This month's book club meeting was held at Annette's house, with mine being next on the revolving list in a month. In between meetings, some or all of us met informally at a coffee shop or at the library to discuss our progress on the current book and also off-topic things. Along with Annette and me, the attendees were Stephanie Catchings, Kelli Rendell, Meryl Lamarr, and Josh Holden. There were two no-shows: Barbara Sinclair and Judith Eckersley. We were all within six years of each other in age, with two married, two widowed, two divorced, and two never married. Josh, forty, was recently divorced and in fact, had taken the place of his ex-wife in the book club when she moved out of state. Instead of being out of place, his love for books and laidback style made him a perfect candidate for the club.
Annette, whose husband Fred was at the shoe shop he owned, had made homemade oatmeal cookies to go with lemonade for her guests as the meeting began after some chitchat. We discussed a mystery novel written last year by a local author named Pierce O'Shea. Titled Death's Dungeon, it was about a devious killer who brought unsuspecting victims to his dungeon, before disposing of them in ghastly ways. O'Shea himself was Brent's former research assistant turned mystery writer. He had yet to measure up to Brent's success and superior writing technique, but showed promise and had generally received nice reviews for the three novels he had put out.
"I loved how the protagonist, Clifford Stratford, used his charm more than his looks to entice his victims into his house without a clue that they would never leave," Annette said.
"I think O'Shea left a number of clues for them to pick up on," Josh said. "At least I was able to spot them without much difficulty. I just think they chose not to look for them because they were so caught up in Clifford's charisma."
"That's my point," Annette argued. "Clifford's personality was so overwhelming that it kept his victims from really getting to know him and the evil that lurked within." She looked at me and said, "Feel free to weigh in any time, Riley."
I smiled and took her up on it. "Well, I found myself focusing not so much on how O'Shea or Stratford, I should say, lured his targets to their deaths, but rather the process by which he cleverly built his own life and then was overcome by a wicked nature to go after others."
"I thought it was interesting," Stephanie chimed in, "that Clifford somehow managed to be as sweet as could be in romancing Genevieve Donnelly, without giving a hint of his dark side, while sparing her the same fate as the others. He must have truly loved her."
Kelli chuckled sarcastically. "I'd hardly call it love when you manage to steal someone's heart and rip it out afterwards, figuratively speaking."
"I honestly thought the authorities would never figure it out," Meryl said. "They seemed almost as baffled as the ones who were taken by Clifford Stratford, until the police finally put the pieces together."
"Isn't that what makes the mystery," I suggested, "to keep everyone, including the characters, in the dark until as close to the end as possible?"
Meryl frowned. "I guess, but I thought the book was boring for the most part. Maybe the author could take a lesson or two from someone who is truly a master of the genre like Brent London."
"I think he already has," Annette said. "After all, Brent was his mentor."
"Clearly O'Shea has a ways to go to measure up to London," Josh said. "I'm sure he'll get better over time."
Everyone seemed pretty much in agreement with that belief, with the possible exception of Meryl, who seemed unsold on the notion. As someone who had read all of Brent's novels, with the exception of the first, which had apparently gone out of print before he found success and incredibly had remained that way, it was certainly easy to distinguish the pupil from the student. This notwithstanding, I believed that Pierce O'Shea had a lot of potential as a novelist and I suspected that bigger things were coming his way.
Before the meeting was adjourned, we agreed that our next book club selection would be the gothic novel Rebecca, by British author Daphne du Maurier. Though I had read several of her other novels, somehow I hadn't gotten around to arguably her most popular one. As such, I welcomed the opportunity to read and discuss it with the club members.
* * *
After my morning run and breakfast the following day, I paid a visit to my favorite flower shop, The Blossoming Florist, owned by my good friend Peggy Lawrence. Like me, Peggy, who was the same age, had never been married. However, she was engaged to a charming man. According to her, it was one of those long engagements that would give them plenty of time to make sure this was what they both wanted.
I didn't have to look far for Peggy, as I found her in an aisle arranging some potted plants.
"Well look who the wind blew in," she said with a smile, gazing up at me through her glasses.
"Actually, it is a bit gusty out there this morning," I had to admit.
Peggy was petite with dark short hair. "If you'd like to work for me, I can always use the help, even with two part-timers already on the payroll."
I grinned. "Thanks, but no thanks," I told her politely. "I prefer my green thumb in the comfort of my own home."
She sighed. "I figured as much." She wiped her hands almost self-consciously on her stained apron. "So are you shopping or did you just drop by to say hello?"
"Both. Hello and I'm looking to add a couple of nice houseplants to my collection. What do you suggest?"
"I think I have the perfect plants for you," she said. "Follow me."
I did and we ended up in front of some tropical bromeliads and other colorful blooming plants.
"These plants would certainly be great additions for your house," Peggy said.
I agreed, and I also liked the containers, which were perfectly suited for them.
But Peggy wasn't content to leave it at that. "I can also show you some lovely orchids and hanging amaranthus."
