Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery)

by R. Barri Flowers

  "I admire your detective work, Ms. Reed, but you really should leave the investigating to the police. This is, after all, what we get paid for."

  "I understand that," I told him, "but you seem determined to ignore the evidence and instead have only focused on two people who may well be innocent."

  "I beg to differ." He frowned and his brows touched. "All Tony Sullivan needed was a minute or two to bash London's skull in, with or without acting in accordance with Ms. Peterson."

  My meeting with Whitmore hadn't exactly gone according to plan, but I remained optimistic that he would keep an open mind, even if the case had already been turned over to the D.A.'s office.

  "I don't disagree with you, Detective," I made clear. "But it also opens up the possibility that someone else could have come in who had far more time to murder Brent and leave before Tony ever arrived at the house, and me shortly thereafter."

  "Do you have someone in mind?" Whitmore asked skeptically.

  "Actually, I do have some potential suspects who may or may not have fallen under your radar."

  He leaned back in his chair. "I'm listening..."

  I started with Karla Terrell, explaining her neurotic behavior concerning Brent. "I actually caught her stealing things from his house that she claimed were hers—after she had let herself in with a key she conveniently never returned to Brent."

  "None of this proves she killed him," the detective said.

  "But it gives her motive and a means of entry," I stated, "which is, at the very least, something to go on when investigating her. The same is true for William Hendrickson, a financial advisor who Brent fired for mismanaging his money. Now apparently Mr. Hendrickson has skipped town, which I find to be more than a little peculiar."

  "That is odd," Whitmore conceded. "But, again, nothing came up that indicates Hendrickson murdered Brent London."

  "But was he even considered a suspect?" I asked. "Or had you already honed in on Emily and Tony without looking any further?"

  He sighed. "I can assure you that we took this investigation very seriously, though admittedly Hendrickson was never interviewed."

  "Well, I hope it's not too late now, Detective," I said boldly. "It could make a difference. Then there's Ashley McGowan, Brent's third ex-wife. She had been secretly meeting with him and her husband Dean may have been aware of it and killed Brent because he thought they were having an affair."

  "Were they?"

  "I can't say," I told him, "though Ashley denied it. The point is Dean McGowan, an editor at the Cozy Pines Daily, could be the killer."

  "There were no other prints found on the murder weapon aside from Ms. Peterson's and Mr. Sullivan's," Whitmore pointed out.

  "A smart killer would have used gloves," I countered. "Was there any DNA that didn't match with anyone?"

  "Yes," he admitted, "but given the circumstantial and other physical evidence..."

  "You may have given the true killer a pass," I said.

  Whitmore frowned. "Ms. Reed, with all due respect, playing Miss Marple is not the same thing as real detective work."

  I could hardly argue with him there, but tried to stand my ground anyhow. "I wouldn't presume to be a police detective, or a private investigator, Detective. But I was a good friend of Brent's and I don't want to see a rush to judgment in convicting his niece and her friend if there are major holes in the case against them and other viable suspects who need to be looked at more seriously."

  "Point taken, Ms. Reed. I can't make any promises, but we will check out this information you've brought to my attention—especially where it pertains to the alibi of Ms. Peterson—and go from there. If any reason surfaces that suggests we may have the wrong suspects in custody, it's never too late to rectify that."

  I smiled. "Thank you, Detective. That's all I could ask for."

  He stood. "I'll walk you out. I could use the fresh air."

  "So could I," I said, as it had gotten a bit stuffy in there.

  After Whitmore went back into the building, I gave Jonathan Resnick a call, filling him in on my conversations with both Detective Whitmore and Emily. I couldn't tell if he felt I was a hindrance or help to the case, but he took down the information and promised to do everything in his power to get Emily off the hook for Brent's death. I took the attorney at his word, though I still wanted to do my part to keep justice from going awry.

  That evening, I went to my photography class at the community college. I was happy for the distraction and hopeful that this nightmare would soon be over for Emily.

  When I got home, I made myself a salad to go with broiled salmon and wild rice, while watching television. No sooner had I finished eating when the doorbell rang.

  I got up and looked out the peephole before opening the door to my sister, Yvonne.

  "Hi," she said, "can I stay with you tonight? George and I just had a big fight."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After I made us some tea, I joined Yvonne on the sofa in the living room, still trying to wrap my mind around my sister leaving her husband, if only temporarily.

  "What was the fight about?" I asked. She had been strangely silent ever since I had invited her to stay for as long as she wanted.

  Yvonne rolled her eyes. "What do you think?"

  I frowned. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't bring up the issue of wanting a child again until he'd had a chance to get used to the idea."

  "So things changed," she said. "I was watching a program about the joys of childbirth and the unconditional love you get from a child and it just overwhelmed me. I had to tell George how I felt and was hoping he would at least meet me halfway."

  "But he didn't?" I deduced.

  "No, just the opposite. He told me flat out that he doesn't think he'll ever want children and that I should get the thought out of my mind. So I told him I couldn't live like that, where he gets to call all the shots and I get no say in it unless I agree with him. I got out of there as fast as I could."

