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

by R. Barri Flowers

  "I'm sure Brent made provisions for all of that," I told her confidently. This seemed especially true to me in light of his diagnosis. Knowing him, he would have wanted to update his will, insurance, and the like, while he was able to do it of relatively sound mind. "We have the same attorney," I said. "I'll contact her and get the specifics."

  "Okay." Emily swirled her spoon in the oatmeal. "I just can't believe he was here yesterday and now...he's gone."

  "I know," I admitted, sipping coffee. "Unfortunately, that's how it goes, painful as it is."

  We were interrupted when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it off the table, glanced at the caller, and answered.

  "Hello." She paused and looked at me. "Detective Whitmore, how can I help you?"

  Emily listened to him and I watched curiously as her expression changed.

  "Right now?" she asked him, pausing again. "Uh, I understand. Okay. Goodbye."

  "What is it?"

  "He wants me to come to the house to answer a few more questions."

  "What other questions could he have?" I asked, wondering if she was a suspect.

  "He said they need me to help figure out if anything is missing from the house. Just routine stuff."

  I agreed, but wanted to talk to Detective Whitmore myself about the case and where things stood at the moment. "Do you mind if I go with you?"

  "Of course not," Emily said, tasting her coffee. "I think I could use a friend right now."

  I appreciated that, considering we weren't really friends. But I understood that she was operating under duress. "Thanks. I could use one too," I told her, though I had what seemed like more than my fair share of friends.

  Right now, getting through this ordeal of losing a dear friend was the most important thing. And that included befriending his only living relative for as long as she needed me to.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nearing Brent's house, Emily drove past a neighbor who seemed to stare us down. Or perhaps that was only my imagination. I recognized her from previous visits, but we had never met formally. She was around my age and slightly heavier with short brunette hair. Though Brent was friendly enough to his neighbors, he had always valued his privacy, especially when at home.

  As though reading my mind, Emily said, "Miss Nosey Posey aka Mrs. Potter. She lives a couple of doors down and is always getting into other people's business."

  I smiled. "I think we all have neighbors like that." Annette came to mind. "They're usually pretty harmless for the most part," I said.

  "Whatever," Emily muttered distractedly as we arrived at Brent's house.

  There were several other vehicles present, including police cruisers. It was obviously still an active crime scene, making the idea of returning to it that much more unsettling.

  Emily was of the same mind. "It's kind of weird going back in there with Uncle Brent gone."

  "I know," I told her. "We don't have to stay long. I'm sure the detective won't have too many follow-up questions for you."

  At least I hoped not, though I was fully aware that the state of the investigation often dictated where it was headed.

  We left the car and were escorted inside by an officer.

  I saw Detective Whitmore talking to Luisa, the housekeeper, in the Great Room. They stopped talking when they spotted us.

  Luisa was in her mid-forties, petite, and had black hair that hung down to her shoulders. She ran toward Emily and said with an accent, "I'm so sorry about Mr. London."

  "I know you are," Emily said. "I can't believe he's dead—"

  Luisa gave her a hug. "You'll get through this. Mr. London would have wanted that."

  Emily dabbed her eyes. "Easier said than done."

  "Hello, Luisa," I said.

  "Ms. Reed. I'm sorry you had to find Mr. London that way."

  "So am I," I responded. "I'm glad you had the day off. Otherwise, you might have been a victim too."

  "Or maybe I could have scared off whoever did this," she suggested.

  I had my doubts about that, given her size, and said, "Do you know if Brent was expecting anyone other than me?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "He never told me about any guests."

  I realized that wasn't the same thing as saying Brent hadn't made plans to meet someone who may have killed him.

  Whitmore, who had joined us and waited patiently, nodded at me. "Ms. Reed."

  I nodded back. "Detective."

  He faced Emily. "Thanks for coming."

  "I'll do whatever you need to help solve this case."

  "I was hoping you'd say that." Whitmore glanced over at Luisa and back to Emily. "Your uncle's laptop is missing. Do you know anything about that?"

  "If you're asking if I took it, the answer is no. Uncle Brent was pretty protective of his laptop, which he used for his books. I would never have taken it."

  "I wasn't accusing you of anything, Ms. Peterson. Odds are that whoever killed London probably took the computer as a secondary thing, hoping it might be valuable enough to sell on eBay or Craig's List. Anyway, Luisa has gone through the house and doesn't think anything else is missing. Perhaps you could take a look around and see if you notice anything gone or out of place."

  "Yes, I can do that," she responded.

  "Good. An officer will accompany you—and open any doors or drawers with gloves, so you don't taint any potential evidence."

  Whitmore signaled for the same officer who had walked us in to go with Emily, leaving me alone with the detective and Luisa.

  "You can go now," Whitmore told Luisa. "We expect to wrap up our work here by this afternoon. You're free then, if you like, to come back and resume your duties, assuming you'll still be staying on to work for Ms. Peterson."

  "I think so," she said tentatively. "We'll see what she wants me to do."

  "Goodbye, Luisa," I told her.

  "Goodbye, Ms. Reed." She paused and added, "Mr. London told me you were going to help him redo his man cave."

