Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (18 page)

"Have you gone to the police with any of
this?" Ivana asked.

"I intend to do that first thing in the
morning," I answered, "though I'm not sure if they will take it
seriously enough to reopen the investigation."

"Well, if the time line for Emily's and
Tony's whereabouts can be vouched for, at the very least it should
warrant them taking a second look—if not dropping the charges
altogether."

"That would certainly be the ideal response,"
I said. "I hate the thought of Emily having to spend another day in
jail for something she had no part in."

"I feel the same way, if that is the case,"
Ivana said. "I didn't know her all that well, but I know that Brent
loved her like a daughter and wouldn't want her in jail falsely
accused of his murder."

I raised my glass. "We can certainly agree on
that."

She raised her glass in toast with a smile.
"As Brent's girlfriends—former and current—we definitely need to
stick together."

"Totally," I said, sipping wine. "So what are
your plans now?" I couldn't help but ask as I tried to move the
conversation in a more positive direction.

She sighed. "I just plan to move on with my
life. It's what Brent would want."

"Yes, he would want that—for both of us," I
said.

"It will probably be a while until I start
dating again," Ivana said. "Brent was a hard act to follow."

I chucked. "He was at that."

She gazed at me. "Are you seeing anyone right
now?"

"I wish." I rolled my eyes, feeling a bit
defensive that I was on my own, but still hopeful. "There is a
possibility," I said, thinking about Josh and our tentative plans
to go out for a drink. "But I'm still waiting for him to call."

Ivana smiled. "We can grow old waiting for
guys to call. Sometimes we have to make the first move."

I grinned uneasily. I was old-fashioned when
it came to a man pursuing me rather than the other way around.
"Perhaps I will," I suggested, as Josh did seem like a nice man,
and he was handsome too.

"Good for you."

Just as we slipped into our own thoughts, I
heard someone say, "Well, look who we have here—"

I looked up and saw Karla Terrell hovering
over us.

"...looks like Brent London's girlfriend
club," she continued.

In gazing at her, it was clear to me that
Karla had had too much to drink. "This isn't the time," I told
her.

"Really? I think it's a great time," Karla
countered. "The three of us are all in the same boat—we lost
someone that we really cared about."

"Maybe it's time for you let go of Brent,"
Ivana told her sternly. "Haven't you done enough already?"

She peered at Ivana. "What's that supposed to
mean?"

"You tell me."

"I only did what any scorned woman would do,"
Karla said, sneering. "Men can be such jerks sometimes. Especially
writers—they're so full of themselves."

"For heaven's sake, Karla," I said,
forgetting for just a moment that she could be a killer. "Brent's
dead. Why don't you just let him rest in peace and move on with
your life?"

She glared at me. "Is that what you're doing?
You call snooping and trying to dig up dirt getting on with your
life?"

I couldn't help but wonder if she had been
talking to Ashley. Perhaps they were working together and killed
Brent. Or maybe they were covering up for Dean or someone else.

"I just want to make sure the wrong people
aren't in jail for killing Brent," I said defensively.

"Since when did you become an amateur sleuth?
Or are you two trying to figure out a way to pin this on me?"

"If you have nothing to hide, then you have
nothing to worry about," Ivana told her.

Karla stared at her words thoughtfully. "We
all have things to hide—some of us are just better at it than
others." She suddenly lurched forward. "Ugh, I think I'm going to
puke."

"Maybe you should go to the bathroom," I
suggested.

Heeding my advice, she staggered away and out
of sight.

"Should we go after her and make sure she
doesn't fall flat on her face?" Ivana asked.

I thought about it, before responding,
"Something tells me that Karla can take care of herself, in spite
of her pity party. The real question is how far was she willing to
go to get back at Brent for dumping her and choosing you?"

It was a question we both pondered as we
sipped wine.

* * *

The following morning was overcast. I went
jogging on the beach, but found myself distracted by Brent's murder
and the various people I now felt were viable suspects. I
considered that the killer could be someone else altogether that I
had missed or overlooked. The one thing I was sure about was that
Emily and Tony were innocent of the crime. But would I be able to
convince the police of that?