Tempted as I was, but knowing I could only keep a handle on so many plants, I told her, "Thanks, but I'd better quit while I'm ahead."
She smiled. "Got it. But I'll let you know when something new comes in that I think you might like."
"Please do," I said nicely. As she rang up my purchases, I asked casually, "How's Harold?" He was her fiancé.
"He's great—thanks for asking."
"I've got to have you both over for dinner soon."
"We'd like that. Harold's always telling me that we should hang out with my friends more. I usually respond by saying we should hang out with his a little less. Not that I think they're too stuffy. Or maybe they are."
I chuckled. "You know what they say—you marry a person and inherit their family and friends, for better or worse."
"So true," she said. "Guess I'll learn to get used to his friends."
"And vice versa," I told her, taking back my credit card. "I'll call you next week and we'll set up a dinner date."
"Sounds good."
Now that I had committed to it, I had to double check my schedule and make sure I hadn't overcommitted.
* * *
I had just returned home and set my new plants down on the counter when my cell phone rang. Grabbing it from my back pocket, I saw that the caller was Brent London. He was asking for a video chat.
Feeling I was presentable enough, I clicked it on.
"Hey you," he said, sporting a half grin on a face that was still handsome, if not a bit more seasoned now that he was pushing sixty. He still had a full head of rich, gray hair and gray-blue eyes.
"Hey back," I said, thinking that it must have been mental telepathy that he should call, since he had been on my mind lately.
"Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time," he said.
"You didn't." I figured that working on my plants could wait.
"Do you have any dinner plans?" he asked.
"No."
"Good. There's a nice place called Cheri's on Hagadorn Avenue. It will be my treat."
"Yes, I've been to Cheri's a few times," I said. "They have great food."
"I think so too. So are
we on?"
"Yes, I'd be happy to have dinner with you, Brent. We can catch up."
He nodded. "I'd like that. What time should I pick you up?"
I pondered his request. Though I felt quite comfortable with him, knowing Brent as I did, I didn't want to give him the wrong impression with the dinner date by making it seem more personal than it was. Especially since, the last I knew, he had a lovely young girlfriend, whom I couldn't possibly compete with. Not that I wanted to. As far as I was concerned, anything romantic between us was ancient history. Fortunately, we were still able to stay friends.
"Actually, why don't I meet you there," I told him. "I have a few errands to run in the area first. How about we have dinner at say, six?"
He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Six works for me. See you then."
"Goodbye, Brent."
When I disconnected, I couldn't help but wonder if he wanted to have dinner for some reason in particular. Or was it simply to get together for a friendly chat between former lovers?
I would find out soon enough. It also occurred to me that this might be a great time to offer my two cents about him accepting a teaching position at Elk Community College, assuming the offer was still on the table.
* * *
I dropped some things off at the post office just before five, and then stopped by a department store to buy a new tablecloth, which I planned to use when Peggy and her fiancé came to dinner next week. After that, I headed over to the restaurant to meet Brent. Though our friendship had remained steady over the years, I was happy that we had ended the romance when we had. For one, he had a terrible track record when it came to successful relationships, with four ex-wives and more than his fair share of girlfriends during and after, including his current one. His first ex, Sheryl, had literally dropped dead of a heart attack two months after the divorce and well before I came into the picture.
Wife number two, Deidre, had lasted for a year before she filed for divorce, according to Brent, citing irreconcilable differences. One month after their divorce was finalized, she married a local farmer named Mitt Carter.
Brent's third wife, Ashley, came into the picture after I bowed out as his possible bride. In fact, I had known Ashley indirectly. We both had the same hairdresser and actually ran into each other there once—whereby she happily announced her engagement to Brent. After he verified this to me, second thoughts crept up about the one I'd let get away. Those regrets ended quickly enough when I realized that we weren't right for each other, no matter how many women came after me.
I wished him well and actually attended their wedding.
The marriage lasted three years before Brent set his sights on the woman who would become wife number four, Margo London. In the meantime, Ashley would move on too, eventually marrying a newspaper editor named Dean McGowan.
Margo, also a novelist, though hers were romance novels, seemed like a good match for Brent. She was also the closest to his age and appeared unfazed by his previous failed marriages.
Brent gave every indication that Margo was the true love of his life, displaying public affection whenever I happened to come along for the ride at some event. I was genuinely happy for them and not at all jealous, as I was content with my own life and career.
Then last year, things grew sour in their marriage with Brent accusing Margo of cheating on him, which she apparently conceded was true, while making no apologies. After a brief separation, then an attempt to reconcile, they called it quits for good.
Brent appeared to have come to terms with the breakup and divorce, pouring himself into his writings, before starting to date his latest girlfriend, Karla Terrell, a local model who seemed to have little in common with him. Not that this had stopped Brent before, so who was I to say it wouldn't work?
I pulled into an open slot in the restaurant parking lot, while again wondering about the purpose of the dinner invitation.
Could it be that he was planning to go down the aisle for the fifth time and wanted to share the news with a dear old friend?
If so, I promised to support whatever decision he had made on his future, just as he usually respected my choices in how I lived my life.
