The Author of His Demise: A Mackenzie Quinn Mystery

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sunday, 7:31 a.m.

If Detective Sharp actually thought I was going to stay put until he showed up, he really didn’t remember who he was dealing with. Not only was Barry a good friend of mine, but the crime had clearly been inspired by one of my own books—books no one knew I wrote. Both these facts made Barry’s murder even more personal than the other cases I had worked on. There was no way I wasn’t going to get involved, whether the detective liked it or not.

I performed a quick circuit through the house in my sock feet. Oliver trotted along after me. Nothing in the rest of the house seemed to be in disarray. Barry’s bed was neatly made, which only made me think he must not have slept in it the night before. (He usually got up roughly fifteen minutes before our walks and was barely even dressed by the time I showed up.) There was also no sign that anyone else had been inside the house—aside from the scene in the kitchen. The only scents were Barry’s own subtle aftershave and the stink of beer.

The house definitely had the air of a bachelor. Everything was reasonably tidy, but there weren’t many decorative touches, aside from some framed family photos and faded art prints hanging from the walls, which had clearly been hung long ago. It was strange to see Barry without his usual white curls, which had always reminded me of a sheep. In the photos, his hair was chestnut brown, but his twinkling blue eyes were the same as he posed with his wife and son.

I had heard him talk about Judy, who had died years ago in a tragic accident. (She had been cleaning the eaves troughs and slipped from the ladder, breaking her neck on the way down.) She looked like a kind woman. I knew Barry had been devastated by her sudden passing. After his recent mini-stroke had reminded him of his own mortality, he had finally taken the time to go through his wife’s possessions, which he had packed away in a haze of grief. I felt my throat tighten as I wondered whether he and Judy had been reunited at long last.

I had never met Barry’s son Tristan, or at least if I had, I didn’t remember it. He was seven years older than me, so I had never crossed paths with him in school. Barry had never talked about him either, but I gathered Tristan had left Ashwood shortly after his mother’s death. Even though he looked something like a younger version of Barry in the pictures, with matching curly brown hair, his blue eyes had more of a cold, calculating look that seemed to follow me as I walked down the hallway. I turned my back on the photos with a shiver and continued my rounds with my hands clasped firmly behind my back. (I only promised I wouldn’t touch anything. Detective Sharp hadn’t said anything about looking…)

The windows and back door were all closed and locked. I remembered how I had heard the click of the deadbolt on my way in. Whoever had killed Barry must have had a key to the house (or an alternate means of locking the door behind them). I thought of the key in my satchel and wondered how many other people had a copy. Surely, it couldn’t be that many. Barry’s son, perhaps, and maybe one of the neighbours…

The sound of a car engine outside, followed by the slamming of a door sent me racing back down the stairs to the front entryway. (Even though Detective Sharp would likely suspect me of snooping, I had no intention of allowing him to actually catch me at it.) A firm knock sounded against the front door just as I reached the bottom stair.

“Zee? It’s Morgan—er, Detective Sharp.”

Morgan? I had never called him by his first name before, even though I knew well enough what it was. (I could only guess what Tara would make of this if I bothered to tell her about it.)

I opened the front door to find him standing on the front porch. He was in jeans, but he wore a police-issue winter coat over his usual navy T-shirt, which gave him more of an official air than usual. I looked up from the various rank-and-file patches sewn onto the front and sleeves of the dark fabric of the coat to meet his hazel eyes.

“Are you OK?” he asked with an air of concern. “I feel bad I hung up without asking. I know you and Barry were close.”

Huh. It was the closest the detective (Morgan?) had ever come to actually making an apology. I felt myself flush in confusion.

“I’m fine.” I forced a smile and shook my head. “I mean, as fine as I can be, considering the situation. You’d better come in.”

I stepped aside to let him pass, hooking Oliver’s furry body with my leg to keep him away from the front door. The detective’s clean, cedar scent tickled my nose as he went by.

“This is Oliver, by the way. He’s a little confused about all this.” I swallowed against the memory of the cat rubbing his head against Barry’s motionless hand.

Detective Sharp shut the door behind him and crouched to greet the anxious feline. “Hello, Oliver.” His voice was gentle, with a tinge of sadness. Then his head turned toward my legs and travelled upward.

“Snow pants?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Are you going skiing or something?”

I looked down at my puffy, zipped up parka. (I hadn’t bothered to take anything off, other than my boots. Finding Barry’s body had left me feeling like I was never going to be warm again.) Unlike me, the detective wore his jacket completely unzipped, without even a hat or scarf.

“It’s cold out,” I said. I raised my chin, suddenly aware I was still wearing my knitted hat with my curls all squashed around my face. I yanked it off and scowled at him as an unexpected flush of heat made me rethink my earlier assessment.

Detective Sharp’s lips twitched. “It’s not that cold. You do know this is Canada, right?”

“Well it’s cold to me. And…”

I trailed off as my legs suddenly began to burn with itchy fury. (In addition to being triggered by the cold, the hives often showed up after the fact, as my body began to warm up again. Seriously, how can a Canadian be allergic to the cold?)

“What?” the detective prompted with a bewildered shake of his head.

I clenched my hands into fists to avoid unzipping my parka and digging my fingers down my snow pants to scratch like a dog with fleas.

I gritted my teeth and forced an awkward smile. “Nothing. I, um, just need to use the bathroom.”

Once I was behind closed doors, I could scratch to my heart’s content. I tilted my head in the direction of the kitchen. “Barry’s in there. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

I ducked into the nearby powder room and shut the door before the detective could think to stop me.