The Author of His Demise: A Mackenzie Quinn Mystery

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sunday, 7:00 a.m.

I peeled back my mitten and checked my watch as I stepped onto Barry’s wraparound porch—seven o’clock on the dot. I blew out a sigh of relief. (Like I said, I hate to be late.) I pressed the doorbell, its muffled chime echoing through the large, two-storey house. I waited for Barry’s heavy tread, which usually followed only a moment later.

Silence.

I frowned and pressed the doorbell a second time. Barry was always up and ready to go by the time I showed up…

My imagination conjured images of him collapsed somewhere inside the house from another stroke. I shoved the fear aside. Like Barb had said, Barry was down almost thirty pounds, and his doctor said he was doing well. There was no reason to think he might have had another stroke.

My imagination took a different tack as I wondered whether he had been entertaining the night before. It was Sunday, after all, and Barry was a widower. I felt myself flush as I wondered if there was someone else inside, who had either made him late, or was perhaps distracting him from the doorbell…

I pulled my phone from my satchel, reluctantly removed both my mittens, and sent him a quick text.

‘Hey, are we still on for today? I can do the walk on my own if you’re busy.’

I waited a full two minutes, bouncing on my heels to keep warm.

No answer.

My frown deepened. Barry always kept his phone somewhere nearby since the stroke. I rubbed my chilled hands together before typing another message.

‘Are you OK? Starting to get worried.’

Another minute passed before I gave in to my growing anxiety. I sent one last message, just in case he really was entertaining…

‘I’m coming in.’

I dug my keys from my satchel and flipped through them to find the one to Barry’s house. He’d given me a copy shortly after the mini-stroke, just in case. I’d never had to use it.

…Until now.

My fingers trembled from more than just the cold as I slid the key into the lock on the front door. I turned it and the deadbolt clicked. I took a steadying breath before I turned the handle to step inside. An anxious nest of serpents seemed to writhe in the pit of my stomach. Would I find Barry lying grey and cold in his bed? Or would I run into someone from town in an unclad state?

The door swung inward with a faint squeak. An inquiring meow sounded from the shadows of the entryway. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me before Barry’s cat could get any ideas about making a run for it. A pair of slitted golden eyes peered up at me in the gloom. A small body rubbed against my snow pants without any regard for how cold and wet they must be.

“Hello, Oliver,” I said, reaching down to stroke the cat’s head.

It took me a moment for my chilled fingers to find him in the dim interior of the house. My hand connected with his side instead. His long fur felt warm and comforting against my cold skin. His entire body seemed to be vibrating as loud purrs filled the air.

I blinked in surprise. Oliver was friendly, but not usually so enthusiastic—except with Barry. I had managed to get some pre-purr grunts from him in the past, but nothing like this. The entire entryway sounded as if a small motor was running inside it. My hand went still.

Cats don’t only purr when they’re happy. It’s also a self-soothing mechanism they use during pain or distress. Oliver was letting me touch him no problem, so I felt fairly sure he wasn’t injured…

“Barry?” I called out as I returned to a standing position.

I held my breath as I waited for an answer. There was no way he couldn’t have heard me.

Nothing.

With a rising tide of panic, I yanked off one of my boots and almost fell over in my haste to remove the other. Oliver made the task even more difficult by insisting on rubbing against me the entire time. His purring never stopped.

As soon as I had recovered from almost face-planting into a nearby wall, I flipped on the front light switch. I blinked against the sudden glare. I looked around the entryway, but saw no signs of distress. Barry’s tall winter boots stood in their usual place in the open closet, along with his red coat.

I took another look at Oliver, just in case he really was injured, but his mixture of white and tawny fur showed no signs of blood, even though he appeared to be wet in a few places. At first, I assumed it was only transfer from when he had rubbed against my snow pants.

Then I smelled the beer.

I don’t know how I had missed it when I had walked in. My nose must have been too cold. The smell was almost overpowering.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked Oliver in a shaky voice (mostly in an effort to break the tension).

Barry didn’t drink.

I pressed my fingers against Oliver’s damp fur and then sniffed them. My nose wrinkled. Yup, he definitely had beer on him. What was going on? Did Barry have a visitor last night? Maybe he’d decided to drink to keep them company, and now he was sleeping off a hangover. It would explain why he hadn’t heard the doorbell, or answered my texts…

Despite this perfectly logical explanation, the knot in the pit of my stomach hardened. Barry had been a teetotaller for years. It was difficult to imagine him deciding to start drinking after his stroke, now that his health was on the mend. My feet carried me of their own accord toward the kitchen, where a dim light seemed to shine in the early morning darkness.

When I rounded the corner, my feet slowed to a stop. The light was still dim, and seemed to be coming from somewhere on the floor in the far corner of the kitchen.

“Barry?” I called out again in a tentative voice.

I had the uneasy feeling someone else was nearby, hidden in the darkness. The back of my neck prickled.

Oliver butted up against my leg and trotted into the room with an insistent meow. I shook myself. If Oliver wasn’t running or hiding, surely there wasn’t any danger. I forced myself to reach out and flip on the kitchen lights.

It took me a moment to realize something was wrong with the room. The wooden cupboards were closed, and clean dishes were neatly arranged in the drying rack beside the sink. The kitchen table was bare. All four chairs were tucked in around it.

But the fridge was missing. A blank spot on the wall where the cheerful, yellow paint wasn’t as faded was the only sign of where it had stood. I frowned. Who steals a fridge? It wasn’t exactly something you could sling over your shoulder and run off with…

I shivered. Even in my winter gear, the kitchen seemed colder than it should be. A stuttering hum of a motor filled the air, blending with Oliver’s purring. I closed my eyes as a sudden fear struck me.

No. It couldn’t be…

I made myself step forward, leaning against the back of a nearby chair for support as I craned my neck to look past the table.

My legs almost gave way beneath me. It was exactly as I had thought.

“Oh, Barry…”

Barry’s white, curly head lay in a pool of blood and beer.

He had died in the exact same way as the murder victim in one of my Marie Clifford novels.