Written into the Grave. Vivian Conroy

him, violently. Recently, which suggested she had been here. Staying at the house even? Why then had Gunhild spoken as if she had to call her far away? Had she left again?

      Or was she still around town?

       Chapter Six

      Vicky had just walked for a few minutes when a car engine came up from behind her. A horn honked cheerfully, and she looked over her shoulder to see a bright red compact approach. It halted beside her, and Vicky leaned over to look who was inside it.

      To her surprise she spotted Ms. Tennings behind the wheel. The retired nanny and royalty expert helped out at the Country Gift Shop and via her many contacts at bridge clubs engaged new customers for the store.

      “What a cute little car,” Vicky exclaimed as she looked it over.

      Ms. Tennings grinned. “I thought you’d like it. A friend of mine was getting rid of it as she’s moving away to live with her eldest daughter and her family. They have two cars there so she said bringing a third was complete nonsense. I bought it from her for a very reasonable price and I thought we could use it between us. It’s handy for you to have access to a car to make deliveries for the store.”

      “But …” Vicky’s mind was quickly going over her financial situation, calculating if she could afford to pay for half of this car this month.

      Ms. Tennings lifted a hand off the wheel. “It’s mine for now, and you can use it for the store whenever you like. Just let me know, and I’ll put it in the church parking lot where you can easily get it. I don’t want any money for it. I’m happy to be part of the team. Now can I give you a lift into town?”

      “Yes, please.” Vicky opened the passenger door and got in. As she settled into the seat, she felt how tired she was. She closed her eyes a moment.

      Ms. Tennings said, “Marge called me and told me that you were out on some errand and had sounded a bit … stressed.”

      “Stressed is an understatement,” Vicky said. She opened her eyes again and related the story of how her nice, innocent beach walk with the dogs had ended in a confrontation with a crime scene and the realization it was a lot like the installment of Seaside Secrets in the Gazette

      Ms. Tennings nodded fervently. “Oh, yes, I read it this morning over breakfast. Quite engaging. I thought to myself that Trevor might have a gift for writing a darker type of crime book. To be honest, I had wanted to ask Marge if Trevor was writing a novel. I wanted to suggest to Marge to encourage Trevor to submit his work to a publisher and see if there’s any interest for it.”

      Vicky sucked in air. It felt cold in her dry throat. “I don’t think Trevor’s mind is on writing and finding a publisher right now. Cash took him down to the station, handcuffed and all.”

      “Why? Does he know for sure Trevor has anything to do with what happened at the cliffs?”

      Vicky told her about the victim, the fall, the doctor’s mention of bullets in the chest, her visit with Cash to the distraught widow, the gun in the shed.

      Ms. Tennings listened with deep concentration, all the while steering the compact along the road into town. They arrived in the church parking lot just as Vicky came to the part about Trevor’s arrest and Gunhild’s collapse. “I feel bad for having left her alone, but she wanted it and she was also mentioning having to call people to tell them of her husband’s death. I felt a bit superfluous there.”

      Ms. Tennings nodded. “I’ve been to their house when they gave a housewarming party after they moved in. Gunhild Goodridge struck me as a very calm and capable woman who doesn’t let things go to her head. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I even think she feels awkward now about having shown tears in front of you and having collapsed when the police were there. I wonder what exactly made her collapse.”

      “Well, it was a bit much—all on top of each other. Especially Trevor appearing on the scene, acting perfectly normal while he had written that terrible piece in the Gazette. Gunhild mentioned in passing that Trevor worshiped Goodridge’s daughter Kaylee. And the mailman told me she left the house after violent altercations with her father. Maybe Trevor cared so much for Kaylee he took it out on Goodridge?”

      Ms. Tennings had turned the ignition off and extracted the key. She looked at Vicky. “You’ll have to ask Marge. She knows Trevor much better. Not only is he in her writing group but he even comes to her home to play with her kids.”

      “What?” Vicky shivered. “Imagine discovering that a guy you let come play with your kids is a cold-blooded killer.”

      “We don’t know yet if he is.” Ms. Tennings wagged a finger at Vicky and then opened the car door on her side. “Time to go ask Marge what she thinks. She might be able to tell us more about Trevor’s feelings toward the Goodridge family, including the daughter.”

      “OK.” Vicky clambered out as well and shut her door. The sun shone friendly and warm down on them through a crack in the clouds but the wind breathing down the street carried a chill.

      In front of the diner the two flowerpots didn’t hold geraniums anymore but held heather instead.

      And the chalkboard that had advertised iced coffee now advertised spiced latte.

      Fall was on its way into town. There were subtle little changes, but it was as if people weren’t quite ready yet to let go of the bountiful summer season.

      Vicky herself had felt a little dread as she had turned the calendar in the store from August to September and realized that the tourist stream would be drying up. School was starting again; people were going back to work; the pull of the ocean for summer sports was disappearing.

      The beach would again become the territory of local dog owners and kids with kites who braved the hard wind. If the fall had sunshine and mild temperatures, there might be another influx of elderly couples who didn’t have work or children to think of and who’d rent cottages and take boat trips and come to the diner for spiced latte with cinnamon buns.

      But if fall decided it would show its grim face with overcast skies—or even worse full-blown storms that lasted for days—nobody would drive down Main Street but the random local who needed a few supplies. All the stores would have to struggle to make it through the upcoming months and revive again in spring.

      Vicky shook herself from her somber thoughts and followed Ms. Tennings to the Country Gift Shop. Marge stood on the sidewalk, her head tilted to one side, staring intently into the window. Ms. Tennings came upon her softly and grabbed her shoulders.

      Marge gasped. “Don’t sneak like that!” She pushed her hand to her heart.

      Ms. Tennings pulled a contrite expression. “I’m sorry. You were just so lost to the world. What are you doing?”

      “I’m figuring out the best way to display the dogs.” Marge nodded at the window.

      Vicky had finally been able to offer stock from a big-name company who created tiny porcelain hand-painted dogs. All different breeds in very lifelike colors and postures.

      They demanded you carried a minimum amount of their line, which had meant a substantial investment on Vicky’s part. But she had wanted them so badly. Through the years she had sent Claire a few as birthday presents and knew there would be fans in the area who’d be delighted that they could browse the assortment in a physical store. Of course she’d also offer them online in her web shop that had just gone live last week.

      Marge said, “They’re relatively small so they sort of vanish among the other items on offer. I was thinking up a way to give them some more attention but I hadn’t quite figured it out yet.”

      Vicky leaned over to her friend and said in a low voice, “Did you happen to read Trevor Jenkins’ installment in your writing group serial in the Gazette this morning?”

      Marge slapped her flat hand against her forehead.