"May I take this?" I asked her, to be sure.
"It's okay with me," Luisa said. "After all, Mr. London won't need it anymore."
Sadly, that was all too true.
Luisa went back inside the house and I headed toward my car. Before I got to it, I happened to spot Brent's neighbor, Mrs. Potter, who had told the police she heard Emily and Brent arguing the day of his death. She was watering some plants on her porch.
I decided to have a little chat with her, to see if there was anything else she had seen or heard that day.
Walking down two houses, I came to the two-story brick Colonial home, admiring its symmetrical frontage with pillars. It had a gable roof and windows with black shutters. I could only imagine the interior with its traditional architecture, midpoint entry hall, and elegant woodwork.
I approached the porch down a pathway bordered by lavender, red, and green Caladiums.
"Mrs. Potter," I said, getting her attention, as she seemed to be preoccupied tending to her plants rather than studying her neighbors.
She turned to me, and put her watering can down. "Yes...?"
"My name is Riley Reed. I knew Brent London...he was a dear friend of mine."
She nodded. "Yes, he mentioned you. Brent told me he was consulting with you about remodeling his man cave." She chuckled. "That was how he referred to his recreation room."
I cocked a brow in surprise that Brent would have told her about the project. "That's right."
"Brent and I weren't very close as neighbors go, but I enjoyed talking to him from time to time about our homes and, of course, his writing. He'll be missed."
"Yes, he will," I concurred, pausing. "I was wondering if we could have a word regarding the argument you heard between Brent and his niece, Emily, the day he died," I said. "The police discussed it with me during the course of their investigation."
"Okay," she said guardedly. "Would you like to sit down?"
I took her up on the offer, and we both sat in matching chairs on the porch.
"What a tragedy that Brent welcomed her into his home, only to have her do this to him," Mrs. Potter remarked, shaking her head. "Given the heated discussion they had, I should have known nothing good would come out of it."
"Do you have any children?" I asked her.
"Yes, a daughter. She's in college now."
"That's nice. Would you agree that parents and children can sometimes disagree on things, causing them to lash out at each other?"
Mrs. Potter studied the question. "Yes, of course."
"Well, Brent was the closest thing Emily had to a parent and, since they were both headstrong, they didn't always see eye to eye on the direction of Emily's life. I think that's why they were arguing that day. However, I don't feel for one second that Emily murdered her uncle."
Mrs. Potter rubbed her hand. "Well, apparently the police believe otherwise, since she's been charged with the crime, along with that young man she was seeing."
"As I understand it, Emily and Tony were just friends and not in a relationship," I said. "Apart from that, the police case is largely based on circumstantial evidence. I think they have focused their efforts in the wrong direction."
"I couldn't say one way or the other," she offered. "I just told the police what I heard."
"That was kind of you," I told her in a friendly tone. "Did you happen to hear or see anything else unusual that day—or even during the last few days of Brent's life?"
Mrs. Potter leaned back in the chair ruminating. "Nothing stands out that day. But I think the day before there was some shouting back and forth between Brent and another man. I never saw his face and couldn't make out what they were saying as I walked by the house, but I know it had something to do with money—perhaps mismanagement of it, but I can't be sure."
I immediately thought of William Hendrickson, Brent's financial advisor. Could they have been arguing about money being mismanaged? Could it have resulted in murder?
After learning that Mrs. Potter had no further information that the police might be interested in, I thanked her for her time, walked to my car, and headed home.
It seemed to me that there were at least two other people the authorities could investigate concerning Brent's death: William Hendrickson and Brent's third ex-wife, Ashley McGowan. Admittedly, I had nothing to go on with Ashley, aside from the fact that she visited her ex-husband as a married woman, which didn't make her a killer. But since the police and prosecutor were clearly honed in on Emily and Tony as the ones responsible for Brent's death, I doubted that they were prepared to listen to a home décor expert about any suggestions to the contrary.
Unless, of course, I had something more to go on than gut feelings and amateur sleuthing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That afternoon, the plumber came over to work on a clog in my kitchen sink while I busied myself finding the perfect spot on my bookshelf for my collection of first edition Brent London books. After the plumber had successfully cleared the drain, I cleaned the kitchen, relieved that it had been a quick fix.
While rearranging my bookshelf, I discovered a couple of overdue books on home decoration. I headed to the Elk Community College library to return them, hoping I might be lucky enough to locate the librarian Emily said she had spoken with.
Inside, I went to the front desk and handed over the books, paying my fine while promising myself I would be more mindful of the due date the next time I checked out books.
The young librarian smiled at me and was about to step away from the desk when I said to her, "Perhaps you could help me out. I'm looking for a librarian who helped me recently, but I didn't catch her name. She's in her sixties, white-haired, and has a limp."
"Yeah, her name is Phyllis Bledsoe. You'll find her at the desk on the third floor or thereabouts."
"Thank you very much," I told her and headed for the stairwell.
I was stopped in my tracks when I heard my name called. I swiveled to my left and saw Pierce O'Shea.
"I thought that was you," he said with a smile.
"I'm afraid so," I muttered wryly.