When I got back home, I waved at Annette, who
was in front of her house with her dog while talking on her cell
phone. I was grateful for that, as I didn't have time at the moment
to engage in a long chat with her.

I went in and freshened up, before dressing
and having a quick bite to eat.

I decided to pay Emily a visit prior to
sharing my information with Detective Whitmore, in case she could
shed any further light on anyone else who might have wanted Brent
dead.

As before, I went through the standard
security procedures before being allowed to see Emily. I sat and
waited for her to come through the door on the other side of the
window.

When she did, she looked tired but physically
fine. She sat down and put the phone to her ear, as I did the
same.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Okay, but I hate being in here."

"You may not have to be for much longer."

Her eyes lit up. "Did you find out
something?"

"Yes," I said, trying to restrain my
enthusiasm. "I talked to the librarian who found your cell phone.
She told me she saw you at the library and also saw you when you
left—meaning she can vouch that you were there at the time of
Brent's death."

"Wow!" Emily said, switching the phone to her
other ear. "Did you tell the police or the prosecutor?"

"No, I was on my way to do that, but wanted
to see you first to touch base and fill you in with what I
discovered."

"What about Tony?" she asked. "He didn't kill
Uncle Brent either."

"I believe you," I told her. "His bartender
friend, Elliot Quail, can validate the time he left The Train Stop
to go to Brent's house—giving him very little time to kill Brent
and leave before I arrived."

"Do you think the police will buy that?"
Emily asked.

Though I wasn't overly confident they would,
I responded, "They may have no other choice when coupled with some
other strong possibilities about the killer that they may have
overlooked."

"Such as?"

I ran the names of my suspects and their
respective possible motivations by her, adding, "I think Detective
Whitmore will find it hard to dismiss these suspects out of hand,
considering every one of them had reason to want Brent dead—at
least in theory."

Emily sucked in a deep breath. "I never knew
much about Uncle Brent's dealings with William Hendrickson, but I
wouldn't put anything past Karla. As for Ashley's husband, he was a
real piece of work. One time he came to the house looking for
Ashley. She wasn't there, but Uncle Brent was, and confronted him.
He accused Uncle Brent of sleeping with his wife, which he denied.
Ashley's husband left after that, but he was clearly pissed and
made sure Uncle Brent knew it."

Which gives Dean McGowan a clear motive
for murder
, I mused. But did he really take his jealousy and
suspicions that far?

"Can you think of anyone else who may have
wanted Brent dead?" I asked.

Emily shook her head. "Not really. He told me
that he had some obsessive fans and it scared him sometimes, but I
never witnessed anything like that."

"You never know if one of them may have gone
too far," I said thoughtfully. "But the names I have should give
the police something to work with."

"I hope so," Emily said. "Thanks so much for
everything you've done for me—and Tony."

"I haven't really done much of anything, thus
far," I told her modestly, "since you're still in here."

She seemed to concur with this, in effect,
before she went back to her cell. I headed for the police
department on a mission to see to it that a miscarriage of justice
did not take place in their desire to hold Emily and Tony
accountable for Brent's death.

* * *

It was just after eleven a.m. when I headed
to Detective Whitmore's office, having been given permission to do
so by the desk sergeant. I saw Detective Gifford talking to two
other detectives. He nodded at me with interest and I nodded back,
wondering if he would step in on the conversation.

Whitmore was seated at his desk when I walked
into the office. "Ms. Reed," he said evenly, "didn't expect to see
you again."

"Sorry to disappoint you," I said
half-joking.

"Do you have something more to add to the
investigation regarding Brent London's death?" Whitmore asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," I told him.

He surveyed me curiously. "Sit."

I sat in front of his desk and gathered my
thoughts before looking him squarely in the eye. "I think you have
the wrong people in custody."

