The Author of His Demise: A Mackenzie Quinn Mystery

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sunday, 7:12 a.m.

I stumbled forward with a choked sob toward Barry’s fallen form. He had been crushed by the weight of the fridge, which had somehow toppled over him. The door was all the way open, which explained the dim light I had seen. Broken glass and globs of condiments littered the floor. Oliver uttered a piteous meow and butted his head against Barry’s outstretched hand, which lay unmoving against the tiled floor. I stepped over the debris to feel Barry’s wrist for a pulse, even though I knew it was useless. His skin was cold and lifeless against my fingers.

I spotted a beer bottle in the pool of blood around his head—Ashwood Ale. A combination of hops and barley from the local craft brew filled the air, tainted by a coppery tang. The bottle was broken. Something dark stained the jagged edges. Barry had been struck from behind before the fridge had toppled onto him.

In my novel, the victim’s death had initially been deemed an accident. He had been a heavy drinker, so it was assumed he had managed to somehow tip the fridge onto himself during a trip from the couch for another beer, in a drunken stupor. (That is, the police had labelled it an accident, until other bodies started piling up.)

It seemed an impossible coincidence. No one would believe Barry’s death was anything other than murder. Everyone knew he didn’t drink. And the novel that matched up with the method of his demise was a popular one—a book I had written, even though no one knew it.

I took a deep, steadying breath and swallowed hard against the lump of bile forming in the back of my throat. The police wouldn’t thank me for contaminating the crime scene with the contents of my stomach. I rose to my feet, my mind sluggishly trying to decide what to do next. I had encountered dead bodies before, but this was the first time I had actually been close to the victim. I tried to shake off the strange feeling of being trapped inside a horrible dream.

I fumbled my phone from my satchel, but hesitated before dialing. A few months ago, I would have called Detective Sergeant Sharp without even thinking about it. But he had been working a case over in Beavercroft since before Christmas. I had been dealing with his second-in-command, Sergeant Poole, in his absence. (And not particularly amicably, despite the fact I had solved both the donut thief and hockey rink vandal cases during Poole’s watch—which he had yet to thank me for. In fact, Sergeant Poole had told me in no uncertain terms that the next time he found me anywhere near a crime scene, he would arrest me on the spot.)

I had heard that Detective Sharp was back in town from Bigmouth Britney Taylor, but I wasn’t supposed to know that. (If I was being honest, part of me wanted him to be the one to reach out and let me know he was back. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was stalking him or something…)

The detective and I were on better terms than I was with the sergeant, but that wasn’t saying much. (Even though Tara insisted that Detective Sharp liked me. As much as I hated to admit it, she was far better at noticing that sort of thing than I was.) Detective Sharp usually tried to keep me away from his investigations, but at least he was willing to listen when I had something interesting to contribute. (Even though he would never admit I actually solved any of his cases.)

I uttered a sigh. There was no help for it. If I contacted Sergeant Poole, I would spend the rest of the day waiting for Tara to bail me out of jail. (I could only imagine what the ensuing explanations to my parents would be like.)

I selected Detective Sharp’s number from my contact list and the phone started to ring.

“Zee?” He answered before the second ring—a hopeful sign. His voice shifted from surprised to wary. “Is this a social call?”

I bit my lip before answering. “Um, not really.” I felt myself flush before I awkwardly pushed on. “I mean, I’m glad you’re back in town and everything—”

“Yes, I heard about how things went between you and Poole,” the detective said in a dry tone. “At length.”

“Well, I hope you don’t take everything he says seriously,” I huffed. “He wasn’t exactly easy to work with.”

“Poole’s an excellent officer,” Detective Sharp said with pointed smugness. “I have high hopes for him.”

I propped my fist on my hip. “That’s all well and good, but he doesn’t exactly think outside the box. I mean, if I hadn’t stepped in—”

“He does things by the book, like any good officer is supposed to. You can’t expect to corrupt everyone in the precinct, Zee.”

I snorted in spite of myself. “Are you saying I’ve corrupted you?”

I heard him sigh. “Why are you calling?”

I couldn’t help but notice he had avoided my question. I let it slide—for the moment.

“Barry’s dead,” I made myself say.

It still didn’t feel quite real. Maybe that was why it seemed to easy to banter with a dead body in the room.

“What?” The detective uttered a muffled curse of disbelief. “What was it, another stroke?”

“No, it definitely wasn’t a stroke.” I turned my back on Barry’s body and tried to stay focused. “I came to pick him up for our morning walk, but he didn’t answer the door. I got worried, so I used my spare key to check on him. I found him… under the fridge. It looks like someone bashed him on the head with a beer bottle before pinning him under there.”

A long silence followed my words.

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” Detective Sharp finally said. It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded before I remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yes.” The word emerged in a choked syllable.

“But that sounds exactly like the latest Marie Clifford novel.” A trace of disbelief coloured his words.

“I know.”

It seemed pointless to act as if I didn’t know. The detective already thought I was a Marie Clifford fan, since he had noticed an advanced reading copy of the latest book in my car on the day we had first met.

“OK, I’m on my way over there now. And Zee, I know it’s been a few months, so maybe you don’t remember the first rule of official police investigations—”

I rolled my eyes. “I know.” I uttered the next words in unison with him.

“Don’t touch anything.”