He shook his head. "I must confess that I never would have guessed in a million years that Emily of all people would engineer Brent's death."
"Same here," I told him. "In fact, I'm not so sure she was responsible for it."
"Wish I could say the same—if only because I'd hate to think that Brent's niece would murder him for cold hard cash. But, after talking with my detective friends on the force, they seem like they have a pretty strong case against her and Tony Sullivan."
I wanted to counter that with my views to the contrary, but did not have enough evidence to back them up. Instead, I tried another angle. "What do you know, if anything, about Brent's dealings with William Hendrickson, a financial advisor?"
He shrugged. "Not much really. I know Brent wasn't satisfied with his work and cut him loose."
"Really? How did Hendrickson react to that?"
"According to Brent, he wasn't happy about it and was trying to find a way to worm his way back in." Pierce looked at me curiously. "Why do you ask?"
I told him about Mrs. Potter overhearing Brent presumably arguing with Hendrickson the day before Brent was murdered. "Maybe Hendrickson was so resentful that he resorted to murder to settle the score," I suggested.
"Sounds like a great plot for a novel, Riley," Pierce said with amusement. "I might even borrow it myself. But I wouldn't put too much stock in what a nosey neighbor heard while eavesdropping, even if it's true—especially when stacked up against the evidence that points directly at Emily and Tony."
I wasn't really surprised that he would dismiss this possibility, given his apparent bias toward the police department's findings. I saw no reason to go into my further beliefs about Emily and Tony's innocence at this point.
"Maybe you're right," I told him, while thinking: Or maybe you've got it dead wrong.
Pierce slid his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. "So are you here
returning books or checking them out?"
"Returning," I responded, neglecting to mention my other mission of trying to verify Emily's alibi. "How about you?"
"Neither. I'm actually here to do a workshop on writing mysteries. I try to do a few workshops every year—it's something I started doing while I was working for Brent."
"How nice." I recalled when Brent used to do the same thing, having accompanied him one time when we were together. The turnout was great and would-be writers seemed truly inspired. I wondered if Pierce was able to bring out that passion in them as well. "I won't hold you up," I told him.
"By the way," he said, "I'll be doing a book reading and signing at one o'clock next Saturday afternoon at the Cozy Pines Bookshop to celebrate the release of my new mystery novel, Before He Strikes Again. I'd like to invite you and your book club to attend. I know it's short notice, but it would be good to meet some fans and autograph copies of the book that you plan to grill me about at your next meeting."
I couldn't imagine anyone from the book club not wanting to attend the signing, if they had no other pertinent plans. As such, I responded, "We'd love to come."
He flashed his teeth. "Wonderful. I'll see you there."
I watched briefly as he headed off, while wondering if he might actually be able to fill Brent's shoes one day. Or would he have to spend his entire career playing catch up?
On the third floor, I noticed the desk was unoccupied. I began walking down aisles with books until I spotted Phyllis putting books that were on a cart back on the shelves.
She stopped when it became clear that I was in need of assistance. "Can I help you?"
"I hope so," I told her and brought her back to the evening of Brent's death. "Do you remember finding a cell phone that was left on a table by a student named Emily Peterson?"
"Yes, I do." She paused. "She's the girl charged with killing her uncle."
I acknowledged as much and said, "I'm a friend of Emily's. The fact that you found the cell phone proves that Emily was at the library that evening, contrary to the belief of the police."
"Yes, I can verify that," Phyllis said, "especially since I saw her sitting at the table studying. Indeed, just after she left I noticed the cell phone on the table and tried to catch up to her, but she had gone before I could locate her. So I kept the cell phone at the desk, figuring she would come back for it sooner or later—which she did."
"Do you happen to remember what time it was when you saw her studying?" I asked.
"I would say it was sometime between five and seven, before I went on break."
Since this encompassed the estimated time frame of Brent's death, it proved conclusively that Emily could not have been at the house when he was murdered. Though it didn't prove she had not planned the crime, it backed up Emily's alibi that could no longer be ignored by the authorities.
I let Phyllis get back to work. Feeling inspired, I left the library and drove to The Train Stop, hoping to verify as well Tony's whereabouts around the time of Brent's death. It was on the other side of town, and much of the area was older and consisted of working class residents.
I parked and went inside the club. There were only a few patrons scattered about and blues music was playing softly in the background.
At the bar, I saw a husky, bald bartender stacking glasses. He gazed at me.
"Are you Elliot Quail?" I asked.
"Yeah, that's me. Who's asking?"
"My name's Riley Reed," I said, and explained to him that I was an acquaintance of Tony Sullivan and Emily Peterson.
"Heard they're in hot water," Elliot muttered.
"Doesn't get much hotter," I said. "But Tony and Emily claim they're innocent."
Elliot scratched his pate. "I believe it. The Tony I know would never kill anyone."
"I don't know him very well, but I do know Emily, and she loved her uncle. Conspiring to kill him for any reason seems highly unlikely, which brings me to why I'm here. I visited Tony in jail and he told me you saw him that night here in the club."