He frowned. "I believe we've already gone
over this—"

"But not the part where Emily's alibi can be
vouched for," I broke in.

He cocked a brow. "Oh really? By who,
you?"

"Phyllis Bledsoe. She's a librarian at the
college who remembers seeing Emily in the library during the
estimated time frame when Brent was murdered."

"And she remembers this how?"

"She noticed Emily left her cell phone on the
table, so she took it, knowing she would come back for it. So, you
see, Emily couldn't have murdered Brent."

Whitmore let out a noisy breath. "Even if she
didn't swing the pool cue directly, conspiring to kill her uncle is
just as damaging."

"Tony didn't kill Brent either," I said with
conviction. I relayed the details about his time spent at The Train
Stop, which Elliot Quail would attest to, and my own drive to
Brent's house and the time frame in relation to the time of death.
"So you see, Detective, this would have left just a tiny sliver of
the estimated time of death for Tony to have killed Brent by the
time I arrived at the house."

"I admire your detective work, Ms. Reed, but
you really should leave the investigating to the police. This is,
after all, what we get paid for."

"I understand that," I told him, "but you
seem determined to ignore the evidence and instead have only
focused on two people who may well be innocent."

"I beg to differ." He frowned and his brows
touched. "All Tony Sullivan needed was a minute or two to bash
London's skull in, with or without acting in accordance with Ms.
Peterson."

My meeting with Whitmore hadn't exactly gone
according to plan, but I remained optimistic that he would keep an
open mind, even if the case had already been turned over to the
D.A.'s office.

"I don't disagree with you, Detective," I
made clear. "But it also opens up the possibility that someone else
could have come in who had far more time to murder Brent and leave
before Tony ever arrived at the house, and me shortly
thereafter."

"Do you have someone in mind?" Whitmore asked
skeptically.

"Actually, I do have some potential suspects
who may or may not have fallen under your radar."

He leaned back in his chair. "I'm
listening..."

I started with Karla Terrell, explaining her
neurotic behavior concerning Brent. "I actually caught her stealing
things from his house that she claimed were hers—after she had let
herself in with a key she conveniently never returned to
Brent."

"None of this proves she killed him," the
detective said.

"But it gives her motive and a means of
entry," I stated, "which is, at the very least, something to go on
when investigating her. The same is true for William Hendrickson, a
financial advisor who Brent fired for mismanaging his money. Now
apparently Mr. Hendrickson has skipped town, which I find to be
more than a little peculiar."

"That is odd," Whitmore conceded. "But,
again, nothing came up that indicates Hendrickson murdered Brent
London."

"But was he even considered a suspect?" I
asked. "Or had you already honed in on Emily and Tony without
looking any further?"

He sighed. "I can assure you that we took
this investigation very seriously, though admittedly Hendrickson
was never interviewed."

"Well, I hope it's not too late now,
Detective," I said boldly. "It could make a difference. Then
there's Ashley McGowan, Brent's third ex-wife. She had been
secretly meeting with him and her husband Dean may have been aware
of it and killed Brent because he thought they were having an
affair."

"Were they?"

"I can't say," I told him, "though Ashley
denied it. The point is Dean McGowan, an editor at the Cozy Pines
Daily, could be the killer."

"There were no other prints found on the
murder weapon aside from Ms. Peterson's and Mr. Sullivan's,"
Whitmore pointed out.

"A smart killer would have used gloves," I
countered. "Was there any DNA that didn't match with anyone?"

"Yes," he admitted, "but given the
circumstantial and other physical evidence..."

"You may have given the true killer a pass,"
I said.

Whitmore frowned. "Ms. Reed, with all due
respect, playing Miss Marple is not the same thing as
real
detective work."

I could hardly argue with him there, but
tried to stand my ground anyhow. "I wouldn't presume to be a police
detective, or a private investigator, Detective. But I was a good
friend of Brent's and I don't want to see a rush to judgment in
convicting his niece and her friend if there are major holes in the
case against them and other viable suspects who need to be looked
at more seriously."