The Minstrel & The Beagle

by Lila K Bell

  Okay, so, maybe there was a little bit of revenge coming in alongside this mission, but that didn’t change my focus.

  I ducked behind a tree and pulled on the mask and gloves when I reached the side of the house. Identity hidden, I jumped to grab the top of the fence, climbed my way over, and landed lightly on the other side. A light was on in the kitchen at the far end of the house, but I needed the office, which was on the side closest to me. Those windows were dark, and one was just large enough for me to slip through.

  I crept closer, keeping below the window line, and poked my head over the side to peer into the room. No movement, and no light coming in from the kitchen. I wondered if Barnaby was actually making himself a midnight snack or if he’d forgotten to turn the light off. Rich people can afford to be wasteful with their electricity.

  Carefully, braced for an alarm to go off, I eased the window open. No loud beeps, no flashing lights from the sensor in the top far corner of the room. Point one for me.

  I slipped one leg in, followed by the other, and did a quick scan.

  Unlike Tony Hutchings’ office, this one was a mess. The desk was covered in papers, as were the two leather chairs arranged in front of the window. A half-finished glass of sherry sat on the end table, no coaster in sight. I wondered how long it had been there and what might have taken Barnaby away from his nightly tipple. I remembered how much he enjoyed them.

  Keeping my steps soft, I moved farther into the room. Also unlike the Hutchings house, this one needed work. The floorboards had begun to warp, and I spotted water damage along the ceiling. It seemed that Mr. Coleman hadn’t kept up the maintenance of his beautiful old mansion.

  The bookcase was straight ahead, and I edged around the desk toward it. On my way, my gaze was caught by some of the papers on Barnaby’s desk. One in particular screamed at me to read it. It was half-buried under what looked to be some kind of contract, but I could hardly miss the word THIEF slashed in bright red letters across the top of the page.

  Curiosity nudged me to take a closer look, but before I had a chance to sneak a peek, soft footsteps rushed toward me, followed by the deep barks of a very angry dog. With nowhere to hide, I tried to step out of the room into the bathroom I knew was next door, but I’d only just reached the hallway when a figure all in black slammed into me. Like me, he was masked, and the speed with which he was running suggested he wasn’t here to check the gas meter.

  He disappeared into the office where I’d just come from, leaving me alone in the hallway with that furious barking not far enough away. I flattened myself against the wall to ensure I was well out of the dog’s path if it came tearing around the corner, but there was no animal in sight

  Just a clear view of the kitchen.

  And the man lying on the floor.

  My breath caught in my throat and tiny lights danced in my vision as I approached. Was it a trap? Was Barnaby pretending to be out cold so he could catch whoever had broken into his house — one of the two of us, as chance happened?

  I checked over my shoulder to see if the other figure had come out of the office, but there was no sign of him. I stepped back into the room to find the window open wider than I’d left it and no trace of the person who had flown past me.

  Heart hammering, I turned back toward the kitchen.

  My hot breath blew in my face against my mask, and without thinking I tore it off, needing fresh air if I wanted to stay on my feet. I stuffed the mask in my pocket and took another few steps forward.

  The dog, a beagle by the look of it, stood over Coleman’s body, its haunches raised and its teeth bared. I took it to mean he didn’t wish me to get any closer, and on that we agreed, but how could I walk away until I knew what had happened?

  “Mr. Coleman?” I called, not sure what kind of response I hoped to get.

  The house creaked somewhere on the second floor and I froze, craning my neck to watch the stairs, braced for someone else to show their face, but the house fell silent again beyond the beagle’s growls.

  It’s nothing. Just the wind and a creaky old house.

  I took another step forward and the beagle’s barks grew louder.

  Barnaby remained still on the floor, but now I was close enough to get a better idea of the situation.

  He lay on his stomach, his legs and arms sprawled at an angle, as though he’d tried to crawl to the counter to haul himself up. He’d put on weight since I’d seen him last, his paunch squished beneath him. His balding head caught the glare of the potlights, and I expected to see a sheen of sweat on his skin. But there was nothing. Just a sharp scent of something familiar and unpleasant.

  If I wanted to make sure he was all right, I needed access to him, and there was no way that would happen with his guardian standing vigil.

  “All right,” I said, scanning the counter while doing my best not to antagonize the beagle any more than I already had. “If I were a dog treat, where would I be?”

  Crossing one foot over the other, I slowly made my way to the cupboards without putting my back to the dog. The food and water dishes were on the floor in the corner, so I made a guess that the rest of his necessaries would be somewhere around there. With only a few glances at the cupboards, I pulled open the top drawer and blew out a breath of relief on finding a bag of dog chews.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I said, in a soothing voice somewhat marred by a distinct tremor. “Want some of these?”

  I shook the bag at the dog, but he did nothing but growl at me. What did he think I was going to do? Stomp his owner deeper into the floor?

  “Come on now, puppers, come with me. Come on.”

  Bag in hand, giving it an occasional shake, I crossed the kitchen toward the bathroom.

  If it isn’t entirely obvious by now, I’ve never been a dog person. Cats were more my style with their whole “leave me alone, I’m sleeping” mentality, whereas dogs demanded too much attention. Not to mention the slobber. So much slobber. I guess I do take after my parents in some ways.

