Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (23 page)

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.