Written into the Grave. Vivian Conroy

a little world. I know it will make things much easier. People don’t like to go for morning walks when it’s foggy. There is not a lot to see. And the cliffs can be dangerous. Unless you know the paths well, you might venture too closely to the edge and take a tumble. It isn’t a long drop, but the rocks at the foot of it are unforgiving.”

      Vicky glanced at Claire. “It does get positively sinister here. I mean, I’m asking myself what exactly the character is waiting for.”

      “You read too many cozy mysteries,” Claire said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The I in the story is probably some woman waiting for the man she’s in love with and we’ll be forced to witness their tryst in the sand. Please stop reading when it gets R-rated.”

      Vicky couldn’t quite picture Trevor Jenkins writing that kind of material but then she didn’t know him well. She pushed on. “I look at my watch. He should be here any moment now. My hand seems to have become one with the metal under my touch. It doesn’t feel alien anymore but like it belongs there, a natural extension of my arm.”

      “Yada yada,” Claire said.

      Vicky waved her off. “Mom, give it a chance. I think it’s quite creative. These writers really deserve their shot at showcasing their talent in the local paper. Hear: Then out of nothing he is there. The canary yellow stripes on his sweat shirt glow like light in the fog. That is what they are meant for: to make sure the runner is visible. To prevent him being run down by traffic. There is no traffic here. It’s just him and me. He halts at the edge of the cliffs as he always does, to look down and see the sea. He can’t see it now because it’s foggy, but as he likes his habits, he does it anyway. Or maybe he just needs to catch his breath before he can push on. He’s not in great shape, although he thinks he is. I step up. A small bit of rock makes a sound under my sneaker. I meant it to. I want him to turn. The surprise on his features as he sees me. Confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

      “I extract my hand. I extend my arm. Confusion turns to alarm. He steps back. Toward the edge. He staggers. He will probably fall. But I’m not sure. And I need to be sure now. He has seen me; he knows. I fire. Once, twice. The shots ring out in the air. Even the fog can’t dampen them.”

      Vicky stopped reading aloud. Her mouth was dry, and her hands gripped the paper’s pages. Her eyes flew over the next few lines.

      “Why do you stop at the exact moment when it gets exciting?” Claire asked in a petulant tone. “So the thing in the pocket was a gun, and the narrator is now shooting at this jogger. What else?”

      Vicky grimaced. She was happy she had not had a big breakfast anyway. Her stomach was churning after what she had read. She said with difficulty, “The jogger plunges to his death. It’s described quite graphically. I won’t repeat it. In fact, I’m surprised that Michael accepted this to be printed in a newspaper that can be read by kids. I bet he’ll get angry phone calls about this.”

      “People are used to a lot these days,” Claire said. “On television …” She made an eloquent hand gesture.

      Vicky sighed. “I suppose so. I guess it’s just weird to read it when you know the person who wrote it—someone who seems to be the least likely person to ever have a violent thought in his head. I also don’t quite see how the installment relates to the previous one. I mean, who’s killed here? By whom and why?”

      “That’s for us readers to find out.” Claire nodded. “I’m glad they switched it up and made it into a murder mystery. It makes for much more riveting reading. Now if you’re done with my newspaper, you can walk the dogs and I’ll go over the ads first to see if there’s anything interesting there.”

      Vicky rose and handed the paper to her mother. “There you go. Shall I refill your coffee mug before I go?”

      Without waiting for Claire’s reply she took the mug into the kitchen and refilled it at the sink. She was still a little cold from the words of the closing lines of Trevor Jenkins’ contribution to the serial.

      She wondered if Marge had known that the story would take this morbid turn. Had there been some form of coordination of the end result, or had each participant really been free to write up whatever he or she wanted?

      It would also be so awkward for the person who had to write the fourth installment. He or she had to insert the dead body into his or her tale while he or she had probably never intended anything like it.

      Claire’s voice called out from the den, “Don’t you dare do my dishes. I can wash my own plates, you know … Victoria!”

      Vicky rushed to carry the mug back into the den. “I wasn’t about to do your dishes, Mom. I was just thinking about the serial in the paper. I have to ask Marge what exactly they agreed on.”

      “I think you’re making a big fuss about nothing,” Claire said, eyeing her. “It’s but a story.”

      “Yes, well, you’re probably right.” Vicky forced a smile. She still thought the material was a little too graphic for the Glen Cove Gazette, but maybe she was old-fashioned in her views. Maybe the readers would gobble it up and clamor for more? Trevor Jenkins could become an overnight sensation.

      Vicky snapped her fingers at the dogs. “Come on, Coco, Mr. Pug.”

      The dogs got up from their beds at once and came over to her. She clipped on their leashes and picked up her basket with the sewn gauze bags for the soaps.

      Claire was completely immersed in the newspaper and only replied with a vague ‘bye’ to her departing words.

      Vicky left the cottage and turned left to where a steep path led down to the beach. The wind came to play with her hair at once. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the eerie feeling the installment in Seaside Secrets had left her with.

      Still she was glad it wasn’t foggy today. Then she’d be listening for a footfall behind her, glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed by a dark figure with a hood pulled over his head.

      On the beach two other people walked their dogs. Vicky greeted them in passing, her eyes trained on the cliffs in the distance. The story had mentioned cliffs with rocks at the foot of the drop. There was such a place up ahead. Trevor must have seen it once as he was himself jogging or perhaps bird watching. She had seen him walking around with binoculars.

      Maybe the wild landscape had inspired him to write the story?

      Maybe he hadn’t meant it to be morbid at all, just a nice bit of free imagination.

      Vicky picked up a shell or two as she went and tried to focus on her soap display, the new gauze bags and some other orders that were coming in today. She wanted to change the window if Marge was free to help her. Marge had called the other night to say she might have to take the morning off as a friend of hers was moving house and she had promised to help out. But the exact date for the move kept being changed as the new house was still undergoing some quick repairs so a family could move in safely and then work on the rest.

      From Marge’s story Vicky had gathered it was a fixer-upper that would take years to get completely set up right. Having dealt with some renovations in her store she knew how daunting it could be and was glad she wasn’t in those people’s shoes.

      Her eyes picked up on activity in the distance by the rocks at the foot of the cliffs that might have inspired Trevor Jenkins. It seemed several people were walking there, looking down. Maybe they were searching for small creatures like crabs hiding? Vicky wasn’t quite sure if the high tide reached those rocks but if it did, there might be wildlife there that visiting biologists found fascinating. Glen Cove had always attracted people who came for nature, be it birds, sea mammals or smaller life on the shore.

      But her supposition didn’t ring true to her own mind. That one person on the left was wearing a hat. Looking a lot like a sheriff’s hat.

      And was that a flash of light overhead near the top of the cliffs?

      As of a police car?

      Vicky