  So to be stared down by this lean, muscular dog didn’t do anything to lighten the already tense mood.

  I reached the bathroom and dropped a few treats onto the floor. The dog stopped growling and stared at me, head tilted, its big eyes watching my every move.

  “Mmm, treats. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  It did not, apparently, sound nice. His teeth were bared again, and the rumbling in the back of his throat had picked up.

  “What?” I asked. “What do I have to do to get you to convince you I’m not here to hurt him? I’m here to help.”

  Help what, I wasn’t sure. If Coleman hadn’t moved with all this noise, I wasn’t sure what I would be able to do.

  Run.

  The temptation to get out of here was strong. I could leave, get somewhere safe, pick up a phone.

  Yet how could I live with myself if I turned away and left the man lying here on the floor with so little dignity and only a loud dog for comfort?

  A red ball lay tucked beside a dog bed, chewed all over and still glistening with dog drool. At least, I hoped it was dog drool.

  Curling my lips in distaste to try to stifle my gag reflex, I picked up the ball. The dog’s ears perked up.

  “Is this what you want?” I asked. “Go get it.”

  With a flick of my wrist, I lobbed the ball into the bathroom, and the clatter of nails on ceramic tiles echoed through the kitchen as the dog chased after it. As soon as he got into the bathroom, I pulled the door shut, able now to ignore the barks that sounded after me as I stepped, uninhibited, toward Barnaby Coleman.

  When I reached him, I knelt down beside him and removed one of my gloves to press my fingers into his neck.

  I wanted to find a pulse. I hoped beyond anything that he’d just had a scuffle with the other unexpected guest and hit his head on something. In another few minutes, he’d revive, and I would be free and clear to make my way out of here knowing he’d be fine in the morning. Maybe I’d even call emergency se
rvices when I got out so someone would be sure to check on him.

  You can’t say I’m not civil minded, all things considered.

  But my fingertips pressed into nothing other than a cool stillness, the skin barely warming at the prolonged contact with my own panicked heat.

  Barnaby Coleman was dead.

  It took more than a little effort to keep my breath steady. The urge to freak out was creeping up on me, threatening to grab hold of my chest and send me running for the front door to call for help. But how would I explain my presence here? A late night visit with an old school acquaintance’s father? Sure, everyone would believe that.

  Maybe there’s still a chance.

  I hadn’t gone all my years with my various hobbies and societies without having taken the CPR course at least half a dozen times. I’d never managed to get my certification — apparently I was a little rough — but I was sure I could at least help a man at this late stage if he still had a breath left in him. At least I would be trying something. I didn’t have it in me to let it go without making some kind of effort.

  The dog was still barking, scratching at the door, but I tuned him out. At the moment, we were both safer with him locked away.

  As gently as possible, I rolled Barnaby onto his side. Then swallowed a yelp and lost my grip, letting him drop onto his back.

  A pair of kitchen scissors stuck out of his chest. Blood had pooled beneath him, the source of the sickly metallic scent that had struck me as I’d come into the room. His grey polo shirt was soaked through, and his expression had frozen into one of surprise, as though he couldn’t believe what had happened to him.

  I sympathized.

  While my panic rose another notch, so did my determination to keep a clear head. I couldn’t stay here. If anyone spotted either me or my unintentional partner in crime — Oh man, I thought, was that the person who did it? Did I just have a run-in with a murderer? I put the thought away for later — then it would only be a little more time before the cops showed up. I couldn’t be here when they did.

  I scrambled to my feet and took a step away from Barnaby’s body, but before I had a chance to hurry back to the office, footsteps ran from the front hall into the kitchen, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I found it odd that I hadn’t heard a knock or a ringing doorbell. I hadn’t even heard the front door open.

  I immediately set the thought aside as a low priority.

  In the moment, I only saw the gun, and my heart may as well have been as still as Barnaby’s.

  The weapon lowered, and my gaze slowly rose to the face behind it. I took in the clean-shaved jaw and the blond hair sticking out from under a police hat. A pair of blue eyes widened, and the barrel of the gun dropped toward the floor.

  “Fiona?” the officer asked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  4

  I blinked, trying to think through the barking and my own muddled confusion to put a name to the familiar face staring at me.

  “Sam,” I said at last, relief pooling inside me that nothing in my brain had snapped for good. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Sam Robinson was a long time acquaintance-slash-son of a family friend. We’d grown up together, falling in and out of friendship as our ages and social groups changed. You know how these things are. At the moment, we were in an out-of-friendship stage. He’d joined the police force, going against his parents’ wishes that he become a lawyer or a businessman or someone who would bring in oodles of cash, and I’d continued on my merry, dilatory way.

  I respected the heck out of him for following his dreams and doing what he wanted to do, but pulling away from him had been an act of self-preservation. It wouldn’t do to let him get too close and guess at how I spent my Saturdays.

  As it stood now, that particular cat might have jumped out of the bag, though I was still crossing my fingers I could find a way out of this.

  “Are you going to answer me?” he asked. He hadn’t holstered his weapon, and I found I had trouble tearing my gaze away from it.

