Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (19 page)

"Point taken, Ms. Reed. I can't make any
promises, but we will check out this information you've brought to
my attention—especially where it pertains to the alibi of Ms.
Peterson—and go from there. If any reason surfaces that suggests we
may have the wrong suspects in custody, it's never too late to
rectify that."

I smiled. "Thank you, Detective. That's all I
could ask for."

He stood. "I'll walk you out. I could use the
fresh air."

"So could I," I said, as it had gotten a bit
stuffy in there.

After Whitmore went back into the building, I
gave Jonathan Resnick a call, filling him in on my conversations
with both Detective Whitmore and Emily. I couldn't tell if he felt
I was a hindrance or help to the case, but he took down the
information and promised to do everything in his power to get Emily
off the hook for Brent's death. I took the attorney at his word,
though I still wanted to do my part to keep justice from going
awry.

That evening, I went to my photography class
at the community college. I was happy for the distraction and
hopeful that this nightmare would soon be over for Emily.

When I got home, I made myself a salad to go
with broiled salmon and wild rice, while watching television. No
sooner had I finished eating when the doorbell rang.

I got up and looked out the peephole before
opening the door to my sister, Yvonne.

"Hi," she said, "can I stay with you tonight?
George and I just had a big fight."

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

After I made us some tea, I joined Yvonne on
the sofa in the living room, still trying to wrap my mind around my
sister leaving her husband, if only temporarily.

"What was the fight about?" I asked. She had
been strangely silent ever since I had invited her to stay for as
long as she wanted.

Yvonne rolled her eyes. "What do you
think?"

I frowned. "I thought we agreed that you
wouldn't bring up the issue of wanting a child again until he'd had
a chance to get used to the idea."

"So things changed," she said. "I was
watching a program about the joys of childbirth and the
unconditional love you get from a child and it just overwhelmed me.
I had to tell George how I felt and was hoping he would at least
meet me halfway."

"But he didn't?" I deduced.

"No, just the opposite. He told me flat out
that he doesn't think he'll ever want children and that I should
get the thought out of my mind. So I told him I couldn't live like
that, where he gets to call all the shots and I get no say in it
unless I agree with him. I got out of there as fast as I
could."

"Oh, Yvonne..." I reached out to her,
steadying her hand as she held the mug. She had brought no
overnight clothes or anything else as a runaway wife, aside from
her handbag. "Are you sure that running away is the right way to go
about this?"

"What do expect me to do—be a good little
wife and pretend that my husband and I are on the same page?"

I sighed. "Maybe you should have waited until
cooler heads prevailed."

"That's easy for you to say—as someone who
doesn't have a pigheaded husband, or any love life for that
matter."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut and
she knew it, for Yvonne immediately sought to amend her statement.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take out my frustrations on
you—especially after you graciously agreed to put me up for the
night...or maybe longer—"

Given her circumstances, I let it go,
considering that she was right on some level. Having never been
married or in a long term relationship, I probably wasn't in the
best position to advise her. On the other hand, I did understand
that for any marriage to be successful, both sides needed to be
willing to compromise. I wondered if there was any middle ground
for Yvonne and George.

"Don't worry about it," I told her, sipping
tea. "The important thing is you need to decide where you want to
go from here."

"I know," she muttered. "I'm not sure I can
stay in this marriage any longer."

I didn't like the sound of that. I didn't
want to see her prematurely throw away everything she and George
had going for them. "Maybe you and George should try
counseling."

"And what would that accomplish?" she
snapped. "He seems to have made up his mind and no marriage
counselor is going to be able to have him suddenly realize that he
really does want to be a father."

"Perhaps if George were to talk through some
of the difficulties of his upbringing with a professional, it might
give him and you a better perspective about his feelings and how
you might bridge the gap."

"There doesn't seem to be any middle ground
here," Yvonne said. "He either wants to have a child with me or he
doesn't."

"Have you considered adoption?" I asked.
"Maybe George would be more agreeable to having a child who needs a
home."

"It's not the same as bringing our very own
little one into this world."

"I understand that," I told her. "I was only
trying to facilitate some dialogue between you and your husband,
rather than simply giving up without putting forth every
effort."

She wrinkled her nose. "Can we not talk about
this right now? I just want to try to get through the night and see
what happens tomorrow."

"That sounds perfectly fine to me." I
certainly didn't want to push her away or come across as having all
the answers, when I was really outside of my element.

"So what's the latest on Brent's murder and
your belief that Emily had nothing to do with it?" she asked.

Though I understood that she was just
attempting to take her mind off her troubled marriage, I had no
problem updating Yvonne with all of my findings thus far and where
things stood in the investigation.

"Wow, you've been busy playing detective,"
Yvonne said.

"I wish I could say it was all fun and games,
but I'm taking it very seriously with Emily's freedom on the
line."

"Yeah, I can see that," she said.

I refilled our mugs with tea. "As for whether
or not the police will follow through and consider other suspects,
I can only wait and see."

"Sounds like you've given them something to
work with."

"Yes, I have, not the least of which is that
Emily could not have been in the house at the time of the murder,"
I said. "Moreover, she had no motive, to speak of, in wanting Brent
dead, since he was worth more to her alive, in terms of his
generosity and guidance, even if she didn't always want it. As for
Tony, his window for killing Brent was quite limited, giving
someone else ample time to have done the deed."

Yvonne crossed her legs. "And you think it
was one of these other people you mentioned?"

"They all had possible motives and some of
them apparently weren't considered suspects by the police," I told
her. "But, of course, the killer could also be someone else who may
have had reason to want Brent dead. I just hope the authorities
reopen the investigation with a fresh set of eyes, in which case I
believe Emily and Tony will be exonerated."

