Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (2 page)

"You weren't," Emily insisted. "We were
done."

"I see." I paused before pressing on with my
curiosity. "So is he your boyfriend?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, he's just a
friend."

"Well, things sounded pretty tense between
you and your
friend
."

Emily sighed. "They weren't. It was just a
little disagreement. We're cool."

I gave her the benefit of the doubt and
decided that I should probably mind my own business. That didn't
mean I couldn't inquire on another front as a friend of Brent's and
hers, by association, having known her for as long as she had been
staying with him.

"Are you attending classes here?" I
asked.

"Yes, I'm taking a photography course. How
about you?"

"I'm enrolled in an art class."

She looked at me as if this was hard to
imagine for someone my age. Or was I misreading her?

"That's so cool," she said. "There's been a
standing invitation for Brent to teach a writing course at the
college. So far, he's turned it down, stating he doesn't have the
time."

Emily had always referred to her uncle by his
first name and he seemed to prefer it that way, perhaps to keep
himself feeling young, though he was only in his mid-fifties.

"Well, writing can be all consuming," I
pointed out.

"It doesn't have to be," she countered.
"Maybe he needs to start doing other things to make his life more
fulfilled."

I cocked a brow. "You don't think he's
getting enough fulfillment in his life?" I couldn't help but think
that the Brent I knew seemed to lead quite a fulfilling life with
his writings, travel, hobbies, and trying to be a good a role model
for his niece. Was that not enough for her?

She shrugged. "I'm just saying..."

"The next time I see Brent, maybe I'll ask
him about teaching here," I suggested as an olive branch.

Emily grinned. "That would be great."

I glanced at my watch and realized that my
class was about to start. "I have to go before I'm late."

"Me too," she said. "Have fun in your art
class."

"Same to you."

I found myself wondering if things were good
between Emily and Brent, though I had no reason in particular to
believe otherwise. Unless I counted Tony. He seemed a bit odd and
someone I could imagine might somehow rub Brent the wrong way. Or
was I just projecting my own gut feelings without cause.

I went through the motions in class, focusing
as best I could on the instructor, a thirty something, bearded,
husky man, who clearly took his work seriously and did his best to
make sure his students felt the same way. I admit that my thoughts
occasionally drifted to ideas for my blog and then, strangely
enough, I imagined Brent sharing his writing experiences and
successes with eager to learn young novelists in the making.

But would he actually do it? Or had he made
up his mind that this was something he wasn't interested in
pursuing?

I considered whether or not I should get
involved, sort of on behalf of Emily. Though Brent and I had
remained friends over the years, I had no special pull with him and
was fine with that. But that didn't mean I didn't believe he could
make use of his talents in more ways than writing and selling
books.

* * *

By the next day, I had replaced thoughts of
Brent with creative ideas for kitchens on my blog. I also responded
to comments left from the last two blogs, some more colorful than
others.

After watering my plants, I phoned my sister,
Yvonne. Seven years my junior, she also lived in Cozy Pines with
her husband George Flaunders. Yvonne was a stay at home wife,
having given up a nice job in human resources when she married
George, who was a successful businessman. Though she seemed happy
enough, I couldn't help but wonder if Yvonne wanted to do more with
her life, but wasn't sure how to get started.

"What's up?" she said.

I gave her my usual rundown on my day thus
far, and asked about hers.

"George is away on another business trip—this
time to New Jersey. I'm using the time to clean out the garage.
It's a real mess!"

"If you need some help, I can spare maybe an
hour," I offered, assuming we were headed in that direction.

But Yvonne said, "Thanks, but I've got it
covered."

"Maybe you need to get out more," I suggested
tentatively, noting that she seemed to bury herself in that big
house too much.

"I get out when I want to," she responded.
"Last weekend, George and I were in Portland."

"I meant you should get out more for
yourself
," I told her.

"When you're married, you do things for
each other
. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would
you? After all, you've been single your entire life."

I sucked in a deep breath at that jab.

"Sorry, forget I said that," Yvonne quickly
apologized. "I know you're just trying to be a big sister."

I chuckled. "And maybe I should just let you
live your life the way you want to," I told her, knowing I had a
tendency to micromanage other people. It still hurt a bit that she
seemed to think being single meant only thinking about myself—and
sometimes her—but I would get over it.

"Hey, guess what? We're thinking about having
a baby," Yvonne blurted out.

I cocked a brow in surprise. The last I knew,
George was in no hurry to have children. It had something to do
with his troubled relationship with his parents. Had he changed his
tune?

"Oh, really," I said evenly.

"Well, actually, I'm the one who's been
thinking about it," she admitted. "It's been on my mind for a while
now. I've just been waiting for the right time to bring it up to
George."

"And when will that be?" I asked.

"If all goes well, I'll tell him when he gets
back on Friday."

I wanted to ask her if she was prepared for a
letdown, but decided I had already used up my quota of giving her
my opinion during one phone call, so I told her, "Let me know how
it goes."

We both left it at that and said our
goodbyes.

Admittedly, I loved the idea of being an aunt
in the absence of being a mother myself. It was a choice I'd made
earlier in life and it had become easier over the years since I
didn't have a husband or lover in my life to encourage me
otherwise. It might have happened with Brent, if things had worked
out for us.

But since it didn't, I wasn't going to
second-guess my life's choices, any more than Brent's. Or even
Yvonne's for that matter.

CHAPTER
TWO

This month's book club meeting was held at
Annette's house, with mine being next on the revolving list in a
month. In between meetings, some or all of us met informally at a
coffee shop or at the library to discuss our progress on the
current book and also off-topic things. Along with Annette and me,
the attendees were Stephanie Catchings, Kelli Rendell, Meryl
Lamarr, and Josh Holden. There were two no-shows: Barbara Sinclair
and Judith Eckersley. We were all within six years of each other in
age, with two married, two widowed, two divorced, and two never
married. Josh, forty, was recently divorced and in fact, had taken
the place of his ex-wife in the book club when she moved out of
state. Instead of being out of place, his love for books and
laidback style made him a perfect candidate for the club.

