Written into the Grave. Vivian Conroy

believe her.

      “Do you think he died of exertion?” Vicky repeated before he could start asking about her reasons for butting in.

      Cash shrugged. “Don’t know. I went over and had a look to ascertain the victim was dead. Not that it was necessary. He was lying at an angle that isn’t quite natural for the human body. But I didn’t look too close.”

      Cash grimaced. “He was dead—that was for sure—and the rest I leave to the police doctor here and the medical examiner if need be.”

      The doctor took this as his cue, excused himself and went down, balancing himself with his bag held high in the air.

      Cash patted Mr. Pug and Coco who vied for his attention. They associated him with the roadside restaurant where Vicky had met Cash during the last investigation to wean some information away from him. To the dogs’ minds the sheriff came with the promise of sausages.

      Vicky asked Cash, “But do you think someone can really fall down here by accident? You’d have to get close to the edge.”

      “Some people take risks for the view. If he got dizzy …” Cash shrugged and studied her. “What do you think? That he was pushed?”

      “It’s possible,” Vicky said.

      “No doubt. But we’d need evidence to support that. And I don’t see right now how we could collect it.”

      “The person who reported the body didn’t see anything suspicious?”

      “Not that I know of.” Cash studied her, mopping more sweat away. “Why are you asking all those questions? Do you suspect foul play? We did have two murders here recently, but those were clearly murders.”

      “It has nothing to do with the earlier murders,” Vicky assured him quickly. She wasn’t too eager either to tell Cash that she had read it in the morning paper. He’d probably think she had gone crazy. “I just don’t see as I stand here and look around me how you can go over the edge by accident. The deputy and I were just discussing that there’s no traffic here that can hit you. Or that you can move away from and take a tumble.”

      Cash raked a hand through his hair. “How it happened might not be important if the doc establishes that the deceased had a clogged artery or a seizure. Maybe once we know who the victim is, it’ll turn out he had some medical condition that explains his fall.”

      Vicky pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure how to address Trevor Jenkins’ story in the Gazette this morning. She didn’t want to get the young gardener in trouble for nothing, but as the deputy had mentioned yellow stripes on the victim’s clothes, it was a weird coincidence.

      The doctor came back up, looking grim. “Not a pretty sight.”

      “Tell me something I don’t know yet,” Cash said ironically.

      The doctor came back at him at once. “How does this grab you? The victim has two bullets in his chest.”

      Vicky gasped. So it was murder. And it had happened in the exact same way as in Trevor Jenkins’ story. Two shots. Two bullets. A fall. Dead.

      “Bullets in the chest?” Cash echoed. “But … I thought he had fallen.”

      “Oh, he did fall, and it’ll be hard to say which killed him. If one of the bullets struck the heart, the victim might have been dead upon impact, so well before he hit the rocks below. An autopsy can tell you more about that. Also time of death and all.”

      Cash shook his head. “Bullets,” he repeated. “So there must have been shots. Somebody should have heard those, right?”

      “Not if it happened early.” The doc gestured around them. “Who would be around here at an early hour?”

      He shook his head. “No, I think it would have been relatively easy to wait for someone here and shoot him.”

      “But why do it?” Cash mused. “Premeditated murder, with a gun brought to the spot, not an altercation and a push in a rage. That means someone hated the victim enough to plan his demise.”

      “No wonder.” The doctor looked even more grim. “Archibald Goodridge was an extremely unlikable type. The way he did business.” He shook his head. “You might not know too much about it, Cash, as you’ve been away from town, but that man was a predator. He used people. He’s even guilty of …” He fell silent.

      Cash looked him over. “Yes?”

      “Nothing. I shouldn’t judge someone who’s now dead.” The doc stepped away. “Let the autopsy fill you in on all the details.”

      “Well, the autopsy won’t tell me what he was supposedly guilty of,” Cash said to Vicky as the doc hurried off. “I wish people wouldn’t drop hints, then retreat.”

      “I guess he spoke half in shock, then realized he might say the wrong thing. Once it’s a murder investigation, you have to be careful.”

      “Once it’s a murder investigation,” Cash repeated with a grimace. “Again, Vicky, again. I can’t believe it.”

      “Who is this Archibald Goodridge anyway?” Vicky asked. “You might as well tell me. It’ll be all over town soon. I met Ms. Templeton on the beach and she was warning everybody who walked there with their dogs that something had happened at the cliffs and it could be a gruesome sight. Once somebody starts to call around about it, the town will be buzzing with rumors.”

      Cash shrugged. “I hardly know Archibald Goodridge. He’s an investment banker who has a second house here.”

      Vicky frowned. “I never met him, but I did meet his wife Gunhild. She makes lovely sculptures. In fact, I was thinking of getting Mom one for the garden, for her birthday.”

      Cash seemed to perk up. “You know Goodridge’s wife? You’ve been to her place?’

      Vicky made a dismissive gesture. “Only once, with Marge, to ask Gunhild Goodridge if she wanted to donate a sculpture for our auction. For the old lighthouse, the renovations?”

      Cash waved it off and said in an eager tone, “The occasion isn’t important. You know her, that counts. You’re coming with me to give her the bad news.”

      Vicky was stunned by the suggestion. “What? Why? I hardly know her. You’re in an official capacity. I can’t just tag along.”

      Cash looked her over with a hitched brow. “You’re always tagging along, never caring for my so-called official capacity. Now you can do me a favor and help me solve a very sensitive issue. I have to tell that woman that her husband’s dead, will never come home again. Not just fallen down the cliffs by accident, but murdered. How do you think she’ll take it?”

      “Well …” Vicky considered it, going back over her brief encounter with the woman. “She struck me as a very composed, rational person.”

      “Nonsense, she’s an artist so she’s bound to go all hysterical on me. She might even faint. I have no idea how to handle such a thing. You’ve got to help me.”

      “What about the dogs? I can hardly take them along to Gunhild Goodridge.”

      “My deputy can take them back to your mother’s when he’s done here.”

      Vicky sighed. She wasn’t keen on her mother hearing she was en route with Cash for an investigation. Claire had never liked her sleuthing and pressed her several times to stay away from anything potentially dangerous.

      But Cash had merely asked her to help him convey the news of Goodridge’s death to his widow. There wasn’t any danger in that.

      Of course Vicky didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, but she did know Gunhild a little and could try to soften the blow. Cash wasn’t known for his subtle touch with people and he had obviously already formed an opinion of Gunhild as prone to hysterics, which would make him even more awkward around her.

      Besides,