Barnaby Watts happened to be a resident of Berlin, and he happened to be a nationwide bestselling author, who wrote mysteries. This Kate Meadows business fell into his lap.
Now, the way he ended up forming his conclusions was very much the orthodox view of the murder, because he didn’t have all that much imagination, all considered. Authors are less imaginative than you might think. They’re rewarded more for how they write than what they write, which, the more expected, the better. So he pinned the blame on Tom Malkovich, because that’s what Shirley Stanley’s first partner, Harmony Wright, did. Based on faulty evidence. He codified the existing narrative.
Barnaby didn’t need to worry too much about that. Guilt is relative. Red herrings are more important in these affairs, misdirection. Once a suspect is dismissed they’re conveniently absolved and the plot moves ever onward to the true culprit. Everyone just agrees that the tidy conclusions reached are the only ones possible.
Except in the real world. Barnaby, conveniently, didn’t live in the real world. He’d comfortably settled into his niche, churned out as many predictably profitable, comforting affirmations of the system working as his publishers welcomed, a regular factory system, often blended with cowriters from his admittedly extensive outlines. He always wrote his Surge Light books himself. Those were his babies. Everything else was fair game. He’d opted for collaboration with the Kate Meadows book. He still got all the credit.
He didn’t care that Stanley wigged out, that serious doubt welcomed Wright’s findings. He fancied himself something of a detective himself. He made the rounds. This was his home ground, after all. They would all be impressed. He was an elder statesman of the community. That would make it all easier.
Barnaby was pleased with the results. He always was.
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