Blackquill Case Files: The Mansion Murder, Part 1
A young sleuth and his photographer partner investigate a murder of corruption...
Author’s Note: I’ve wanted to write a mystery since I discovered Death Note & Detective Conan. Mysteries didn’t make sense to write each time I made an attempt, but something just clicked in me. I started a mystery writing course and it felt easier to figure out just what makes a detective story. Then, I had an assignment, a prompt to write a murder mystery. Here’s my attempt. ;)
The air around Ravenwood Heights hung heavy with the quiet murmur of scholarly pursuit, but within the mansion of wealthy widower Edgar Sterling, silence reigned supreme like a mute overlord. His body lay cold, a testament to the violent end that had visited him like a ghost. His son, Marcus Sterling, stood by, pale and trembling, while the police swarmed the mansion. It was a scene straight out of a gothic pulp, and Nathan Blackquill was the reluctant reader, while his partner Aria Thompson got the gritty footnotes.
“How much you wanna bet the butler did it?” Aria chided, sweeping a spiky lock of hair from her rose-tinted sunglasses. “I just wanna be right this one time!” She blinked deep, eyeliner-etched eyes and stretched a faux pitiful smile across her pomegranate-laced lips, yet her eyebrows never twitched or drooped.
Nathan snickered. “We always make this bet. Aren’t you tired of buying me coffee and ramen?” He adjusted his turquoise-hued sunglasses—which were clip-ons for his circular glasses—and rubbed his hands, fighting off the night’s chill as they approached the Sterling Mansion. Normally, his dreadlocks would help warm his face, but he tied them in a chonmage to keep himself looking semi-professional. Clients prefer being able to see his agreeable face—so they’ll have an easier time parting with their money.
“At least it gives us a chance to go to the Izakaya,” Aria offered as she readied her camera, a Nikon Z6 II mirrorless. The sleek, black device—equipped with a 24-70mm f/2.8 lens—hung from her neck on a sturdy, well-worn strap. “It’s our crowd.”
“Our crowd? We’re detectives; we don’t really have a crowd,” Nathan countered.
“Correction: You’re the detective. I’m just the photographer/podcaster trailing behind you as close as a shadow for research. Search the Truth can’t run without you!”
“Oh, Aria,” Nathan began dramatically, “what would you do without me?”
“Probably the same thing you’d do once you get published: sell out and enjoy the advances!” Aria laughed, but shivered, lamenting the choice to wear her nose and lip piercings. It was late November, just past Thanksgiving—the snow flurries were well on the way, and they felt the northern exhales of Winter.
Nathan shrugged as he opened the main gate, allowing Aria enough space to walk in. He wondered if their coats were enough to keep them warm. “You know you have to sell enough books to make those advances back. Besides, I don’t even have a finished manuscript yet.”
“What are you waiting for, Nate? I always see you writing in your notebook; I thought you’d be at least on draft two!”
Nathan grumbled and leered at her. “You know writing’s not so easy, Ria.” He enjoyed abbreviating her name—to him it felt more personal. “Can’t just turn it on and off like some wine spigot.”
“I know, but you’re good,” Aria continued. “No hyperbole; you’re good. Just submit somewhere to get the ball rolling.”
Nathan nodded as they approached the front door. “Soon, Ria. I will.”
Aria stifled a mirthless laugh as Nathan knocked on the door. “I’ve heard that before.” The door opened to a burly police officer stepping outside, who looked the duo over with a furrowed brow. His lips fixed to ward them off until he looked over Nathan’s face.
Nathan tried to step past him with a nod, but the officer blocked their path. Officer Raymond Clarke was a man of considerable height and girth, his stern face marked by the prominent scar across his left cheek. His dark uniform strained at the seams, struggling to contain his broad shoulders and thick neck. His eyes, small, beady, and distrustful, bore into the two with visible contempt.
Nathan often thought he kept giving Aria an inappropriate stare—they were seventeen, and he was forty-four—but remained silent about it. Well, at least until he had enough evidence.
“What do you think you’re doin’ here, Blackquill?” A growl escaped from Clarke’s lips. “This is a crime scene, not a playground, Nancy Drew. We don’t need you messin’ up our investigation.”
Nathan stood still, his eyes fixed on Clarke’s, his hands in his pockets. “Officer Clarke, always a displeasure,” he mumbled, his voice devoid of emotion but all business. “I am merely here to observe and assist where I can. Interfering’s never my intention.”
Aria clicked on her phone’s recording app in case Clarke said anything incriminating. Jerks like him loved to spout idiocy. Perfect research for the podcast, she thought.
Clarke sneered. “Assist? More like a hinder. Det. Monroe might trust you, but the rest of us know you’re just a rich kid with a magnifying glass. Oh, and how’s Williams doin’? Settling in at the gray-bar hotel fine?”
Nathan’s baton hugged his side and he ran his hand along it. He could fracture the cop’s knee or shatter his femur with a well-placed strike, but he didn’t want his liaison to be “disappointed” in him. It’d make it harder to get to cases and crime scenes. “A different perspective can solve the most intricate puzzles.” Like that white stain on the front of your pants. Another late night?”
