’t get the words out of my head, describing the dead body’s fall to the cliffs below. Describing Archie’s …” Her voice choked. “How can Trevor have thought up something so … terrible. And done it. Done it!”

      Vicky said, “Take it easy now. No need to get all worked up.”

      “Worked up?” Gunhild shot into a sitting position and stared at Vicky with burning eyes. “My husband’s dead. Dead because someone shot him. And that someone wrote about it in the newspaper as if it was some kind of an accomplishment. Something to gloat about! How can I not be worked up? I could kill Trevor right now.” She made a grabbing movement with her hands.

      “How well do you know Trevor anyway?”

      Gunhild took a moment to calm herself before she could reply. “Oh, he’s worked for us since we came to this house. He seemed a nice boy, really good with the flowers. There didn’t seem to be a violent bone in his body. And he liked my art. Or so he said.”

      She rubbed her forehead. “Archie never liked him. He said Trevor was worshiping Kaylee. He always … got jealous of other men showing an interest in his daughter. Kaylee used to say she’d never find a boyfriend this way, because Archie scared them all off. It wasn’t that bad really. He was just protective of her. Afraid she’d make wrong decisions.”

      Gunhild glanced at the open cupboard along the wall. It held several photographs in silver frames. “Have a look there, Vicky. See what a handsome man he … was.” Her voice cracked on the past tense.

      Vicky went over and picked up a photograph of a man holding a trophy. “He liked sports?”

      “Tennis foremost. A little golf. Always liked to be the best in everything he did.” Gunhild smiled thinly. “That was his way.”

      Vicky put the photo back and studied the wedding picture beside it. The man in a suit, Gunhild in a stunning white dress with a big bouquet. There was also a girl of sixteen or seventeen in the shot, standing next to the man. She was smiling, but her eyes were full of a strange intensity. Daring maybe?

      “Is that Kaylee? She’s the daughter from his first marriage, right?” Vicky asked.

      Gunhild looked and nodded. “Yes. She came to live with us when we married. I’ll have to call her to tell her the news. But I really don’t want to do it. She’s a real Daddy’s girl, you know. This will completely destroy her. Oh, I can’t understand why Trevor did it.”

      She began to sob again.

      Vicky didn’t know what to say or do. She stayed in place, rubbing her hands together.

      Gunhild said between sobs, “I liked him and wanted to keep him on while Archie wanted to fire him. If only I had listened to him. Then maybe Archie would still be alive.”

      Vicky didn’t follow. “Why would he? If your husband had fired Trevor, he would only have made Trevor mad, giving him more of a reason to come after him and kill him. Right?”

      Gunhild cried into her hands.

      Vicky looked around. She wanted to get away from the woman’s raw grief but didn’t know if she could leave her alone in the emotional state she was in. Cash had told her to stay until somebody else could take over. But whom could she ask? “Anyone I can call to come over and be with you?”

      Gunhild shook her head. “I don’t have close friends here. I have my art.”

      “But surely you know someone who …”

      “It’s all right; I can be alone.” Gunhild rubbed her smudged face. “I won’t hurt myself. I have to be strong now for Kaylee and Archie’s mother. The poor old woman. How will she endure this?”

      Vicky said, “Are you sure I shouldn’t call someone? A neighbor maybe?”

      “They never liked us buying this house. Out-of-towners, you know.” Gunhild sniffed. “Archie tried hard to make friends, but I … I like the quiet, you know. And people think I don’t speak English.”

      “But your English is very good,” Vicky said. “How long have you lived in the United States?”

      “For five years. But I always spoke English before that. I traveled with my art.”

      “I see.” Vicky smiled at her. “You shouldn’t worry about your English. Locals here do tend to be a bit standoffish when they don’t know you, but that changes over time. I’d love you to come over to my store sometime or have dinner with me.”

      “That’s kind, but I don’t need pity.”

      Vicky shrank under the feisty tone. “It’s not …”

      Gunhild held her gaze. “I’m a widow now. Widows are pitiful, right? My mother was a widow so I know. I had hoped never to be in that position.”

      Her hand clawed at a pillow, crushing the edge. “But now it has happened, and there’s no way back. I’ll have to make the best of it. Thank you for your support, but I can manage now.”

      Vicky stepped back. “If you’re sure …”

      “Yes, I’m sure. I need to rest now and collect my thoughts so I can call Kaylee and Mother. It’ll be hard.”

      “Yes …” Vicky gestured at the kitchen. “Then I’ll let myself out. Call me if you need anything. I’ll write down the number.” She took a pen and pad from her purse and scribbled her cell phone number on a sheet. She pulled it off the pad and put it on a side table. “I do realize we’re virtual strangers, but I want to help out, be there for you in this difficult time.”

      “Thank you.” Gunhild rubbed her face again. “I’m sorry if I … I’m not myself. It’ll be better later, I’m sure.”

      Vicky said goodbye and left the house. She stood a few moments, breathing the invigorating scents of blooms and herbs. The sun felt warm on her face, an odd sensation after the chill in the house.

      She reached up and rubbed her arms. Cash had left her here without transportation. That meant she had to walk back to town. But she’d do anything rather than stay here and watch Gunhild’s despair, knowing there was nothing she could say or do to make it any better. Her husband had died, on their wedding anniversary, leaving her a widow like her mother had been.

      And the unhappy task of informing a daughter and mother pressed upon her.

      Vicky walked across the path to the entry gate.

      Outside it, a mailman had just halted. He greeted her and held out the mail, apparently assuming she was the inhabitant of the house. Vicky shook her head. “I’m just leaving. I hardly know the family. You have to put those in the mailbox.”

      The mailman eyed her. “Taking care of the house while they’re on holiday, are you? I heard their housekeeper had left. Couldn’t stand the arguments anymore.”

      “Arguments?” Vicky asked. “Between Mr. and Mrs. Goodridge?”

      “No, between him and his daughter. Odd girl, the housekeeper said. Spending money like water. Her father didn’t like it and took her to task for it. Their shouting could be heard all through the house.” The mailman grimaced. “Can’t say I blame her for leaving.”

      “Well,” Vicky said, uncomfortable at this rather personal revelation. “I really don’t know them well and the daughter not at all so …”

      The mailman had put his bike against the gate and was stuffing the letters into the mailbox. “You better hope you never meet her then. Nasty temper, they say. Good day.”

      Vicky opened