CHAPTER THREE
Brent was waiting inside the lobby when I stepped into the restaurant. He was several inches taller than me and several pounds heavier than when we first met. But he remained well put together, dressed in a black sport coat, light blue shirt, and dark slacks.
"Riley," he said in a deep voice, giving me a formal peck on the cheek. "Glad you could make it."
I smiled. "You know me—I never pass up a good meal, especially when it's free."
He grinned. "And I'm never one to pass up good company."
I blushed. "Always a charmer."
"I'm afraid not everyone appreciates old fashioned charm the way you do, Riley," he said.
I met his eyes. "I'm sure your girlfriend does."
He frowned. "We broke up last month."
"Oh, sorry to hear that," I said, wondering how many times over the years I'd had to repeat those same words to him.
"Don't be. It was mutually agreeable. Well, truthfully, I wanted out more than she did, but Karla understood that the romance had run its course."
"In that case, perhaps it was for the best," I muttered, but still felt sorry for him, as he deserved to find someone who could make him happy for the long run. Or was that asking too much?
"Yes, I think it was for the best," he said. Brent held my elbow like a true gentleman as the hostess led us to a table.
We both ordered wine while studying the menu. "Any suggestions?" I asked.
"Try the honey glazed duck breast," Brent said. "It's really good. I think I'll have the teriyaki marinated sirloin."
I took him up on that when the waitress came to take our orders, adding spinach-mushroom salad and dinner rolls.
When the waitress left, Brent asked, "So how have you been?"
"Fine. Busy as ever, and I imagine you could say the same."
"Maybe not quite busy as ever," he said, "but busy nevertheless."
I tasted the wine thoughtfully while wondering what was on his mind in inviting me to dinner. As I waited for him to be forthcoming, I decided to say what was on my mind.
"I ran into Emily at Elk Community College the other day."
"Oh? Are you taking classes there too?"
"Just one," I told him. "An art class."
"That seems to suit you, with your artistic flair," he said.
"I suppose it does." I smiled slightly. "Emily told me that the school asked you to teach a course on writing."
"Yes, they thought I might have something useful to offer students interested in writing fiction as a career."
I waited for him to say more, but he didn't. So I said, "I think that's a marvelous idea."
"You do?"
"Yes. With your success as a novelist and your understanding of the creative process, I'm sure you would have a lot to offer."
Brent tasted his wine, frowning. "Maybe at one point in my life, but not now."
I wanted to leave it at that—recalling that Emily had told me his reason for declining the invitation was that he didn't have time—but decided to do some more probing. "May I ask why? I know you probably get such offers all the time and have to be selective, but—"
"I have Alzheimer's disease," Brent muttered quietly.
My eyes popped wide in disbelief. "What?"
"Yeah, that was my reaction too," he said.
"But you're only in your mid-fifties."
"It's still in the early stages," he said, "and obviously it's early onset. I've started forgetting little things, which my housekeeper Luisa has noticed, but hasn't figured out yet. And I've even forgotten some bigger things, though I still clearly remember other things. But this isn't something I can run away from."
"Oh, Brent," I said emotionally, as if he were dying, which in some ways he was. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," h
e said. "I have a pretty good life and hopefully I'll have enough time left to do some good. Unfortunately, trying to focus on teaching a class isn't in the cards, even if I could perhaps bluff my way through it. But I will continue to write for as long as I can process my plots, characters, and promote what I've written adequately."
The waitress brought our food and refilled the wine glasses.
I sliced into my honey glazed duck breast while pondering Brent's devastating news. In doing volunteer work at the Senior Center, I knew some senior citizens with Alzheimer's disease and it broke my heart to see such minds going to waste with nothing that could be done to reverse it. To see a friend, much too young, have such an affliction was sad, though he seemed to be taking it well, considering.
"Have you told Emily?" I asked.
Brent sighed, while cutting into his steak. "I've wanted to, but I'm just not sure she's stable enough to be able to handle it."
I met his eyes. "Are you saying she's had a relapse?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "She hasn't exactly been herself lately, but then I haven't been either, so maybe I'm just projecting that on her."
"But you'd rather not burden her with your situation until you're sure?"
"You've got it."
I ate some salad and thought about Emily's exchange at the college with her friend Tony. Could they have been arguing over money for drugs? Or, as my mother used to say, was I making a mountain out of a molehill?
"Is something on your mind, Riley?" Brent asked.
"I was just wondering if you know Emily's friend, Tony. I met him when I ran into her at the college."
Brent studied the question. "Yeah, I've met him. They've had an on-again, off-again relationship. Last I knew, it was off. Maybe now it's on again." He shrugged. "She could do better, but the more I talk about it, the less she seems to listen."
"What is it you don't like about Tony?" I asked curiously.
"I just think he's a bad influence on her."
"You mean like supplying drugs?"
"Maybe, though I have no proof." Brent took a sip of water. "Maybe you could talk to her...see where her mind is."
I lifted a brow. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I said honestly.
Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Page 2