  "That was the plan," I said. "But things went horribly wrong."

  "Maybe you can finish what you hoped to start in his honor," she suggested.

  "I'll have to think about that," I told her. Though it certainly sounded noble, without Brent around to see it for himself, it seemed like a waste. Especially without knowing what plans he had made for the house upon his death.

  Luisa nodded and left the room.

  I turned to Detective Whitmore. "Did you find out anything about the car I saw speeding down the street?"

  "As a matter of fact, I did," he said. "A car matching that description belongs to a neighbor of Mr. London. This person claimed to have left the street around that time and admitted to being late for an appointment."

  "Which would explain driving above the speed limit," I said, feeling a bit disappointed. Maybe I'd been watching too many crime shows on television.

  "It was a good try," he said. "You never know when such information might come in handy."

  "Did you learn anything else about the identity of the killer?" I asked curiously.

  He paused. "Nothing I'm at liberty to say at the moment. I can tell you, however, that we are making progress and hope to have someone in custody soon."

  "That's good to know. The sooner, the better, so Brent can rest in peace."

  "I hope so," Whitmore said.

  I met his eyes. "Do you happen to know when his body will be released? I'll be helping Emily make the funeral plans."

  "Later today I would imagine, as the medical examiner will be releasing his official findings this afternoon."

  "Okay," I said, trying not to think about the grim task of doing an autopsy on my friend, but understanding its necessity.

  Just then, we heard people talking and I watched as Pierce O'Shea walked into the room with another detective, having come down the hall from the recreation room where Brent had apparently breathed his last breath.

  The two men walked up to us.

  "This is Detective Gifford," Whitmore
introduced him. "And this is Riley Reed."

  He was younger than Detective Whitmore, tall, thin, and bald with a long forehead. "You're the one who found the body?" he said more than asked.

  "Yes," I confirmed.

  Gifford furrowed his brow. "Sorry you had to go through that."

  "No more than I am," I told him.

  I turned to Pierce as Whitmore was saying, "This is Pierce O'Shea. He's a mystery author and a good friend of Brent London's as well as the police."

  I wasn't too surprised about that last part, as I knew that mystery authors often hobnobbed with law enforcement for research purposes, including Brent, who had quite a few stories he shared with me in that regard. Clearly, Pierce had followed in his footsteps in more ways than one.

  "Actually, Ms. Reed and I already know one another," Pierce said before I could say the same. "As mutual friends of Brent, we've run into each other from time to time."

  "Hello, Pierce," I said, gazing at his tanned, handsome face. He was in his late thirties, trim, and about the same height as Detective Gifford. But, unlike the bald detective, Pierce had wavy, sandy colored hair and crystal blue eyes.

  "Nice to see you again," he said, "though I wish it were under better circumstances."

  "You and me both," I assured him.

  He frowned. "It's terrible that such a tragedy prevented you from meeting with Brent."

  I wondered how much he knew about it, while imagining that Detective Gifford had filled him in. "Murder does have a way of disrupting anyone's plans," I said sadly.

  "Something we can all relate to," Whitmore said. "I can think of much better things to do with my time than investigate a murder. But this is what life throws at you."

  I met his eyes. "Whoever killed Brent obviously gave no thought as to what it would do to his friends or the police handling the investigation."

  "Speaking of, Pierce was just telling me that Brent often took his laptop with him to restaurants and other places he went to work on his books," Gifford said. "And he was known to have misplaced it every now and then—seemingly more lately."

  I had never known that to happen when I was with Brent. But then we weren't out that much in recent times. I couldn't help but wonder if the Alzheimer's disease had played a role in him leaving his laptop somewhere absentmindedly.

  "So you're saying that Brent's laptop may not have been stolen?" I asked Detective Whitmore.

  "The answer to that is still under investigation," he said, "but it certainly raises the possibility that the missing laptop has nothing to do with his death."

  I had no reason to believe otherwise, but had no desire to see the investigation unnecessarily thrown off track.

  "Well, if you two will excuse us," Whitmore said, "we have to get back to work. I'm sure you can find your way out."

  "I think we can manage," Pierce said, winking at me. He stuck out his hand and shook hands with both detectives. "Again, if there's anything I can do to help with the investigation, I'm happy to do so."

  "Same here," I felt obliged to say, even if I doubted there was much I could lend to the investigation that I hadn't already contributed with seemingly little results.

  "We'll keep that in mind," said Whitmore.

  "I'll walk you out," Pierce said.

  Though I came with Emily, who was still apparently checking the house for signs of anything missing, I had no problem stepping outside for a breath of fresh air.

  "What a nightmare," remarked Pierce, furrowing his brow.

  "Yes, it is," I said. "Brent didn't deserve this."

  "No, he didn't."

  "Do you know of anyone who would have wanted him dead?" I asked, feeling that if anyone did know, it was probably Brent's longtime protégé.

  Pierce shook his head. "The man had no enemies that I knew of. Certainly none who would take things to this extreme. But Brent was a private man, even among those who knew him well, so it's entirely possible that there was something going on that he kept to himself."

