Written into the Grave. Vivian Conroy

that before he met the newly minted widow.

      Just in case.

      So after Cash had instructed the deputy what to do on the scene and to deliver Mr. Pug and Coco safely to Claire’s cottage, Vicky got into the police car with Cash, and they set out for the home of the Goodridges.

       Chapter Three

      As they were driving, Vicky asked, “Did you read the Glen Cove Gazette this morning?”

      Cash shook his head. “Didn’t have the time. Besides, those newspaper delivery boys take a different route every day and half the time they don’t even get to my house before I leave for work. What about it? Shocking headline?”

      “No, it wasn’t on the front page.” Vicky waited a moment. “Did you know Marge’s writing group has a serial in the paper? All participants deliver an installment following their own creative ideas for the story.”

      “I never read fiction,” Cash said with his eyes on the road.

      Vicky sighed. “Well, sometimes fiction can take on a rather ominous real-life dimension. I happened to read today’s installment in the Seaside Secrets serial before I started out on my morning walk with the dogs. I was at Mom’s and grabbed her paper there and read the serial’s installment to her. It was a story from first-person point of view about someone going out to the cliffs in the fog to wait for someone. For a jogger.”

      Cash’s expression had been neutral, even a bit bored, until Vicky mentioned the latter. He glanced at her. “A jogger?”

      “Yes. The I in the story is waiting until he sees the jogger and then goes to him. The jogger hears the sound of a footfall on a bit of loose stone and turns around. The point-of-view character wants to see shock and confusion in the face of his … victim I might as well call it. For the story then related how the perpetrator takes a gun out of his pocket and shoots the victim. Two shots. Two bullets in the chest. And the jogger in the story is dressed in a shirt with yellow stripes. Your deputy happened to mention to me that the victim was dressed in such a shirt.”

      Cash nodded. “But I don’t get any of this. How can this story be in the newspaper when the accident at the cliffs wasn’t even known yet?”

      Vicky exhaled. “That’s the whole point. I read the story, and half of Glen Cove probably did, when the murder had just happened at the cliffs in the same manner as described in the story. What the writer described matched the killing of Archibald Goodridge.”

      “So …” Cash glanced at her again. “What you’re saying is that our killer wrote up a story to be put in the paper to advertise his murder while he was committing it?”

      Put like that, it did sound totally unbelievable.

      Vicky shrugged. “All I’m saying is that the story is a pretty accurate description of what actually happened. Whatever it means is up to you to discover.”

      Cash whistled. “So if I figure out who sent this story to the paper I might have my killer?”

      Vicky pursed her lips. “It’s not hard. The name was over it. I just told you it’s part of a serial from the local writing group. Today’s installment was written by Trevor Jenkins.”

      Cash let it sink in a moment. “So I can go and arrest Trevor Jenkins because he admitted to all of Glen Cove in the local paper that he’s the murderer of Archibald Goodridge?”

      Vicky took a deep breath. “It seems so. I mean, I assume that Trevor Jenkins delivered the story to the paper, or the paper would have suspected it wasn’t his. It’s quite a morbid little piece if you’re sensitive to it, so they must have double-checked.”

      “Are you sure about that? Danning has these summer aides, students and all, who help him with stuff. Maybe one of them simply put the item in place, not even checking what it was or who wrote it.”

      Vicky shrugged. “That’ll be easy enough to find out.” She waved ahead. “We might hit the offices of the Glen Cove Gazette first, before we see Mrs. Goodridge.”

      “No, no, no.” Cash shook his head. “You aren’t getting away from this unpleasant chore, Vicky. I need your help with this, and you’ll give it to me. After that we can decide what to do.”

      “But what are you going to tell Gunhild? That you suspect Trevor Jenkins of killing her husband while you don’t even know a thing for sure?”

      “Of course not. I’ll tell her that he’s dead. Period. I’m not telling anything about the investigation, about what we know or whom we suspect. And neither are you.”

      “I’m not saying anything.” Vicky lifted two hands in a gesture to ward off his suggestion. “You asked me to step in, and I’m only doing this as a favor to a friend. It’ll be awkward enough as she really doesn’t know me well.”

      Cash steered the car down a long lane that led to a villa. To the left was a dark shed with blossoming roses in front. Further into the neat garden sat a construction of a conical slated roof on six pillars. The wind could breathe freely through it, and rain and sleet had changed the pillars’ original white color into a smudged green. In it was a giant sculpture of a running horse. A woman stood at it, a tool in her right hand. She circled the sculpture as if looking for the right spot to apply some finishing touches.

      “That’s her.” Cash parked the car and rubbed his hands. He was clearly nervous about this, and Vicky gave his arm a reassuring pat. “We’ll manage together. Come on.”

      They got out and crossed the neat lawn to where Gunhild Goodridge was working.

      Tall, trim, with white-blonde hair, she was fully focused on her sculpture and didn’t hear a thing until Cash stepped on the lowest step of the three leading up into the structure. It creaked, and Gunhild turned with a jerk. “Oh, you startled me.”

      Her eyes went even wider as she studied Cash’s appearance. “Sheriff … Is something up? Have I forgotten to pay my parking ticket? I know I was wrong; I shouldn’t have left the car where I did but I was in a terrible hurry to get back home to Archibald. We were entertaining some friends that night, and we were very short on white wine. I just wanted to get a few bottles quickly. I didn’t know there was a deputy anywhere near.”

      Her expression was pleading as she reached out a delicate hand. “I’ll pay the ticket, cash if you want, on the spot. Can we please then not make a fuss about it?”

      “It’s not the ticket I’m here for,” Cash said. “I uh …” He cleared his throat. “Your husband, he left this morning to go jogging?”

      “Yes, he always does. Whether the weather is good or not. He likes to stay in shape.”

      Gunhild smiled apologetically. “ I always turn over one more time when he leaves. Do you want to talk to him?”

      The relief was visible in her features that someone else might be the reason for this official visit, not her.

      Cash shook his head. “I’m afraid I won’t be talking to him, Mrs. Goodridge, right now or any other time. You see, he uh … He took a fall off the cliffs. He’s dead.”

      Gunhild didn’t seem to understand the words at first. She kept looking at him, with a vaguely apologetic half smile.

      Then, as the meaning sank in, her face turned pale. She swung away from them, clutching the tool in her hand. “Dead?” Her voice was unstable.

      “Yes,” Cash said. “Do you have any idea if he … was feeling ill? If he might have had a heart attack?”

      “A heart attack?” Her voice pitched. “No. He was a strong man. He always jogged and played tennis with friends.”

      “Well, even professional sportsmen sometimes turn out to have a heart condition nobody ever knew about,”