"Yeah, he was here—just like I told the police detectives. We had a drink together and then he left."
"Do you remember what time that was?"
"Sure, it was around six-thirty, just before the next shift started."
I left The Train Stop at approximately the same time Tony had on the evening in question. Driving back to Brent's place at slightly more than the speed limit in normal traffic took me about twenty-three minutes—which put me there at seven minutes to seven. Since I had arrived at Brent's house at precisely seven o'clock the day of his murder, that would have given Tony about seven minutes to kill Brent, considering I had seen his car whizz past me at the same time I arrived.
Though the deed could certainly be accomplished within that time frame by a person intent on committing murder, according to the medical examiner's report, the estimated time of death was between six and seven p.m., meaning that another person would have had ample time to kill Brent before Tony or I even got to Brent's house.
I pondered this as I drove home, hungry for supper. But I was just as eager to disprove the district attorney's case against Emily and Tony, almost feeling as if I needed to do this for Brent's peace of mind in the world after death.
* * *
The following morning, I completed my daily run, before having breakfast and phoning all the members of the book club about Pierce's book signing. They all voiced enthusiasm, except Meryl.
"Thanks, but honestly, if the new book is anything like the last one, I think I'll pass. I know you invited him to our next meeting and I'm good with that, since it's on our turf and he won't be surrounded by adoring fans who hang on his every word."
I chuckled. "Why don't you tell me how you really feel, Meryl," I joked.
"Seriously, you can tell me all about it," she said. "Besides, my husband and I are planning to take our boat out that day, so..."
"Have fun boating," I told her and meant it. "I'll speak to you soon."
By contrast, Judith Eckersley, who had missed our last meeting, was practically giddy about attending the book signing. "I wouldn't miss it," she uttered. "I love attending book readings and collecting autographed books."
"In that case, you'll get the best of both worlds, Judith."
She laughed. "That I will."
We talked briefly about her college age daughter who was engaged to be married on New Year's Day, as well as a trip Judith was planning this fall to Sweden.
In the afternoon, I drove to the address listed on William Hendrickson's business card. It was at a strip mall not far from downtown Cozy Pines.
I attempted to go inside, but the door was locked. Peering through the window, I could see that it was empty.
"If you're looking for Bill, you won't find him," a voice said.
I turned to my left and saw a thirty something woman standing there.
"Actually, I was hoping to speak to Mr. Hendrickson," I told her.
"I'm Diane Weaver. I own the nail salon next door. I'm afraid Bill Hendrickson has vacated the premises."
I raised a brow. "When was that?"
"A couple of days ago," she said. "Seemed like he was in a big hurry, too. Just packed up and left without even saying goodbye."
I wondered why. Had he fled because he was a killer, running from justice before it zeroed in on him?
"So you have no idea where he could have gone?"
She shook her head. "Nope. Like I said, he left without saying a word. If you ask me, he was running scared for some reason."
"Any idea why?"
"Well, the nature of his business—a financial advisor," she said. "I heard there were some complaints about his business practices. Maybe it finally caught up to him."
I made a mental note as William Hendrickson suddenly struck me as a serious suspect in Brent's murder. If he had left town, that would only bolster the possibility, all things considered.
"Are you a client of Bill's?" Diane asked curiously.
"I'm a friend of a former client," I told her, not expounding upon it.
"Well, sorry you wasted a trip."
"In fact, it was quite enlightening," I said, though wishing I had been able to talk to him.
She handed me her card. "Hey, if you ever need a manicure or pedicure, feel free to drop by."
I glanced at the card and smiled at her. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."
After getting back on the road, I drove over to Ashley McGowan's home. I had been there once as a consultant when she first married Dean McGowan and wanted advice on a Great Room makeover. I was curious to know why Ashley had visited Brent recently.
The white Victorian sat on the corner of a tree lined street. There was a dark sedan parked in the driveway. I parked behind it and walked past it, going up to the front door.
I rang the bell and the door was opened by Dean McGowan. He was in his fifties, tall, and solidly built, with gray hair.
"Riley Reed," he said. "What a surprise."
"Hello Dean."
"What brings you our way?"
"I came to see Ashley."
"She's not here. Went to get her hair done. You know Ashley, never a hair out of place."
I chuckled. "I think most women feel that way."
He smiled. "Yeah, maybe you're right. So that was some funeral for Brent London. The man had a lot of love in Cozy Pines."
"Yes, he did."
"I'm glad they found the killers," he said. "And I hope they put them away for a long time."
"I'm not sure they have the right perpetrators," I told him.
He cocked a thick brow. "Oh...?"
"Or maybe they do," I offered, not wanting to say anything I shouldn't. "I'm just saying sometimes the police and prosecutors miss the mark."
"Yeah, I guess. But something tells me they were right on the money in this instance."
I arched a brow. "Do you have inside information as an editor? Or is that your own intuition?"
He chuckled. "Just common sense, combined with the facts, as have been reported."
"I see," I responded thoughtfully, while finding it somewhat odd that as an editor he wasn't keeping an open mind that those in custody might be innocent, till proven otherwise in a court of law.
Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Page 12