"Whatever happens, I think you've done enough
investigating, Riley. Let the police and district attorney handle
it from here."

"That's the problem," I responded. "They
haven't done their job very well as far as I'm concerned. But I
understand what you're saying and certainly have no interest in
getting into harm's way."

"Good, because I have enough things to worry
about right now without you adding to it by running around trying
to find a killer."

"Well let's try not to worry about anything
else tonight," I said, standing. "I'll make up the guest room and
get you some towels."

Yvonne got to her feet. "Thanks again for
being here for me."

I smiled. "I have nowhere else to be, little
sister."

* * *

In the morning, I awoke to the doorbell
ringing, having passed on my exercise as I felt drained. It was
eight o'clock. I dragged myself out of bed and threw on a pair of
well-worn jeans and a shirt.

Peeking inside the guest room, I saw that
Yvonne was still sound asleep.

I headed downstairs barefoot and looked out
the window, recognizing George's green Ford Expedition.

I opened the door. George was about an inch
taller than me, slender, with sandy hair and wore glasses.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," I responded tonelessly.

"I need to talk to Yvonne."

"Maybe you should give her a little space,
George."

"Isn't that what you've given her?"

My eyes narrowed. "I've given her a place to
stay, if that's what you mean. Other than that, it's not up to me
to decide if she's ready to talk to you."

"It's okay," I heard Yvonne say over my
shoulder.

I turned and saw her standing there in my
robe. Her hair was a little messy, but she was clearly alert.

"Are you sure?" I asked, though I could tell
by her expression that she wanted to speak with her husband.

"Yes, we should talk."

"I think that's a good idea," I admitted.
"Come in, George."

He nodded. "Thanks."

"Make yourself at home." I looked at Yvonne.
"I'm going to hop in the shower and get ready before I head over to
the Senior Center."

"We'll be fine," she told me.

I left them alone, wondering which side would
bend. Or would they come to an agreement that they could both live
with?

By the time I got back downstairs, they were
gone. Yvonne had left a note on the kitchen counter telling me they
had gone home to discuss things. She thanked me for letting her
chill overnight and asked me to keep my fingers crossed.

I wasn't quite sure what for. Did she expect
George to do a one hundred and eighty degree turn from his current
mindset? Or perhaps she was willing to accept something other than
a child of her own that would still make her happy.

Either way, I would continue to support my
sister, even while wondering if marriage and family would ever be
in the cards for me.

* * *

At the Senior Center, the manager, Julie
Gable, called me into her office. The mid sixties widow had a grim
look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Do you remember Mrs. Stanwych?"

"Yes, of course," I said. Geraldine Stanwych
was ninety and a regular at the center since her husband died a
decade ago.

"I'm afraid she passed away this morning,"
Julie told me.

A wave of remorse passed over me. "I'm so
sorry to hear that." In fact, she had been ill of late and so the
news wasn't particularly surprising, though sad, nonetheless.

"We thought we'd all chip in to buy some
flowers to send to her daughter."

"Of course," I told her. "Count me in."

She smiled. "I knew I could. We'll pick out a
nice arrangement and I'll get back to you."

I nodded. "That's fine."

As I contemplated Mrs. Stanwych's death at an
old age and then Brent's death, when he should have lived much
longer, I went to the kitchen where Lynda Menounos, the
coordinator, was nicer than usual.

"Good morning, Riley."

"Good morning."

"Are we ready to get busy?"

"Yes," I responded, "put me to work."

She grinned. "You've got it."

Once again, I was ready to help serve food to
senior citizens. After preparing for the task, I made my way to the
counter. Today's menu was French onion soup, bread, meatloaf, rice,
gravy, green beans, and apple pie. I stood beside Rachel Schroeder.
The last time I was here, she had recruited me to help her give
away some of her cat's kittens
.

"Did you hear about poor Mrs. Stanwych?"
Rachel asked.

"Yes, Julie told me."

"She was just in here two days ago and, in
spite of her deteriorating health, she still managed to smile and
talk nonstop."

"She'll certainly be missed," I said
sincerely.

"Yeah, just like my dad," Rachel said
somberly. "It's still hard to believe he's been gone for over a
year now."

It made me think of my own parents and how
much I missed them. I couldn't help but muse about Brent too and
the tragedy of his death. One could only hope that someone was held
accountable for it other than Emily and Tony.

I had been serving for around fifteen minutes
when I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair waiting in line. Karla
Terrell was pushing the wheelchair.

She and I locked eyes as I placed food on the
man's tray.

"Looks like we can't stop running into each
other," Karla quipped. "Don't look so surprised. You aren't the
only one of Brent's exes who has a soft spot for the elderly. He's
my next door neighbor."

"Good for you," I told her, admittedly seeing
a different side to Karla. I was glad to know she had made it home
from the Smooth and Mellow lounge in one piece.

"I don't know what I'd do without her," said
the elderly gentleman with thin white hair.

"Now don't talk like that, Mr. Frazier,"
Karla told him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes crinkled
at the corners in appreciation as she wheeled him toward a
table.

"You two obviously know each other," Rachel
remarked of Karla.

"We dated the same man, though it was some
time apart," I told her.

"Hmm... Is there a story there?"

Yes, and Karla's a suspect in Brent's
death
, I thought, but replied, "Not really. We're both just
trying to do what we can to help others."

"Aren't we all," Rachel said, as she put some
meatloaf on a plate.

"Some more than others," I commented, knowing
that many more volunteers were needed to serve the elderly, young,
and sick in the community and elsewhere.

* * *

That afternoon, I worked in my yard, raking
leaves and tending to some plants.