"You can thank Peggy for that," I teased him. "She's certainly invited me over enough. It was time I returned the favor."
"And I happily accepted," she said, "as long as we were able to bring the wine."
On cue, she handed me a bottle of Oregon pinot noir.
I smiled. "Thank you, it will go well with the meal."
"I was counting on it," she said. "Now what else can I do to help?"
"You can keep Harold company and make yourself at home while I pour us all a glass of wine to start things off."
She nodded. "Okay, if you insist."
I did and left them briefly while I got out three wine glasses and poured the wine. It felt good to host friends for dinner.
I passed the wine around and we chatted for a few minutes before I invited Peggy and Harold to have a seat at the dining room table, where I then proceeded to bring the meal in.
After receiving compliments on my cooking, which I accepted graciously, we picked up where we left off in the conversation. The topic was who was going take Brent's place as the next great mystery author. Though I hated to speak about him in past tense, I saw no reason to shy away from it either. It was all part of coming to terms with his death.
"Perhaps it will be Pierce O'Shea," I threw out. He was the first person to come to mind, possibly because of our recent communication with Brent's death and our shared loss.
Harold cocked a brow. "Wasn't he Brent London's assistant or something before he started writing himself?"
"That was some time ago," I said, lifting my fork. "Pierce seems to be doing a fair job following in Brent's footsteps." I realized that all of my book club members were on the same page regarding Brent's writing. And, if the truth be told, I also felt he still had a ways to go to catch up with Brent's enormous talent. But at least he'd thrown his hat into the ring, so to speak, by successfully getting books published.
"Personally, I think Marybeth Longley might become the next great mystery author," Peggy said, dabbing a napkin on her lips. "I'm not knocking Pierce O'Shea or anything, but she's truly awesome."
"I can't argue with you there," Harold said supportively, lifting his wine glass.
Neither could I. I'd read a couple of the San Francisco writer's novels and felt that the critical praise she was receiving wasn't misguided. Even Brent had once commented that she was a rising star who might one day push him off the charts. He had never suggested the same about Pierce. But that was probably because he was more interested in pushing Pierce to work just as hard as he had to keep trying to improve his craft.
When my cell phone rang, I considered letting it go to voicemail. But it could be Emily, and she might need my help trying to figure out what to do with Brent's belongings or something.
"Will you excuse me?" I asked my guests as I stood up. "I need to get that."
"Go right ahead," Peggy said. "We aren't going anywhere."
I went into the kitchen, where I'd left my cell phone on the counter. I didn't recognize the caller, but answered it anyway.
"Hello."
"It's Emily... I've been arrested," she said, sobbing.
"What?"
"The police arrested me and Tony."
"For what?"
She paused and then said, "They think I conspired with Tony to kill Uncle Brent."
My heart sank into my stomach in that moment of disbelief.
"I didn't have anyone else to call," Emily said. "I called you because you cared about my uncle and I know you wouldn't want to see the wrong people in jail for his murder."
My first thought was that the police had to be mistaken. Emily, for all her faults, was not a killer. While I didn't know Tony very well, I suppose I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt by association that he too was innocent. Clearly, the authorities didn't agree.
"I'm glad you called," I said unevenly. "I'll do what I can to help."
At the moment, I wasn't exactly sure what that was. I needed more information about why they were arrested before I could do anything. Or would that only do Emily and Tony more harm than good in proving their innocence?
* * *
Thankfully, we had pretty much finished dinner when Emily called, making it that much easier to end the evening, though on a bad note. Peggy and Harold were shocked when I told them about the arrest of Brent's niece and her friend.
"Maybe they made a mistake," Peggy suggested.
"The police don't arrest people by mistake," Harold said grimly.
I could think of some instances to the contrary. There were also times that there was a rush to judgment. I prayed this was one of those times, for Emily's sake.
"I prefer to keep an open mind," I said. "Whoever was responsible for Brent's death needs to pay, no matter who it is—as long as the right parties are paying the price."
After I showed my guests out, I called Brianna York, knowing Emily would need a good attorney and not a public defender. It occurred to me that it might be a conflict of interest for her since she was Brent's attorney, but I had to try anyway.
"I'm shocked to hear that Emily was arrested for Brent's murder," Brianna said. "But I'm not a criminal attorney, so I couldn't represent her even if I wanted to. And it wouldn't be in the best interests of Brent, since I'm the executor of his estate."
"I understand," I told her. "But could you at least recommend someone who might be willing to represent her. I'm sure that's what Brent would want, especially since Emily says she's innocent."
"Yes, I agree. I know a criminal defense attorney named Jonathan Resnick. I'll call him and see where things stand with respect to Emily's arrest. I'll let you know if he'll take her case."
I assumed part of that rested on Emily's ability to pay for her defense. While she obviously had very little money now, she would be worth quite a bit once Brent's will had been settled through probate, assuming Emily was not convicted of being a party to his homicide.
"Thanks, Brianna," I said, feeling better already.