  "Oh, Yvonne..." I reached out to her, steadying her hand as she held the mug. She had brought no overnight clothes or anything else as a runaway wife, aside from her handbag. "Are you sure that running away is the right way to go about this?"

  "What do expect me to do—be a good little wife and pretend that my husband and I are on the same page?"

  I sighed. "Maybe you should have waited until cooler heads prevailed."

  "That's easy for you to say—as someone who doesn't have a pigheaded husband, or any love life for that matter."

  I felt like I'd been punched in the gut and she knew it, for Yvonne immediately sought to amend her statement. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take out my frustrations on you—especially after you graciously agreed to put me up for the night...or maybe longer—"

  Given her circumstances, I let it go, considering that she was right on some level. Having never been married or in a long term relationship, I probably wasn't in the best position to advise her. On the other hand, I did understand that for any marriage to be successful, both sides needed to be willing to compromise. I wondered if there was any middle ground for Yvonne and George.

  "Don't worry about it," I told her, sipping tea. "The important thing is you need to decide where you want to go from here."

  "I know," she muttered. "I'm not sure I can stay in this marriage any longer."

  I didn't like the sound of that. I didn't want to see her prematurely throw away everything she and George had going for them. "Maybe you and George should try counseling."

  "And what would that accomplish?" she snapped. "He seems to have made up his mind and no marriage counselor is going to be able to have him suddenly realize that he really does want to be a father."

  "Perhaps if George were to talk through some of the difficulties of his upbringing with a professional, it might give him and you a better perspective about his feelings and how you might bridge the gap."

  "There doesn't seem to be any middle ground here," Yvonne said. "He either wants to have a
child with me or he doesn't."

  "Have you considered adoption?" I asked. "Maybe George would be more agreeable to having a child who needs a home."

  "It's not the same as bringing our very own little one into this world."

  "I understand that," I told her. "I was only trying to facilitate some dialogue between you and your husband, rather than simply giving up without putting forth every effort."

  She wrinkled her nose. "Can we not talk about this right now? I just want to try to get through the night and see what happens tomorrow."

  "That sounds perfectly fine to me." I certainly didn't want to push her away or come across as having all the answers, when I was really outside of my element.

  "So what's the latest on Brent's murder and your belief that Emily had nothing to do with it?" she asked.

  Though I understood that she was just attempting to take her mind off her troubled marriage, I had no problem updating Yvonne with all of my findings thus far and where things stood in the investigation.

  "Wow, you've been busy playing detective," Yvonne said.

  "I wish I could say it was all fun and games, but I'm taking it very seriously with Emily's freedom on the line."

  "Yeah, I can see that," she said.

  I refilled our mugs with tea. "As for whether or not the police will follow through and consider other suspects, I can only wait and see."

  "Sounds like you've given them something to work with."

  "Yes, I have, not the least of which is that Emily could not have been in the house at the time of the murder," I said. "Moreover, she had no motive, to speak of, in wanting Brent dead, since he was worth more to her alive, in terms of his generosity and guidance, even if she didn't always want it. As for Tony, his window for killing Brent was quite limited, giving someone else ample time to have done the deed."

  Yvonne crossed her legs. "And you think it was one of these other people you mentioned?"

  "They all had possible motives and some of them apparently weren't considered suspects by the police," I told her. "But, of course, the killer could also be someone else who may have had reason to want Brent dead. I just hope the authorities reopen the investigation with a fresh set of eyes, in which case I believe Emily and Tony will be exonerated."

  "Whatever happens, I think you've done enough investigating, Riley. Let the police and district attorney handle it from here."

  "That's the problem," I responded. "They haven't done their job very well as far as I'm concerned. But I understand what you're saying and certainly have no interest in getting into harm's way."

  "Good, because I have enough things to worry about right now without you adding to it by running around trying to find a killer."

  "Well let's try not to worry about anything else tonight," I said, standing. "I'll make up the guest room and get you some towels."

  Yvonne got to her feet. "Thanks again for being here for me."

  I smiled. "I have nowhere else to be, little sister."

  * * *

  In the morning, I awoke to the doorbell ringing, having passed on my exercise as I felt drained. It was eight o'clock. I dragged myself out of bed and threw on a pair of well-worn jeans and a shirt.

  Peeking inside the guest room, I saw that Yvonne was still sound asleep.

  I headed downstairs barefoot and looked out the window, recognizing George's green Ford Expedition.

  I opened the door. George was about an inch taller than me, slender, with sandy hair and wore glasses.

  "Hey," he said.

  "Hi," I responded tonelessly.

  "I need to talk to Yvonne."

  "Maybe you should give her a little space, George."

  "Isn't that what you've given her?"

  My eyes narrowed. "I've given her a place to stay, if that's what you mean. Other than that, it's not up to me to decide if she's ready to talk to you."

  "It's okay," I heard Yvonne say over my shoulder.

  I turned and saw her standing there in my robe. Her hair was a little messy, but she was clearly alert.