  I thought about the Alzheimer's disease. Brent had indicated that I was the first person he told about it. As far as I could tell, no one else knew about his condition, aside from his doctor, at the time of his death. But since I couldn't believe this was associated in any way with his death, I assumed Pierce was referring to something else.

  "I'm sure the police will get to the bottom of it," I said.

  "I'm sure they will. I know several of the detectives and they seem pretty competent when it comes to getting the job done."

  "That's good to know."

  I glanced at the house and wondered if Emily would be coming soon, as I had a few other things to do this morning, including working on the funeral arrangements.

  "I'd love to catch up on things with you," Pierce said, cutting into my thoughts. "Any chance I can buy you lunch today?"

  I met his eyes, somewhat surprised at the invitation. Though we had been cordial when we saw one another every so often, we were hardly true acquaintances. But then death did have a way of strengthening ties among the living.

  "Sounds like a good idea," I responded, while thinking about his novel that the book club had just read with mixed results. I wondered if he might consider visiting our next meeting, since Brent was no longer able to.

  "Splendid," he said, grinning. "How does one work for you?"

  "It works just fine."

  "Do I pick you up or—?"

  "I can meet you there," I told him, adding, "I have a little business in town, so that would be the most convenient."

  "Very well." He smiled again. "Do you know the Crystal Club?"

  "Yes." I had never been to the swank restaurant, but Brent had and told me about it.

  "Then I'll see you there at one."

  "I look forward to it," I said.

  We both turned to watch a white Honda Civic pull into the driveway. A tall, model thin, well dressed woman in her early twenties, with mounds of blonde hair, climbed out. It was Brent's ex-girlfriend, Karla Terrell. I had met her once when I bumped into Brent at a restaurant as he proceeded to show off his young trophy girlfriend.

  She was about to scoot past us without even uttering hello, before Pierce grabbed her arm and said tautly, "Just where do you think you're going?"

  Karla glared at him. "Hello to you too, Pierce. Now let go of my arm."

  He did so reluctantly. I imagined that they knew each other through Brent, who had no qualms connecting the various people in and out of his life with one another.

  "If you must know, I'm going to collect some things I left when Brent and I broke up," she explained.

  "Have you no respect for the dead?" Pierce said. "The man's barely been dead and you're already trying to see what you can steal from him."

  "That's ridiculous!" Karla snapped. "I have every right to reclaim what's mine."

  "Go for it," he said. "The police are inside and I'm sure they'd love to talk to you."

  "I have nothing to hide," she insisted.

  "If you say so."

  "What-ever." She rolled her eyes. "I can come back later when the police are done."

  "I can go in with you, if you want," I offered, curious as to what she had left behind and wondering if she might be able to offer any insight into Brent's death.

  "No thanks," Karla sneered. "I know Brent couldn't quite get you out of his system, but just so you know, we were planning to get back together."

  "Oh, really?" Brent had given me no indication of that, but he didn't tell me everything going on in his life, especially where it concerned romance. Still, somehow it didn't fit that he would have wanted to start up again with someone with whom he seemed totally mismatched. Or was that just my opinion?

  "Yes," she said. "Only now that will never happen."

  I detected little remorse from her about Brent's death, per se, but rather the prospect of losing whatever she could have gotten from him.

  "I'm sorry your plans didn't work out," I told her. "And I'm even sorrier that Brent
is dead and no longer has a say in the matter. Also, I must add that I have long been out of his system, other than as a friend."

  She wrinkled her nose, narrowed her eyes at Pierce, and strutted back to her car in high-heeled stilettoes, before backing out and driving off.

  "Is she for real?" Pierce asked.

  "You're probably asking the wrong person that," I responded.

  "I never thought she was good enough for Brent," he said, "but when it came to his love life, he didn't pay much attention to what anyone else thought."

  "Isn't that true for most people?" I defended Brent, respecting his choices whether I agreed with them or not. That included Karla, though apparently he had ended things with her while he was still able to.

  "I suppose so." Pierce glanced at his watch. "Anyway, I've got a meeting to get to, though Brent's death will follow me like a shadow till the police nab his killer. I'll see you at one."

  I nodded to that effect and watched him get into a black BMW and drive away.

  Turning around, I saw Emily finally emerge from the house.

  "Did you find anything missing?" I asked curiously.

  "Nothing that I could think of," she said. "It doesn't look like anything is missing other than his laptop."

  And even that might have only been misplaced by Brent, I considered, rather than stolen by a killer. Still, I hoped the authorities could locate it, in case it contained some clues about Brent's murderer.

  "Was that Karla I saw leaving?" Emily asked.

  "Yes."

  "What did she want—to gloat over my uncle's death?"

  "Not exactly," I said. "Karla claimed she wanted to collect some stuff she left behind."

  Emily frowned. "I think that's a load of rubbish. There's nothing in the house that belonged to her."

  I couldn't say one way or the other, but added, "She also said she and Brent were planning to get back together."

  "Yeah, in her dreams," she sneered. "Uncle Brent had already moved on."

  I looked at Emily. "Are you saying he was involved with someone else?"

  "Yes. I never met her, but I could tell that they were starting to get close."