Half an hour later, Brianna phoned to say that Jonathan Resnick had agreed to represent Emily and that she would have to remain in jail until at least tomorrow morning when her arraignment was scheduled. I assumed she would be able to make bail and then this whole thing could be sorted out. Admittedly, I wasn't nearly as confident about Tony's situation, but I suspected that he would have difficulty making bail—unless Emily was somehow able to raise the necessary funds.
* * *
On Monday morning, I did a shorter than usual run on the beach, before showering and getting dressed to attend Emily's arraignment. Standing there shackled and wearing inmate clothing, she looked pale and nervous. Next to her was her attorney, Jonathan Resnick. He was in his mid to late thirties and of medium build, with neatly trimmed dark hair. Also standing before the judge was a young female assistant district attorney.
The judge, a male African American in his fifties, apprised Emily of her Constitutional rights before informing her that she was being charged with first-degree murder in the death of Brent London. The mere notion that she could have been responsible for Brent's death gave me a chill, even if I found it hard to fathom.
Emily entered a plea of not guilty. Then the subject of bail came up.
The prosecutor argued against it. "Your Honor, the victim in this case was a highly respected member of the community—and the suspect's uncle. Due to the vicious nature of the attack, I would ask for bail that is high enough to deter the defendant from even thinking about fleeing, if not keep her behind bars until the trial."
"What say you?" the judge asked the defense attorney.
"Your Honor, Ms. Peterson has never committed a violent crime in her life—and that includes the one that took the life of her uncle. She should be allowed to grieve as a free woman until such time that the case can be resolved in court and not be locked away like a common criminal. We will accept a reasonable bail to that effect."
The judge took a moment, before saying, "The charge against you, Ms.
Peterson, is a very serious one that cannot be ignored, no matter the outcome. Bail is set at one million dollars."
I watched as Jonathan Resnick frowned and then tried to console his client.
I wasn't sure if Emily would be able to raise the money. What was clear was that she was now in the fight for her life, with a possible death sentence awaiting her, if convicted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After leaving the courthouse, I knew I had to speak to Detective Whitmore since he was the lead investigator in the case. I was hoping he could shed more light on the case as to why Emily and Tony were suspects.
I walked the one block to the Cozy Pines Police Department. Inside, I approached a desk sergeant.
"I'd like to speak to Detective Whitmore," I told her.
"And you are?" she asked.
"Riley Reed."
"I'll see if he's in..." I watched as she announced my name to him on the phone and then gazed at me. "Detective Whitmore's office is near the end of the floor. He's expecting you."
I walked past a rather large room with desks and detectives on the phone, busy with paperwork, or otherwise occupied.
As I approached an office, Detective Whitmore stepped out of it and nodded. "Ms. Reed."
"Hello, Detective. I was wondering if I could have a word with you regarding the arrest of Emily Peterson and Tony Sullivan."
"Sure," he said. "In fact, I was hoping to speak with you as well—"
I wondered why as he led the way into his office. It was small and a bit cluttered.
"Have a seat." He pointed to a chair closest to his desk and I sat down. Instead of sitting in his desk chair, he sat on a corner of the desk.
"So how can I help you?" Whitmore asked.
"You can start by telling me what evidence you have that Emily and her friend Tony were behind Brent's death."
"I'm afraid that's police business."
I expected as much, but pressed on anyway. "As you know, Brent London was a very good friend of mine. I've gotten to know his niece and I can't believe she could be involved in his murder."
"I can understand how you might feel that way," he said. "People always find it hard to think that someone they know could be capable of such violence, but it happens, unfortunately."
"But Emily was at the library during the time of the murder," I told him.
"Actually, that isn't true," Whitmore said. "Turns out her alibi didn't quite hold up."
I cocked a brow in surprise. "Really?"
He nodded. "No one could vouch for her being at the library. However, an eyewitness placed her at the house around the time of death and overheard her arguing with London."
A witness? I mused. Arguing? I recalled seeing the neighbor looking at us suspiciously seemingly every time Emily and I passed by. Emily had dismissed her as just a nosey neighbor.
"Are you referring to a neighbor of Brent's?" I asked. "Female, middle aged?"
Whitmore leaned back. "You know her?"
"I know she's a meddlesome neighbor," I answered. "Maybe she got her times mixed up with this so-called argument."
"That's possible," he said. "But when you combine that with other facts, it fits..."
"Such as?" I asked, hoping he would share more with me.
"The murder weapon," he said slowly, as if weighing whether or not to continue. "Turns out that both Ms. Peterson's and Tony Sullivan's DNA and prints were on it."
I tried to hide my shock at this revelation. "Well, I'm sure they played pool in the recreation room with that pool stick. That doesn't prove they used it to kill Brent."
"Perhaps not. But it certainly cannot be dismissed either, all things considered." He reached across his desk, flipped open a folder and removed a photograph, handing it to me. "Does this look familiar?"
It was a picture of a dark vehicle. Immediately, I thought back to the car that had sped off just as I turned on to Brent's street.
"Yes," I admitted. "It looks very much like the car I saw the day I found Brent dead."
