"I hadn't intended to pin the murder on Emily and her friend," Pierce claimed, "preferring that the police go after William Hendrickson or someone else. But when it worked out that way, I was content to leave it like that. Then Karla had to stick her nose where it wasn't wanted. We'd begun seeing each other after she and Brent broke up. For me, it was only a fun distraction, but Karla wanted more. I let her think we'd actually be long term, until someone better came along.
"Then she had to snoop on my computer, where she happened upon the file I had of Brent's novel. Having already read an advance copy of my novel, she put two and two together and threatened to make trouble for me. Karla left me no choice but to handle the situation before she ruined everything I'd worked for. After getting her in a choke hold and rendering her unconscious, it was easy to toss her over the balcony and escape by going down the back stairwell. I decided to link her to Brent's murder with the bogus confession because I knew that, thanks to you, the police were reinvestigating Brent's death and Karla was considered a prime suspect. It only made sense to make her the scapegoat to keep the police from looking any further."
I sucked in a deep breath at his chilling confession to two murders, with his mind clearly set on making it three.
"You don't have to do this, Pierce," I sought to reason with him. "Aren't two murders enough?"
He regarded me with malevolence. "I'm afraid you've left me no other option, Riley. I won't let you stand in the way of my freedom or future as a bestselling mystery novelist."
I shrieked and jerked backward as he raised his hands and moved them toward my neck, clearly planning to strangle me.
That was when the front door burst open and Detectives Whitmore and Gifford, along with two uniformed officers, rushed into the room with guns drawn and aimed squarely at Pierce.
"It's over, O'Shea," Detective Whitmore voiced sharply. "We have it all on tape."
Pierce glared at me. "You're wearing a wire?"
I took two steps away from him, uncomfortable with a killer still within striking distance.
"Afraid so," I told him. "It was the only way for the police to actually believe the far reaching story I fed them. Some parts proved to be a little off, but most were right on the money."
He lowered his head as a man who knew he had been caught in a trap of his own making, as Whitmore handcuffed Pierce and said, "You're under arrest for the murder of Brent London and Karla Terrell, and the attempted murder of Riley Reed. Get him out of here," Whitmore ordered the officers.
While Pierce was told he had the right to remain silent, I couldn't help but think it was a little late for that, since he'd already confessed of his own free will to serious crimes that should put him away for a long time, if not on death row.
"Are you all right?" Detective Gifford asked as the wire was removed.
"Yes, I'm fine," I told him. "But had you waited much longer, it could have been a different outcome."
"We were never going to let any harm come to you," Detective Whitmore promised. "We just needed to get as much as we could to make sure this stuck."
I met his eyes. "And did you?"
"Yeah, we got him!"
"That's a relief," I said, hating the thought that Pierce could somehow find a way to worm his way out of this.
"We owe it all to you, Riley. I have to admit, when you first came up with this plan, I honestly thought you were crazy in the nicest sense. But somehow the pieces of this convoluted and unbelievable murder mystery seemed to fit."
"Thanks for giving it a chance to work," I said proudly.
"Actually, it's you we should be thanking," Whitmore said. "If not for your tenacity, we might never have put the real killer behind bars."
I smiled, feeling for the first time in a while that I could relax, knowing that Brent's killer had been caught.
"I was just doing my civic duty as a citizen of Cozy Pines," I told him lightheartedly.
"And you should be proud of that," he said. "Not many people I know are willing to step up when the chips are down."
"Since Brent was a close friend, it was something I felt obligated to do, Detective."
Once we stepped outside the house, the crime scene investigators took over for what would likely be a thorough forensic examination of the premises to uncover evidence to build the case against Pierce O'Shea as a killer and a thief of a literary property that belonged to Brent.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Three months after Brent's murder, Pierce O'Shea was in jail awaiting trial for two murders and a number of other charges. There had been some indication that a plea bargain might be struck, but no deal had been reached as yet, leaving Brent's family and friends in limbo, waiting to put the whole ordeal behind them.
Pierce's mystery novel, Before He Strikes Again, was pulled from the book store shelves and Internet booksellers, with proceeds donated to charity. Brent's novel, Killer on the Prowl, was put on the fast track for publication and already optioned to be made into a movie, with the royalties and other income going to his estate.
Needless to say, Pierce never made it to our book club meeting, but we chose to devote it to plagiarism and its effects on the writing world, along with how readers might be able to detect such.
On Saturday afternoon, I visited Emily for a first look at the renovated man cave. We had spent several weeks discussing what Brent may have wanted in a new look for his favorite room in the house. Once we had agreed, a plan was set in motion for redoing the recreation room to honor Brent's memory.
I rang the doorbell and Emily greeted me with a hug. "This is so exciting!" she uttered.
"Yes, it is," I admitted with a smile. I had watched her mature since Brent's death in a way that was forced upon her, more or less, by circumstances beyond her control. The end result was a young woman who was now the head of her household and continually trying to better herself.
