Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (13 page)

"Will do." She looked at Tony. "Riley's going
to give the rec room a makeover."

He grinned. "Cool."

After a moment of awkward silence, I could
tell that they preferred to get back to their private conversation,
so I moved on.

I found Luisa in another room dusting. She
had changed from her funeral attire to work clothes. I was somewhat
surprised, as I thought she should be here for Brent as a guest and
not an employee.

"Hello, Ms. Reed," she uttered, looking
almost embarrassed, as she stopped dusting.

"Hello, Luisa. And please call me Riley."

She nodded. "Okay, Riley. Do you need
something?"

"No, I just wanted to let you know that I
will be working with Emily to redo Brent's rec room."

Luisa's eyes twinkled. "That's wonderful. I'm
sure he would be pleased to know that."

"I think so too." I paused. "So will you be
staying on at the house?"

"Yes, it was Mr. London's gift to me and I
appreciate it very much. I have nowhere else to go, really."

I didn't know much about Luisa's family,
other than that she was from Costa Rica and had a daughter. "I'm
happy that Brent made sure you stayed employed after years of
working for him," I told her.

"Me too," Luisa said. "I just hope Miss Emily
doesn't decide to sell. Even with the money, I'd still rather keep
working."

"Has she indicated she might want to sell the
house?" I asked curiously.

"No, but who knows what the future
holds."

"True," I acknowledged. Brent could certainly
attest to that.

That evening, I was only too happy to be back
at my house, even though it was a bit lonely in the absence of
Emily as my short-lived guest. It was also sad knowing that Brent
would never visit again to tell me about his next book.

After working a bit on my blog and watching
some television, I called it a night. As I tossed and turned, I
wondered how long it would take the authorities to apprehend
Brent's killer. Was it possible that the person would never be
caught?

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

On Sunday, I went for my morning run, worked
on the blog, and invited Peggy and Harold over for dinner. It was
high time I got back to my life, even if I would miss Brent like
crazy.

I went to the grocery store to pick up some
items for the meal. While there, I spotted Annette shopping with
her husband Fred.

"I'm glad we ran into each other," she said,
as Fred went to get some apples.

"Hi, Annette." Since I was on a tight time
schedule, I wasn't interested in having a prolonged
conversation.

"I heard the funeral was nice."

I suspected she had been talking to one or
more of the book club members who had attended. "Yes, as far as
funerals go."

"I hate funerals," she said, wrinkling her
nose. "All I seem to do is bawl like a baby and mess up my
makeup."

In that case, it's probably a good thing she
didn't come. I reached beyond her and grabbed a head of
lettuce.

"So I heard you invited Pierce O'Shea to
speak at our next meeting," Annette said.

"Yes, it seemed like a good idea," I told
her, realizing I had forgotten to solicit her opinion on it.
"Everyone else seems to think so."

"Well, he is an appropriate sub for Brent
London," Annette said, grabbing some carrots and putting them in a
plastic bag. "And it would be interesting to get his take on our
thoughts about his last novel."

I smiled. "He seems pretty up for it."

"I'm two-thirds of the way through with
Rebecca
," she pointed out. "But I guess we can move that
book to the meeting after the next."

"Good idea," I said, though that seemed like
a no-brainer to me. "I've been enjoying the book thus far, though
it's been hard to find time to get some chapters in."

"Maybe we can have lunch and compare
notes."

"Sounds like a plan." I glanced at my watch.
"Well, I have to run. I'm having friends over for dinner and I
still have a few more things to pick up."

Annette nodded. "See you later."

I gathered my other items, paid for them, and
drove home.

The meal was meatloaf, tossed salad with
ranch dressing, dinner rolls, and good old-fashioned store bought
apple pie.

By the time my guests arrived, I had managed
to finish making dinner, change clothes, and actually do a little
work on my blog.

"It was so nice of you to invite us to your
lovely home for dinner," Harold said. He was a few years older than
Peggy was, quite tall, and handsome with a full head of salt and
pepper hair.

"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.