Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (26 page)

I had hoped Professor Fenkell would arrive
before his wife was taken away. But, oddly enough, after trying his
number several times, the police hadn't been able to reach him.

Chief Rutger questioned me alone while Elliot
stepped outside for some fresh air.

"So I understand you were renting this
house?" the chief asked.

"That's right, but not to live in."

"Oh...?"

"I rented it for my independent study."

He gave me a curious look. "What kind of
independent study?"

I explained to him in as few words as
possible the nature of my project.

Chief Rutger swallowed thickly. "You're
telling me that you were staging the nineteen-fifty-something
Marilyn Sheppard murder?"

"It was 1954, and the reenactment wasn't
scheduled till this afternoon."

"And Ms. Fenkell was to be in it?"

"Yes, and it's Mrs. Fenkell. She and her
husband, Glenn Fenkell, are professors at the university."

He took notes. "Let me guess, Mrs. Fenkell
was to play the role of Marilyn Sheppard?"

"Yes, that's correct," I acknowledged
reluctantly.

He chuckled humorlessly. "Why am I not
surprised?"

"Maybe you should be. She wasn't supposed to
be here till this afternoon for the rehearsal. The fact that she
showed up here in the middle of the night is very surprising to
me."

"Why do you think she did that?" He stared at
me unblinkingly.

"I have no idea. I'm guessing she either came
with the person who killed her or came on her own and was followed
by the killer."

"Those are reasonable assumptions. But they
still don't tell us why. Do you have any idea who would want to
kill Mrs. Fenkell?"

A few suspects came to mind. I recalled
Sharon Weiss's stormy accusation of her husband, Jason, having an
affair with Camelia. Neither Camelia nor Jason confirmed this, but
it didn't appear to be entirely without merit.

What if Jason was having an affair with
Camelia and then killed her to protect his marriage, shaky as it
may have been?

Or maybe Sharon was pushed over the edge with
insane jealousy and went after Camelia.

It was also hard to overlook Glenn Fenkell as
the possible killer, even if I wanted to believe otherwise. Maybe
he'd decided murder was more preferable than divorcing his wife,
freeing him to be with his alleged young girlfriend, Tatum
Douglas.

Or maybe Tatum stepped way out of her league
in pursuing an older man and was willing to do whatever it took to
get rid of the competition.

I ran these possibilities by Chief Rutger,
not sure he'd take any of it seriously with nothing to go on in the
form of tangible proof.

"Well, that's certainly some food for
thought," he said. "I'll check it out."

Feeling on a roll, I decided to toss one more
suspect at him.

"While you're at it, you might want to run a
check on Luther Pickford—the man who rented me the house."

Chief Rutger rolled his eyes. "Why? You think
he had something to do with it?"

"I couldn't really say, since I never got a
good look at the person who ran off. But he was acting pretty
strange yesterday."

"There are lots of strange people in Pearl's
Village," he said dismissively. "Doesn't make them all
killers."

I sighed. "But it only takes one to fit the
bill."

"I'll have a talk with Luther Pickford." The
chief flipped the page in his notepad. "Why don't you tell me about
this car you claim the killer drove away in?"

I ignored the swipe at my credibility. "It
was dark-colored. I'm not sure about the make or model."

"You didn't happen to get the license plate
number or a partial, did you?"

"Sorry. It was just too dark."

"Too bad." He ran a hand across his chin.
"Guess that's all for now. But I may need to talk to you
later."

"Don't worry, I won't be leaving town," I
promised.

"Good. Now as for your little reenactment,
since this is now an official crime scene, you'll have to postpone
it till we complete our investigation."

"I assure you that I have no desire to
interfere with your investigation or carry on with my independent
study as though nothing happened."

"Then we understand each other, Ms.
Vensetta."

"Perfectly."

The front door burst open and a female deputy
entered, followed by Glenn Fenkell and Elliot.

"This is the victim's husband," the deputy
told her boss. "We found him wandering around outside, almost in a
daze."

Indeed, Glenn did appear to be disoriented,
disheveled, and intoxicated. I wasn't sure what to make of this,
but it didn't look good.

"Professor Fenkell..." I approached him.

"Madsen," he said. "My wife...what happened
to her?"

"You don't know?"

"No one's told me anything. Where is
she?"

I paused and glanced at Elliot, wishing there
was an easy way to say it.

Chief Rutger apparently had no such
reservations. After identifying himself, he said bluntly, "Mr.
Fenkell, your wife's dead. Someone murdered her in this house early
this morning. Maybe you can tell us where you've been?"

Glenn gazed at me blankly and drew a breath.
"That's the thing, I'm not really sure."

I turned to Chief Rutger and could plainly
see that as far as he was concerned, Glenn Fenkell had just become
the number one suspect in his wife's murder.

* * *

I stayed at Elliot's place for what was left
of the early morning darkness, not wanting to be alone. Though
exhausted, sleep was once again hard to come by. Tossing and
turning, I kept coming back to Camelia's killer. The person seemed
vaguely familiar, though I never got a good look due to the hooded
sweater and the darkness. Obviously, the killer had wanted to hide
his or her identity.

After a while, I slipped from Elliot's grasp,
got dressed, and went into the bathroom to wash my face. I grabbed
a towel off the shelf and dried my face. As I was about to put the
towel in the hamper, my eyes honed in on a balled up dark sweater.
Curiosity made me pick it up. The sweater had a hood and looked
very much like the one the killer was wearing when running from the
rental house.

My heart skipped a beat in that moment. Was
Elliot Camelia's murderer? Or was this just a coincidence?