He snatched something thin from Clarke’s shirt and drew it close to his face. “Brunette. Isn’t your wife blonde?” He sniffed quickly. “She also doesn’t wear Chanel no. 5.”
Straightening his shirt, Clarke let out a menacing growl and took a step forward, casting a threatening presence over Nathan and Aria. “Stay out of the way, Blackquill. And keep that girl of yours from taking any unauthorized photos.”
“Make a line! Make a line! Is the kid here yet?” The police shrunk and parted like the Red Sea as Detective Lisa Monroe boldly entered the chaotic scene. Clarke buttoned his lips once the detective shot him a glare.
Confidence and competence emanated from her as she stood tall and statuesque. She looked Blasian, with captivating, intelligent eyes, and her dark, wavy hair framed her face beautifully. She had a professional yet relaxed appearance, with a tailored navy blazer over a crisp white blouse, leaving the top button casually undone. Detective Monroe looked slim and elegant in her tailored charcoal pants, complemented by shiny black loafers. She perfected her ensemble with a shoulder bag that could hold a laptop.
Nathan remembered how he first met her, and her profile remained the same: athletic build, hair styled with precision, and eyes that missed nothing. He thought about asking her ethnicity—she looked to be mixed or just a lighter complexion than him, but he knew she was black—but she inferred it was rude to ask, for it had no bearing on their relationship. Her professional demeanor stressed her no-nonsense attitude and her knack for cutting through chaotic bull.
Despite facing criticism for her unwavering belief in a teenager connected to a convicted felon, she remained Nathan’s strongest supporter within the Ravenwood Police Department. Detective Monroe prioritized producing results rather than gaining popularity.
“Clarke, let them through,” the detective ordered. “You know the drill. Don’t know why you keep doin’ this. Do I need to add you in my report again?”
“No, ma’am.” Clarke grumbled but stepped aside, his glare following Nathan and Aria as they entered the mansion.
They entered the grand foyer, his turquoise scarf trailing behind him. His glasses glinted under the dim lighting, and his calm, peering gaze absorbed every detail. Behind him, Aria snapped photos with a practiced hand—with a swift, practiced motion. She lifted it to her eye when they stepped into a cop’s collective blind spot, capturing the room’s stark details. The camera’s silent shutter clicked, preserving the nuances of the scene in high resolution.
The camera was Aria’s trusted ally, capable of snapping photos in the dimmest of light. Aria informed Nathan, who was nearby, in a hushed tone, “The report shows he was found in his study.”
Nathan nodded, his mind already at work. They moved through the mansion, a labyrinth of opulence and history. The study itself was a room of dark wood and heavy curtains, an air of old money and authority lingering in every corner. Edgar Sterling lay slumped over his mahogany desk, a single gunshot wound to the chest. Blood pooled on the polished surface, stark against the rich wood.
Nathan circled the body, his eyes sharped and focused. Aria positioned herself to get the best angles, her camera clicking softly. They were alone in the room—Det. Monroe kept them out of the study. With a sigh, Nathan’s methodical nature made its grand appearance.
“GS wound is clean. Single entry, no exit,” he observed, leaning in closer. “Gunpowder residue around the wound suggests a close-range shot.”
Aria took notes on her phone, an iPhone 13 Pro Max, and nodded. “But no weapon found, right?”
“Yep, precisely.” Nathan moved to the desk, examining the scattered papers. “No weapon makes me curious. The suspect’s trying to mislead.”
He picked up a letter opener with his fingertips and tested its weight. “This letter opener—decorative, not practical. It’s blunt. No sign of a struggle here, either, but…” He moved to the bookshelves, running his finger along the spines. “I noticed this when we came in the room.” He gently pressed his finger against a red book. “There’s a volume out of place. These books are from an encyclopedia, volumes one through thirteen, but right here, this book, the supposed thirteenth volume is slightly smaller than the others. You wouldn’t notice it unless you look closely at it. Someone just glancing wouldn’t catch it.”
“It always weirds me out how you do that—you barely touch something, but you get a feel for it instantly, like you got psychometry or somethin’,” Aria said, leaning in closer to snap a picture.
Nathan, with a dramatic tone, chuckled and said, “Who knows?”
“I wish I could’ve gone to Williamsburg at least once,” Aria whined. “Instead, I had to go to Nevada for middle school.” She looked at Nathan, who seemed to space out. “What are you seeing?”
Nathan pulled the book out and heard a click. Air escaped from a small space behind the encyclopedias, revealing a box-sized alcove built into the bookshelf. He cautiously felt around the contours of the space—he could reach inside, but he couldn’t see into it without removing each book (if that were possible). Luckily, there were no hidden traps, but he felt something as thin as a slip of paper.
Nathan pulled it out and motioned for Aria to see: a photograph of Edgar with a young woman, her face circled in red ink. “Interesting.” His phone buzzed in his pocket; he pulled it—a Google Pixel 6 Pro—out and the screen lit up with a message from Det. Monroe.
The message said, “Anything yet? Boys getting antsy out here.”
He clicked the microphone icon and sent a voice message: “Send in Marcus Sterling. I found something.”
Aria pondered, “Who do you think that woman is? I don’t remember any mention of a wife.”
“The departed’s wife’s been dead for decades. This photo looks like it was taken a year ago—it’s weathered by dust and oxygen.”