Annette, whose husband Fred was at the shoe
shop he owned, had made homemade oatmeal cookies to go with
lemonade for her guests as the meeting began after some chitchat.
We discussed a mystery novel written last year by a local author
named Pierce O'Shea. Titled
Death's Dungeon
, it was about a
devious killer who brought unsuspecting victims to his dungeon,
before disposing of them in ghastly ways. O'Shea himself was
Brent's former research assistant turned mystery writer. He had yet
to measure up to Brent's success and superior writing technique,
but showed promise and had generally received nice reviews for the
three novels he had put out.

"I loved how the protagonist, Clifford
Stratford, used his charm more than his looks to entice his victims
into his house without a clue that they would never leave," Annette
said.

"I think O'Shea left a number of clues for
them to pick up on," Josh said. "At least I was able to spot them
without much difficulty. I just think they
chose
not to look
for them because they were so caught up in Clifford's
charisma."

"That's my point," Annette argued.
"Clifford's personality was so overwhelming that it kept his
victims from really getting to know him and the evil that lurked
within." She looked at me and said, "Feel free to weigh in any
time, Riley."

I smiled and took her up on it. "Well, I
found myself focusing not so much on how O'Shea or Stratford, I
should say, lured his targets to their deaths, but rather the
process by which he cleverly built his own life and then was
overcome by a wicked nature to go after others."

"I thought it was interesting," Stephanie
chimed in, "that Clifford somehow managed to be as sweet as could
be in romancing Genevieve Donnelly, without giving a hint of his
dark side, while sparing her the same fate as the others. He must
have truly loved her."

Kelli chuckled sarcastically. "I'd hardly
call it love when you manage to steal someone's heart and rip it
out afterwards, figuratively speaking."

"I honestly thought the authorities would
never figure it out," Meryl said. "They seemed almost as baffled as
the ones who were taken by Clifford Stratford, until the police
finally put the pieces together."

"Isn't that what makes the mystery," I
suggested, "to keep everyone, including the characters, in the dark
until as close to the end as possible?"

Meryl frowned. "I guess, but I thought the
book was boring for the most part. Maybe the author could take a
lesson or two from someone who is truly a master of the genre like
Brent London."

"I think he already has," Annette said.
"After all, Brent was his mentor."

"Clearly O'Shea has a ways to go to measure
up to London," Josh said. "I'm sure he'll get better over
time."

Everyone seemed pretty much in agreement with
that belief, with the possible exception of Meryl, who seemed
unsold on the notion. As someone who had read all of Brent's
novels, with the exception of the first, which had apparently gone
out of print before he found success and incredibly had remained
that way, it was certainly easy to distinguish the pupil from the
student. This notwithstanding, I believed that Pierce O'Shea had a
lot of potential as a novelist and I suspected that bigger things
were coming his way.

Before the meeting was adjourned, we agreed
that our next book club selection would be the gothic novel
Rebecca
, by British author
Daphne du Maurier. Though I had read several of her other
novels, somehow I hadn't gotten around to arguably her most popular
one. As such, I welcomed the opportunity to read and discuss it
with the club members.

* * *

After my morning run and breakfast the
following day, I paid a visit to my favorite flower shop, The
Blossoming Florist, owned by my good friend Peggy Lawrence. Like
me, Peggy, who was the same age, had never been married. However,
she was engaged to a charming man. According to her, it was one of
those long engagements that would give them plenty of time to make
sure this was what they both wanted.

I didn't have to look far for Peggy, as I
found her in an aisle arranging some potted plants.

"Well look who the wind blew in," she said
with a smile, gazing up at me through her glasses.

"Actually, it is a bit gusty out there this
morning," I had to admit.

Peggy was petite with dark short hair. "If
you'd like to work for me, I can always use the help, even with two
part-timers already on the payroll."

I grinned. "Thanks, but no thanks," I told
her politely. "I prefer my green thumb in the comfort of my own
home."

She sighed. "I figured as much." She wiped
her hands almost self-consciously on her stained apron. "So are you
shopping or did you just drop by to say hello?"

"Both. Hello and I'm looking to add a couple
of nice houseplants to my collection. What do you suggest?"

"I think I have the perfect plants for you,"
she said. "Follow me."

I did and we ended up in front of some
tropical bromeliads and other
colorful blooming plants.

"These plants would certainly be great
additions for your house," Peggy said.

I agreed, and I also liked the containers,
which were perfectly suited for them.

But Peggy wasn't content to leave it at that.
"I can also show you some lovely orchids and
hanging amaranthus."

Tempted as I was, but knowing I could only
keep a handle on so many plants, I told her, "Thanks, but I'd
better quit while I'm ahead."

She smiled. "Got it. But I'll let you know
when something new comes in that I think you might like."

"Please do," I said nicely. As she rang up my
purchases, I asked casually, "How's Harold?" He was her fiancé.

"He's great—thanks for asking."

"I've got to have you both over for dinner
soon."

"We'd like that. Harold's always telling me
that we should hang out with my friends more. I usually respond by
saying we should hang out with his a little less. Not that I think
they're too stuffy. Or maybe they are."

I chuckled. "You know what they say—you marry
a person and inherit their family and friends, for better or
worse."

"So true," she said. "Guess I'll learn to get
used to his friends."

"And vice versa," I told her, taking back my
credit card. "I'll call you next week and we'll set up a dinner
date."