  "Are you sure?" I asked, though I could tell by her expression that she wanted to speak with her husband.

  "Yes, we should talk."

  "I think that's a good idea," I admitted. "Come in, George."

  He nodded. "Thanks."

  "Make yourself at home." I looked at Yvonne. "I'm going to hop in the shower and get ready before I head over to the Senior Center."

  "We'll be fine," she told me.

  I left them alone, wondering which side would bend. Or would they come to an agreement that they could both live with?

  By the time I got back downstairs, they were gone. Yvonne had left a note on the kitchen counter telling me they had gone home to discuss things. She thanked me for letting her chill overnight and asked me to keep my fingers crossed.

  I wasn't quite sure what for. Did she expect George to do a one hundred and eighty degree turn from his current mindset? Or perhaps she was willing to accept something other than a child of her own that would still make her happy.

  Either way, I would continue to support my sister, even while wondering if marriage and family would ever be in the cards for me.

  * * *

  At the Senior Center, the manager, Julie Gable, called me into her office. The mid sixties widow had a grim look on her face.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "Do you remember Mrs. Stanwych?"

  "Yes, of course," I said. Geraldine Stanwych was ninety and a regular at the center since her husband died a decade ago.

  "I'm afraid she passed away this morning," Julie told me.

  A wave of remorse passed over me. "I'm so sorry to hear that." In fact, she had been ill of late and so the news wasn't particularly surprising, though sad, nonetheless.

  "We thought we'd all chip in to buy some flowers to send to her daughter."

  "Of course," I told her. "Count me in."

  She smiled. "I knew I could. We'll pick out a nice arrangement and I'll get back to you."

  I nodded. "That's fine."

  As I contemplated Mrs. Stanwych's death at an old age and then Brent's death, when he should have lived much longer, I went to the kitchen where Lynda Menounos, the coordinator, was nicer than usual.

  "Good morning, Riley."

  "Good morning."

  "Are we ready to get busy?"

  "Yes," I responded, "put me to work."

  She grinned. "You've got it."

  Once again, I was ready to help serve food to senior citizens. After preparing for the task, I made my way to the counter. Today's menu was French onion soup, bread, meatloaf, rice, gravy, green beans, and apple pie. I stood beside Rachel Schroeder. The last time I was here, she had recruited me to help her give away some of her cat's kittens.

  "Did you hear about poor Mrs. Stanwych?" Rachel asked.

  "Yes, Julie told me."

  "She was just in here two days ago and, in spite of her deteriorating health, she still managed to smile and talk nonstop."

  "She'll certainly be missed," I said sincerely.

  "Yeah, just like my dad," Rachel said somberly. "It's still hard to believe he's been gone for over a year now."

  It made me think of my own parents and how much I missed them. I couldn't help but muse about Brent too and the tragedy of his death. One could only hope that someone was held accountable for it other than Emily and Tony.

  I had been serving for around fifteen minutes when I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair waiting in line. Karla Terrell was pushing the wheelchair.

  She and I locked eyes as I placed food on the man's tray.

  "Looks like we can't stop running into each other," Karla quipped. "Don't look so surprised. You aren't the only one of Brent's exes who has a soft spot for the elderly. He's my next door neighbor."

  "Good for you," I told her, admittedly seeing a different side to Karla. I was glad to know she had made it home from the Smooth and Mellow lounge in one piece.

  "I don't know w
hat I'd do without her," said the elderly gentleman with thin white hair.

  "Now don't talk like that, Mr. Frazier," Karla told him. "I'm not going anywhere."

  Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes crinkled at the corners in appreciation as she wheeled him toward a table.

  "You two obviously know each other," Rachel remarked of Karla.

  "We dated the same man, though it was some time apart," I told her.

  "Hmm... Is there a story there?"

  Yes, and Karla's a suspect in Brent's death, I thought, but replied, "Not really. We're both just trying to do what we can to help others."

  "Aren't we all," Rachel said, as she put some meatloaf on a plate.

  "Some more than others," I commented, knowing that many more volunteers were needed to serve the elderly, young, and sick in the community and elsewhere.

  * * *

  That afternoon, I worked in my yard, raking leaves and tending to some plants.

  Later, I worked on my blog, providing tips to readers for a simple bedroom makeover, suggesting the use of neutral colors for the walls or textured wallpaper, to go with mix and match bedding and a rearrangement of the furnishings for a contemporary look. I also suggested a bouquet of light pink, yellow, and purple tulips would help spice up the room with a nice blend of coloring.

  After dinner, I read a few chapters of one of Brent's novels, which reminded me just how talented he was, before I headed off to bed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On Saturday our book club met informally at the Cozy Pines Bookshop in the Suntime Mall, about an hour ahead of Pierce's reading and signing, taking front row seats. The only no-show was Meryl, but she texted me and asked that I pick up a book for her anyway for the next formal club meeting.

  "This is so exciting," declared Barbara Sinclair. "I can't wait to see Pierce O'Shea and get my very own autographed copy of his latest novel."