She was holding my hand as we walked through the house to Brent's man cave. "I just wish Uncle Brent was here to cherish this moment," she said.
"I'm sure he would have been thrilled," I told her.
As soon as I stepped inside the room, a big smile spread across my face as I looked at the finished product. The pool table had been resurfaced, and new contemporary bronze fixture lights were placed above it. There was new bench seating and recycled rubber tiles were used for floor covering, designed to keep errant billiard balls from doing any damage.
A new seventy inch flat screen television hung on one wall in a lounge space, along with an entertainment cabinet. The seating area consisted of a white circular leather couch and black club chairs, accented by a handcrafted cottage style cocktail table with a white patina finish.
The wet bar had been updated in a vintage butler's pantry style with a white marble countertop and a backsplash of white subway tile; to go with shaker style matching cabinets.
Lastly, I scanned framed posters of Brent's book covers that adorned the walls, giving the man cave a sense of the talent of the author who inspired it.
"So what do you think?" Emily asked impatiently.
"I love it!" I responded in awe at the renovation project that was perfect.
"Luisa said the same thing—stating it was everything she could have imagined when Uncle Brent started talking about wanting to update his man cave!" Emily faced me. "Do you think he would have approved?"
"I'm certain of it." I looked around again and back at her. "This is exactly what I think Brent had in mind when he said he wanted his man cave to get a makeover that was more suited to his style."
Emily flashed her teeth. "I was thinking the same thing."
I smiled at her and looped my arm around her shoulders. "Now let's celebrate with a glass of cider and you can tell me more about your plans to attend my alma mater."
"Two glasses of cider coming up, along with some conversation about my educational aspirations."
I couldn't help but think that Brent would have been even more pleased that his niece and I had
become close and that I would keep an eye on her, just as he would have done had his time not run out unexpectedly due to a very unlikely culprit.
# # #
The following is a bonus cozy mystery short story by R. Barri Flowers
PH.D IN MURDER
"I think that's a marvelous idea, Madsen," Elliot Arness said with a mouthful of blueberry pancakes.
"You do?" I asked, raising a skeptical brow.
"Of course. Anyone interested in the dark side of American history would find the notion intriguing."
Elliot was my current beau and a history professor at Everly University in Pearl's Village, Oregon. On the side, he wrote western novels. Like me, Elliot was happily divorced, in his early thirties, and glad to have someone he could bounce ideas off.
In this case, as a doctoral student in criminology, it was my idea to do as an independent study a reenactment of the real life, well-known, and still unsolved murder of Marilyn Sheppard. She had been found beaten to death in bed on the morning of July 4, 1954. Her husband, Dr. Samuel Sheppard, was the fall guy, first convicted of the murder; then after the conviction was overturned, acquitted in a second trial. All along, Dr. Sheppard insisted that a "bushy-haired intruder" was the true culprit, though it was never proven.
I doubted I could improve much on what two TV series and a movie of the same name, The Fugitive, tried to do in pointing toward a killer and/or collaborators. But I thought it would be fun and enlightening to stage a recreation of the murder based on Sam Sheppard's perspective that someone else had gotten away with cold-blooded murder. The fact it would move me a step closer to my PhD didn't hurt matters any either.
Nor did having the support of Elliot.
"Well, I sure hope my advisor agrees to it."
"I don't see why he wouldn't." Elliot dabbed a napkin at the corner of his mouth. "Like most professors, Harrison loves to see students show initiative over and beyond the norm. Trust me, he'll pat you on the back for this one."
I didn't think that would be necessary, but felt a bit more confident about my meeting with Professor Harrison Tucker that afternoon.
"Well, as long as he doesn't expect me to actually solve the mystery."
Elliot flashed a half smile. "I doubt that. But if anyone could, it would be you, given your amazing sense of timing and intuition."
I chuckled. "You give me far more credit than I deserve. Lending my two cents in solving real homicides is something the local authorities would surely have little use for. I'd rather spend my free time walking on the beach, reading, or having fun with you."
"The fun with me part sounds good," he said.
"Yeah, I thought it would."
That said, the best laid plans did not always go my way or his. Fortunately, staging a cold case for credits toward my degree didn't seem like it would step on any toes.
I looked at Elliot's handsome face and gave him a sexy smile. "So what are you going to do today on your day off?"
"Oh, I'll write a couple chapters of my latest book, jog a few miles, and hope I can return the favor of breakfast by making you dinner at my place tonight."
"That's a great idea! Consider it a date."
What seemed to make things work between Elliot and me for the past six months was that we lived apart and got together when we chose to. Unlike with my ex-husband, Ray, who proved to be way too clingy for me to deal with, leading to the inevitable breakup. There were also major trust issues in our marriage.
But the prospects for a long-term relationship with Elliot seemed very promising at the moment.
* * *
I parked my Subaru Outback in the student lot and began to walk across campus on a somewhat blustery spring day.
