Death of a Sunday Writer Read Online Free

Longborough in the firstplace she wanted the world to evaluate her afresh, separate from the assumptions that were involved in being Geoffrey Brenner’s wife, but she had not been allowed to remain a stranger long, once the librarians had understood her situation. It was slightly exhilarating to be once more anonymous.
    She dropped her paper cup into a waste basket and looked at the address that Buncombe had given her. She would still have preferred to leave her car in the lot and take the Queen street-car but, now that she had driven through the city once, it seemed feeble, and the car would certainly save time.
    David Trimble’s office was one of a number of cubicles above a row of small stores at the corner of Egerton and Queen Streets. As Lucy started down the gloomy hallway, looking for the name, a door swung open at the far end and a policeman came out followed by another man, a middle-aged oriental — a well-groomed, athletic-looking man wearing bifocals, dressed in a grey sweatshirt and baggy pants.
    â€œI’ll arrange for a padlock until we find out who owns this stuff now,” the policeman said. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
    â€œI’m looking for David Trimble’s office.”
    â€œYou’ve found it. Who are you? What do you want with him?”
    â€œI’m his cousin. I came to clean out his office.”
    â€œSomebody already did.” The policeman pushed open the door and stood back for her to look in.
    The office had been wrecked. All the desk drawers were up-ended. The contents of a filing cabinet had beendumped out. A box of computer paper had been emptied on the floor. The little computer itself looked undamaged, though the monitor had been lifted off the drive unit. A few books had been taken out of a bookcase and lay about the floor.
    â€œI understand your cousin died,” the policeman said.
    Lucy nodded. “Burglars?”
    â€œI guess. Young kids looking for cash, I would think. Real crooks usually take stuff like that.” He pointed to the computer.
    â€œHave you been in here lately?”
    â€œI’ve never been here before. I haven’t seen my cousin for twenty years.”
    â€œIn that case you won’t know if anything was missing. I understand he died of a heart attack just recently.”
    â€œSo I was told.” She looked around at the mess. “I should report this, shouldn’t I?”
    â€œHe already did. That’s why I’m here.” The policeman nodded towards the oriental, who put out his hand. “Peter Tse. T-S-E, pronounced See.”
    â€œThe janitor?”
    â€œThis is my building. I own it.”
    â€œI’ll go back and make my report,” the policeman said. “You’ll want some time. I was going to padlock the office. The lock is busted. You want me to do that now, still?”
    â€œYes, please,” Lucy said. “How long will it take?”
    â€œI’ll have the guy in the hardware store downstairs come right up.” He walked off, down the corridor.
    Lucy had no idea what to do next. Peter Tse followed her into the office. “Pretty bad,” he said. “A bad mess. But I don’t think they got anyfing.” He smiled companionably and sat down.
    â€œHow do you know?” Lucy walked over to the window that looked out on Queen Street, resenting very slightly the way Tse had invited himself in. He had an odd but faintly familiar accent, certainly not Canadian, probably Hong Kong or somewhere like that.
    â€œDavid never had anyfing. He borrowed fifty dollars from me the day before he died. He always owed me fifty dollars. And sometimes the rent, too.”
    â€œI’ll settle his debts as soon as I can,” she said over her shoulder. She wondered if she was being conned. It seemed an easy way for the landlord to pick up fifty dollars.
    Tse stood up and carefully placed his chair behind the desk, then dusted off his hands. “I