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“We have to stop meeting like this, Corporal.”
Valancy couldn’t bring herself to respond to the glib greeting.
Without waiting to be invited in, she stalked into the cosy studio she’d become a little too well-acquainted with over the past half-year.
Barney quietly shut the door and followed. She could read the mix of dread, rage, and nerves coming off him when she turned to face him.
Funny, how she’d learned the nuances that separated his sullen silences from his thoughtful ones. Or how she’d learned to follow his quicksilver shifts between sardonic and sincere.
And yet, and yet, she didn’t know if he was their man.
“We’ve found another body,” Valancy began abruptly, “a 24-year-old. She was strangled with a teal scarf.”
She fancied she could see the shudder that ran through him and the gradual clenching of his scruffy jaw.
“When?”
“We estimate time of death to be between midnight and 2 AM. I don’t suppose you have a convenient alibi?”
A queer gleam lit up his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was at Abel’s from 9? 10? Didn’t leave until 4 AM.”
Valancy’s heart began to beat faster. “Not your usual scene, is it? You’re fanatical about your writing schedule.”
“I was. Until some motherfucker started turning my books into DIY manuals. I stared at a sheet of paper for 2 hours, trying to figure out how to stop speaking to a serial killer. Gave up. I had to get out, couldn’t bear the thought…”
He stopped to take a couple of deep breaths.
“So, I walked over to Abel’s. Sat at the bar. Drank most of a bottle of shitty tequila. It was terrible. Turpentine may have been an improvement. Got asked to leave when the bar closed. Somehow walked home and collapsed on my couch.”
Valancy had the wildest urge to laugh.
A young woman was dead. Too many of them.
But Barney had chosen to deviate from norm and go out.
The killer had finally slipped up.
“I’ll be checking Abel’s CCTV footage, of course.”
“I’d expect nothing less, Corporal Stirling.”
The gentleness of his tone belied his mocking words.
“I’m going to have to ask you some questions while we work on that.”
Barney moved over to fiddle with the ancient coffee machine on the counter. His crumpled linen shirt and threadbare jeans fit in seamlessly with the rest of his mismatched and chipped kitchen.
What does a writer do, to warrant forearms like that, Valancy idly wondered as she walked deeper into the apartment.
“Ask away. But sit down first. You look worse than I do.”
“I got called out at 6 AM and have been on ever since. Excuse me if I haven’t had time to fix myself up to come see you.”
Valancy didn’t look too closely at why she was defending her dishevelled looks as she took a seat at his wobbly dining table.
One of Barney’s giant mugs filled with steaming coffee clinked down in front of her. Heat-activated, Valancy noted, as the Gemini constellation brightened against the navy ceramic.
“I don’t mean your looks, Corporal, delightful as they are.” A feather-light touch at the corner of her left eye made her attention snap back to him. “You have shadows under your eyes.”
Valancy cleared her throat, using the mug to warm her hands.
Physical touch was a line Barney had never crossed before.
But did this even count?
Maybe her tired mind had imagined it, turning her suppressed longing into a waking dream.
Maybe he was still drunk from last night.
Shrugging off the fluttering in her stomach, Valancy took a sip and forged ahead.
“Did you tell anyone about your change of plan? Where you’d be going?”
“Did I tell anyone about my sudden plan to go and get blackout drunk? No. No, I did not.”
“Have you broken from your writing routine at any other time in the last 6 months? Especially on a weekday?”
“I must have. I’m not as devoted to my writing schedule as you believe. But I can’t remember specific instances.”
“Parties? Events?”
Barney snorted. His strong hands mirrored her movement around his own mug of coffee. A bright white with bold, luscious strawberries painted on it.
“You know damn well I never go to parties and events. Believe it or not, the less John Foster appears in public, the higher my sales. When I say I must have broken from routine, I mean I probably went out to get a bite to eat or to the grocery store or even for a walk.”
“Alone?”
His mismatched brows furrowed as the significance of her question dawned.
“Yes…always alone.”
The fluttering in Valancy’s stomach intensified.
“At the store, at restaurants, do people know you? Do you ever strike up a conversation with the cashier? Would a café consider you a regular?”
“No.” The air in Barney’s kitchen felt weighed down by everything he hadn’t said.
“So,” Valancy continued softly, “you almost never have anyone to vouch for your evenings. Except last evening. On a random Wednesday, you decided to go to one of the most popular dive bars in the neighbourhood and stay there for give or take 6 hours. A place with security, cameras, and credit card information. Your questionable decision-making may have definitively saved your neck, Mr. Snaith.”
“I knew alcohol would solve my problems one day.”
It was Valancy’s turn to snort.
“Is it true? That not making public appearances helps you sell more books?”
Barney remained unfazed by the sudden change of subject.
“100%.”
“That seems…counterintuitive?”
“Not at all. My readers love a good mystery. That’s why they read my books. While John Foster’s real identity isn’t a secret, I don’t have social media, I don’t attend festivals or signings. Announcements are handled by my agent and my publisher manages marketing. All of it adds to my appeal. I hear I even have my own reddit.”
“Subreddit.”
“What?”
“You have your own subreddit. Reddit is the site. The different…channels, I guess you could say, are called subreddits. Where people talk about whatever topic the subreddit is dedicated to.”
“Corporal, are you telling me you’ve been looking at my subreddit?” Barney’s tone seemed to indicate he’d caught Valancy looking at his nudes.
Valancy fought to keep a blush off her face.
“You’re a suspect in a serial murder investigation. I do my research.”
“And have you read my books? For research, of course.”
“Obviously, I have.”
He grinned at her prim response.
“Strictly from a research point-of-view, which did you like the most?”
“Strictly from a research point-of-view, The Wilds is my favourite.”
“What did you like about it?”
“It’s the only one you’ve set in Muskoka. It feels closer to home. Minus the murdering. Although I guess that’s hit home now too.”
Both of them sobered up at Valancy’s words.
The retro wall clock ticked loudly in the silence that settled. Valancy took a last sip from her mug and pushed away from the table.
“Thanks for the coffee. I should get going.”
Barney rose with her.
Valancy fought a strong desire to stay in his warm kitchen, drink another cup of his perfectly brewed coffee, and pry into more of his life.
Instead, she walked resolutely toward the door and shrugged on the jacket she’d left on a hook next to it.
“What happens next?”
“Like I said, we’ll be cross-checking your whereabouts, Mr. Snaith. And then we’ll be in touch. You may not be involved but the killer has a connection to you or your books in some way. You may still be able to help us with the investigation.”
“Valancy?”
Her hand paused on the doorknob. That earlier sensation that blurred reality and her aching dreams had returned.
“Would you like to stay for dinner? I have an empty refrigerator and a drawer full of great takeout menus.”
Valancy turned back in time to catch the half-hopeful half-resigned smile on his face.
Eyes suddenly stinging, she whipped back to the door and opened it.
“Not…yet, Barney. Some other time.”
The cold seeped deep into her bones as she walked outside, into the misty Muskoka evening.