Gut instincts told me there was more to the
man I was involved with than met the eye—and none of it good.

I thought about the fact it was Elliot who
suggested that particular house to stage my reenactment. He must
have known the house well—perhaps had even lived there once—and as
such was able to make his escape through the back door when he
realized I had a good view of the front door. He couldn't take the
chance I might recognize him even with the hood on.

The bathroom door opened and Elliot filled
the space. There was a scowl on his face when he noticed I was
holding the sweater.

"The moment you went into the bathroom, I
remembered the sweater," he said. "I was hoping you wouldn't find
it."

I colored as he confirmed my suspicions. "You
killed Camelia? Why?"

"She left me no choice. You see, working in
the same department, she discovered I was embezzling funds from a
research project and decided to blackmail me into keeping her
silence. I went along with it till she got too greedy and
stupid."

I tried to process this group of crimes:
embezzlement, blackmail, and murder. How could I have been so wrong
about him? Or had I simply not looked hard enough?

"Why did you have to involve me in your
sordid criminal activities?"

"It wasn't intentional." Elliot chuckled
derisively. "You have to admit, though, the Marilyn Sheppard murder
reenactment idea was perfect. I even hinted to Camelia that she
should take the part, knowing she performed for the theater on the
side and would find it too irresistible to pass up. Once I set you
up at a place with a sure-fire escape route, I was in business. It
wasn't very difficult to get Camelia to meet me at the house at a
time when neither of us would attract suspicion. She thought I was
going to buckle under to her unreasonable demands. Instead, my
desire was to silence her for good." His eyes narrowed. "I hadn't
counted on you coming there in the middle of the night, though you
were too late to save her." His voice softened. "I didn't want this
to come between us."

I flashed him a hard gaze. "But it has, and
there's no putting the genie back in the bottle."

"I'm afraid you're right." He approached
me.

I took a step backwards, wishing I had the
can of mace in my hands instead of the sweater.

"Just let me go home, Elliot. I'll give you
an hour to get away before I call the police."

I saw no reason to insult his intelligence by
suggesting my lips would remain forever sealed as to what I knew. I
hoped that whatever we once had would be good for something.

He laughed. "Why would I want to give up
what's been a pretty good life thus far to become a fugitive when I
can solve my one remaining problem right now? I'm really sorry it
has to end this way, Madsen."

He lifted his arms like Frankenstein,
prepared to strangle me with his bare hands. Having literally been
backed to the sink, all I could think to do was toss the sweater at
him, which he easily blocked.

I began to scream at the same time his hands
wrapped around my neck. He succeeded in muffling my cries by
applying more pressure.

Knowing Elliot had every intention of adding
me to his collection of murder victims, I tried kicking and
clawing, but it had no effect on him. Then I remembered seeing a
can of shaving cream by the sink. Somehow I managed to grab it and
in one swift motion sprayed it liberally at his eyes, covering them
with the white foam.

He yowled and released his grip on my neck,
wiping his eyes and face. I took what I believed to be my last
chance to escape and kneed him as hard as I could in the
crotch.

He bowled over in pain, allowing me to slip
by him and race for the door.

I unlocked and opened it before I felt him
grab my hair from behind. Elliot tossed me to the floor.

I felt lightheaded and wondered if all my
efforts would prove for naught and Elliot would get away with not
one, but two cold-blooded murders.

"Why couldn't you have made this simple?" he
asked, clearly not expecting an answer.

I gave him one anyway. "Go to hell!"

Just as he was about to lunge at me, the
front door burst open. Chief Rutger stood there, gun drawn.

"Hold it, Arness!" he demanded. "You're under
arrest for the murder of Camelia Fenkell."

Elliot rounded on him. "I don't think
so."

He rushed toward the chief like a madman,
leaving him no choice but to shoot Elliot, twice. It was the second
bullet to his neck that proved fatal.

Chief Rutger helped me to my feet. "Are you
all right?"

I nodded, though I doubted I'd ever be the
same again. "How did you find out?"

"With Glenn Fenkell's help. Once the booze
began to wear off, he remembered Camelia had confessed to him about
the blackmail and embezzlement schemes. Apparently, she had agreed
to meet with Arness to convince him to turn himself in as she
planned to do. But Arness had something else in mind."

I forced myself to look at the man who had
been my lover. Lying on his back, his eyes were still open but
empty. What a tragic waste. I wondered what could possess someone
who seemed to have everything to want so much more at such a
terrible price.

I hoped I never had to find out.

* * *

Two months later, my completed independent
study was now history. Circumstances had made me change the focus
somewhat. Instead of a reenactment of a famous old murder case with
the perpetrator being a bushy-haired intruder, I re-created a
modern true murder mystery, complete with enough twists and turns
to make for a bestselling book where the dynamics were equally
riveting.

Glenn Fenkell and I were dating now. Turned
out we had more in common than not. Neither of us wanted to rush
into anything. We were quite content to take it slow to see how
things developed. I'd learned not to look too far ahead, well aware
there were no guarantees in life.

So far, so good.

# # #

About the
Author

R. Barri Flowers is an award winning,
bestselling mystery, suspense, and thriller writer, with such
novels as Before He Kills Again, Justice Served, Killer in The
Woods, Murder in Honolulu, and Murder in Maui.

Flowers is also the bestselling author of
young adult fiction, including Count Dracula's Teenage Daughter,
Danger in Time, Ghost Girl in Shadow Bay, Teen Ghost at Dead Lake,
and Summer at Paradise Ranch.

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