Everly University made up the lion's share of Pearl's Village, which was located on the coast, some ninety miles or so from Portland. The campus was filled with beautiful red and white dogwood trees, numerous flowering shrubs, and Ponderosa pines. Bicycle paths bordered meandering walkways that led to buildings rich in architecture and history.
I'd grown up in Pearl's Village with parents who were professors, and I attended Everly as an undergraduate. I returned two years ago after my divorce hoping to get back to my roots. Unfortunately, around the same time, my parents decided retirement sounded better in Hawaii, leaving me to start fresh on my own. I accepted the challenge, for better or worse.
Before meeting with Professor Tucker, I decided to head over to the library for some advance research. Admittedly, I knew few details on the Marilyn Sheppard murder insofar as the police investigation, evidence gathered, and the actual scene of the crime.
I wondered what initially led them to conclude that Sam Sheppard killed his wife. And why had the bushy-haired intruder been given such little credence before and after Dr. Sheppard's acquittal?
I gathered up several books on the subject and took them to the front desk to check out.
The pretty young library clerk seemed to study each title as she passed them under the scanner.
"You must really be into true crime cases," she said.
"Just one case right now," I told her.
"I prefer fiction. That way nobody really gets hurt."
"That's one way to look at it."
She stacked my books on top of one another neatly as if for display, sliding them toward me. "I guess most true crime books are pretty fictionalized, so you really never know the truth about what happened."
I smiled. "The way I understand it, true crime books aren't meant to be taken literally word for word. The focus is to present the actual facts of the case as accurately as possible and leave the rest up to the reader's imagination."
I wasn't sure I believed my own words, knowing some true crime writers were far more interested in glamorizing and dramatizing a crime than being true to it.
I stuffed the books in my bag and said goodbye to the girl before walking toward the stairs. Before I could reach them, I saw someone coming at me from the corner of my eye.
"Madsen Vensetta! I thought that was you."
I turned and saw Professor Glenn Fenkell from the Theater Department. He was in his forties, tall, lean, and easy on the eyes. I'd taken his course on theater production and scriptwriting last semester.
"Hi, Professor Fenkell."
He nodded at my overstuffed bag. "Looks like you've been busy."
"Yes, you could say that." I noted he was holding a single volume of Shakespeare. "But I think what you're reading is even more powerful."
Glenn shrugged. "While I wouldn't say if you've read one book by Shakespeare, you've read them all, they can start to lose some steam after a while."
"I've never found that to be the case."
"Well, maybe you would if you had to teach this stuff to students who don't really care about Shakespeare's genius."
I doubted I would ever put his theory to the test, as my doctorate studies had me focusing more on criminal theory and psychology.
"I've gotta go."
"Same here," he said. "See you around."
I watched briefly as he walked to the checkout desk. The girl was all smiles as Glenn handed her the book. When she spotted me looking, a scowl replaced the smile.
Guess she's into older men, I thought. And not into women who aren't minding their own business.
I didn't think Glenn would be anything more than flattered, knowing he was married to a fellow professor, and by all accounts happily so, though I'd never had the pleasure of meeting her.
I left well enough alone and again moved toward the stairs when a striking, red-haired woman whisked past me without casting a glance and raced up to them. Then she stopped as if lost and looked around till zeroing in on Glenn, who was still chatting amicably with the girl at the counter.
Glenn turned to face her. Since I knew he didn't have eyes in the back of his head, I suspected the girl had tipped him off.
The wife, I assumed.
Glenn took a few steps toward her, and the two seemed to have a heated
exchange, though I couldn't quite make out what they were saying.
I decided to quit while I was ahead and get out of there.
* * *
I walked to Benson Hall, where the Criminology Department was located on the fourth floor.
Professor Harrison Tucker was in his sixties with fine white hair. He was sitting at his desk, seemingly deep in thought when I knocked on the open door.
"Hope I didn't come at a bad time."
He looked up, quickly shook off his reverie, and stood. "Not at all, Madsen. I've been expecting you. Come in."
I took a seat across from his desk as he sat back down.
"So let's hear about this proposal you have for your independent study," he said eagerly.
I gathered myself, wanting to appear knowledgeable enough about the subject so it wouldn't seem I was in over my head.
"I'd like to recreate the murder of Marilyn Sheppard."
"Sounds like an intriguing project. Tell me more."
I did, laying out my vision, which included getting volunteer actors to play the parts, having a killer other than the victim's husband, and videotaping the reenactment.
"That's about the size of it," I finished.
"You should do it," Professor Tucker said without prelude. "It'll be interesting to see how things work out."
"I agree." I was feeling optimistic now.
"So, will you be on the lookout for a one-armed man?"
I smiled. "Only if I were recreating the TV series. As far as I'm aware, no such man existed in the real case."
"Ah, I see you've done your homework going in. Nice work. I'd say you've gotten off to a good start."
I agreed, but still had plenty more to do. And the way he kept looking at his watch, I assumed Professor Tucker also had better things to do than talk to me.
Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Page 17