  So much so, in fact, that I’d forgotten there was a question still hanging between us. One I really didn’t want to answer.

  “I was going for a run,” I said, glad that my subconscious was carrying the load for the rest of my brain.

  “In this part of town?” Sam asked. He finally put his gun away, but stood with his arms crossed, skepticism written all over his face.

  “Better than looking all sweaty and gross in front of the neighbours. You know what they’re like.” The hint of impatience on his face pushed me to turn the conversation back on point. “Anyway, as I was jogging by, I thought I saw someone come out of the house over the back fence. He was dressed all in black, wearing a ski mask.”

  It wasn’t a lie. The other person had been here, and I had no reason to believe he wasn’t the person who had killed Barnaby. I was more than happy to overlook the fact that I, too, had matched that description until about ten minutes ago.

  “Did you come in through the front door?” Sam asked. “Was it locked?”

  I knew a trick question when I heard it. The part of my brain still able to function had already registered that he hadn’t knocked or rung the doorbell, which meant the door hadn’t been locked. The fact that he’d just walked in told me it had been ajar.

  “It was open when I got here. Not by much, but enough that I was worried. The dog was barking, the door was open, and that didn’t strike me a great situation. You know this is Jeremy Coleman’s dad’s place, right? I found him on the floor here.”

  I didn’t want to look at his corpse again, but my eyes seemed to be an independent body, acting against my wishes, and dropped anyway.

  “Did you touch him?” Sam asked.

  I nodded. “He was lying on his stomach. I thought maybe I could perform CPR or something to bring him back, but when I rolled him over…”

  With a shaking hand, I gestured to the scissors sticking out of his chest. I wish I could say my fear was an award-winning act to keep suspicion off me, but the fact of the matter is I was terrified. The only thing keeping me from throwing up all over the kitchen was that I didn’t want to give the police any more reason to associate my name with what had happened here. That and I hadn’t eaten much dinner so had very little in my stomach to bring back up.

  I needed a drink.

  Barnaby’s eyes were staring at the ceiling, glazed over and empty. He’d never spent much time with Jeremy’s friends when we’d been over, so I couldn’t say I knew him well, but enough to know he was a decent guy. He liked to laugh and made a mean pulled pork sandwich. He’d raised a hellraiser with a fondness for bothering women, but I couldn’t put all the blame on Barnaby. Some of that was Jeremy’s natural lack of class.

  “What are you not telling me?” Sam asked.

  He kept his distance from me, making no move to suggest he was taking pity on the poor woman who had inadvertently stumbled over a dead body in someone else’s kitchen. To some degree, I was relieved, certain that, if he attempted to console me, I would break down. To another degree, I worried it meant he didn’t believe me.

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I just…I walked in, and I found him here, and I had only just turned him over when you came in, so I didn’t even have a chance to call the police.”

  Would I have made the call if Sam hadn’t caught me? I like to think so, but I can’t be sure. It would have been one more possible link back to me.

  “Did you touch anything else while you were here?”

  I shook my head. “I came right through the foyer and into the kitchen.” I frowned. “No, wait. I opened that drawer in the corner to get the dog treats so I could lock the dog in the bathroom. He wasn’t letting me near Mr. Coleman.”

  Was it normal that I’d forgotten something I’d done only a few minutes ago? Shock, I told myself. You’re in shock.

  “Wearing gloves.”

  The way he s
aid it made me kick myself that I hadn’t thought to take them off, but then I remembered the temperature outside. “There’s a chill in the air, Sam. At this time of night, if I didn’t wear gloves on my run, my knuckles would be aching in the morning. You know how cold I get.”

  He raised a blond eyebrow but didn’t say anything else. I didn’t blame him for doubting me. It was so hard to think with all this static in my head.

  After a moment, he released a breath and reached for his radio. “I’m going to call this in. I’ll have to take your statement and make my report, so you’ll have to stick around for a while.” He shook his head. “Bad luck your coming by tonight. How long has it been since you were here last? Six years?”

  “More like eight,” I said, then cleared my throat to get rid of the shakiness. “I dropped any acquaintanceship with Jer after he pantsed Nick Freeman in algebra class. Remember that?”

  Sam winced. “All too well. I still have nightmares that it was me. What a jerk.” He raised his gaze to meet mine. “Still, you’ve got to admit it’s quite a coincidence, you being the one to find his father.”

  I glanced again at the body. Was it my imagination, or had Barnaby already begun to turn grey? “The world is full of them, Sam. You should know that.”

  I always thought I kept a good head in an emergency, but being here with the smell of blood and other less savoury odours was starting to mess with my head. My vision blurred, and I reached for the counter before I remembered I shouldn’t touch anything.

  Why wouldn’t that dog be quiet?

  “Hey, you all right?”

  “Just a little light-headed,” I said. “Not every day I end a run with finding the dead body of someone I know on the floor. Especially not like this.”

  Scissors.

  It would have taken a lot of force to drive them in deep enough to kill him. A lot of determination. And I’d been here. Maybe not when it happened, but if Mr. Mask was the one to do it, then I hadn’t been far behind.