"Yeah, I thought so too, based on your description."
"Are you saying this car was involved in the murder?"
"I'd say it's a pretty good possibility," Whitmore responded.
"But you said the car I described belonged to a neighbor. Are you suggesting that—?"
Whitmore cut me off and pointed to the picture. "We think this is the car the killers used to take off after committing the deed, and it doesn't belong to a neighbor."
Our eyes locked. "So who does it belong to?" I knew Emily drove a red Prius, so it wasn't her car.
"It belongs to Tony Sullivan," he said matter-of-factly. "We found skid marks that match his tires."
"Oh dear," I said, putting a hand to my mouth. "But that doesn't prove Emily was involved."
"She was his girlfriend," Whitmore said bluntly.
"Actually, they're just friends."
"Well, whatever, she was seen in the car with him after the incident. Aside from that, another piece of the puzzle gives her a strong motive for wanting to see her uncle dead."
"Which is?" I asked thoughtfully.
"The oldest motive in the book—money. Brent London had a half a million dollar life insurance policy, and Emily Peterson was the sole beneficiary. That's a lot of incentive for taking someone out, along with her boyfriend, or friend as you put it, who was buried in gambling debts. So to answer the question you have in your head—yes, we're pretty sure we have the people who killed Brent London in custody."
I had to admit that the evidence, circumstantial and otherwise, certainly made it seem that way. But could the police be wrong?
I thought about the insurance policy. Did Emily know she was the beneficiary of such a large sum? Was that enough for her to want him dead?
Was there more to the story? Or was there a different story altogether?
I knew the only way to have a better perspective was to talk to Emily directly. And maybe even Tony.
* * *
I went through the routine procedure of visiting a jail inmate, having done it once before when a friend had too much to drink one night and ended up punching a police officer. Though he felt terrible afterwards and vowed to never get intoxicated again, he ended up spending thirty days behind bars. Lesson learned.
As I waited in the chair for Emily to enter the room on the other side of the glass partition, I could only imagine what was going through her mind. Or what wasn't. Was she the innocent young woman I wanted her to be? Or had she committed the worst sin imaginable by taking the life of the uncle who had taken her in when there was no one else.
Emily entered the room and sat down in the booth, lifting the phone to her ear.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
She frowned. "How would anyone be doing stuck in here?"
That was a fair response, considering her predicament. "Will you be able to make bail?"
"I don't think so," she muttered. "I can't touch anything that Uncle Brent left me. My lawyer said he would try to get the bail reduced, but I'm not holding my breath."
"I was told that Jonathan Resnick is a good attorney, with plenty of experience in criminal cases," I said. "Whether or not he can get your bail reduced, he should still be able to help you."
Emily sucked in a deep breath. "Thanks for your help in getting him for me."
"You asked for my help, so I only did what I could." I paused, gazing at her through the glass while collecting my thoughts. "I have to ask this—did you have anything to do with Brent's death?"
"No!" she responded adamantly. "How could you even ask? He was my uncle."
"I spoke to Detective Whitmore," I told her. "He seems to think they have a pretty compelling case against you."
Emily rubbed her nose. "I'm innocent—no matter what they think they have."
"Is Tony innocent, too?" I asked bluntly.
"Yes! There's no way he would have killed my uncle. He's not that type of person."
"The police say that your finge
rprints—and Tony's—were found on the murder weapon."
Emily did not seem surprised. "I love to play pool and so does Tony. Uncle Brent liked seeing the pool table in use when he wasn't playing. We played pool the night before and shared the same stick."
I found that plausible, though I could see why the police might not. "Tony's car was apparently seen leaving Brent's street around the time of his death," I noted, neglecting to mention that I was the one who identified the vehicle. "They have tire tracks that match his tires. Is there something you want to tell me?"
Emily hesitated before saying, "Tony came to the house to see me. The door was open and he went in. He saw Uncle Brent's body in the rec room and panicked. He got out of there as fast as he could. But he didn't kill him, I swear it."
"You didn't think it was important to mention this to the police?"
"I wanted to," she said, "but Tony was afraid they would somehow try to pin this on him."
"Well, now they have, in spite of you trying to keep his presence at the house a secret."
"I know it was a dumb thing to do and I wish we could do it over—but we can't."
I leaned forward. "What were you arguing about with Brent the day he was murdered?"
Emily cocked a brow. "How did you—?"
"Your nosey neighbor overheard it and relayed it to the police," I answered.
"I should have known," she said, sneering. "It was nothing, really."
"It was important enough for the police to build a case against you," I told her. "So what was it about?"
She sighed. "We argued about him being too controlling and trying to manage my life. I told him I was an adult and had to make my own mistakes, even if he didn't approve. He actually agreed and we left it at that on good terms."
I had no reason not to believe her, aside from the evidence to the contrary that Detective Whitmore had gathered.
"The police were unable to verify that you were at the library at the time Brent was killed," I informed her. "Did anyone see you there?"
Emily pondered this. "I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention to anyone, and apparently no one was paying much attention to me."
Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Page 10