Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (5 page)

A thought suddenly popped in my head. "I can
ask some of my friends if they would be interested in taking a
kitten."

Rachel grinned. "Oh, would you?"

"Not a problem."

Now I could only hope that I could actually
come through. I could think of a few people who might be
interested, starting with Kelli from the book club and my sister
Yvonne. I called them when I got home that afternoon.

"Sure, why not?" Kelli said. "It will give my
cat, Belle, someone to play with."

"Great. I'll be sure to pass that along to
Rachel."

"Do I need to go somewhere to pick up the
kitten?"

I gave her Rachel's number so they could work
out the details between them. "Hey, while I have you on the line,"
I said, "there's been a slight change in plans for our next book
club meeting."

"Oh? Don't tell me that
Rebecca
has
been taken off the table without a vote of the entire
membership?"

I chuckled. "Nothing so drastic, I can assure
you." I explained to her that Brent had agreed to meet with us and
talk about his books.

"Wow, that's fantastic!" Kelli declared. "How
did you arrange that?"

"It wasn't very difficult." I told her we
were old friends, not elaborating any more than that.

"So you have friends in high places? Good for
you."

"Actually, Brent's pretty down to earth," I
said, and meant it. In spite of the critical praise he'd received
throughout his writing career, he never seemed to let it go to his
head. That certainly wasn't the case when we were dating, which I'd
always considered one of his better qualities.

"Well, I can't wait to meet him," she
gushed.

"I'm afraid you'll have to—since the meeting
is still a few weeks away." I considered that we could move up the
book club meeting, but then that might throw everyone off from
whatever plans they had, so I snuffed out the idea.

After we finished talking, I called Yvonne,
who was enthusiastic about taking one of the kittens.

"I could use the company when George is out
of town," she said.

I was glad to hear that and suddenly
remembered our last conversation. "And what about having a
baby?"

Yvonne sighed. "I haven't brought it up to
him yet."

"What are you waiting for?"

"The right time," she said shakily.

"Isn't the right time now while you have the
fever?"

"It's not that simple."

"You mean you don't think he's on the same
page with you on the subject?" I asked bluntly and
perceptively.

Yvonne paused. "Not exactly," she said. "But
I'm sure once he realizes how important this is to me...to our
marriage, he'll come around."

"I hope so," I told her, wondering if she
would actually threaten to divorce George if he balked at having a
child. Maybe counseling would be a better answer. I decided not to
go there—at least not until she had a chance to discuss it with her
husband.

I cut the conversation short, realizing I had
a few more things to do before heading over to Brent's house.

One of those was to call Klackston Industries
on behalf of Emily. I asked to speak to Jill Woodward in human
resources.

"This is Jill Woodward," she said.

"Hi, I'm Riley Reed," I told her. "I
understand that Emily Peterson has applied for a job there."

"That's right."

I did my best to sing the praises for Emily
as a bright and enthusiastic young lady who would be a good
employee—identifying myself as a longtime resident of Cozy Pines
and a family friend. She seemed suitably pleased with the
recommendation, promising to take it into consideration where it
concerned possibly hiring Emily.

If it happened, I would certainly tell Brent
that he owed me one, even if I had no intention of ever trying to
collect.

* * *

Brent's house was in an upscale subdivision
of seaside homes. He had lived there for the past twelve years and
I could understand why. It was a beautiful location and he had a
lovely home, in spite of wanting me to do a makeover on his man
cave. I couldn't help but wonder just how long he would be able to
stay there and take care of himself. I wondered how much assistance
he could count on from Emily, who seemed pretty busy with her
life.

I imagined Brent had made provisions to that
effect in his will, though I'm sure it pained him to do so, being a
proud man who was used to his independence and calling the shots.
Perhaps if he had been married again, it would have made this
transition in his life easier. But apparently things with his
latest girlfriend hadn't worked out, so they never got the chance
to head to the altar. And his relationship with his ex-wives had
soured long before he developed early onset Alzheimer's
disease.

Just as I turned onto Diamond Drive, the dead
end street where Brent lived, another car sped past me. I didn't
get a good look at the driver, but thought it might have been a
male based on a general, though vague, impression on height above
the front seat. Whoever it was, they were obviously in a big hurry
in the dark sedan.

I drove past several spacious homes with
well-groomed lawns and shrubbery till I reached Brent's house at
the end of the road. The rustic, two-story Craftsman home was on a
hill with unobstructed views of the beach and ocean. It was
something Brent took pride in, refurbishing several rooms over the
years, but never his man cave.

Better late than never
, I thought,
getting out of my car.

I noted Brent's silver Mercedes was parked in
the driveway. Emily appeared to be gone, as I did not see her red
Prius, which Brent had given her last year as a birthday gift.

After walking down a cobblestone path to the
front door, I rang the bell. There was no answer and I rang it
again. I remembered that Brent had said his housekeeper, Luisa, had
the day off. I considered that maybe Brent had the water on and
couldn't hear me. Or maybe he was asleep and had forgotten our
appointment.

I took out my cell phone and called him. It
went straight to voicemail. After ringing the bell again and
getting no answer, I banged on the front door. To my surprise, it
actually opened. Apparently, Brent or Emily had failed to close it
properly.

After weighing whether or not to enter, I
decided to do so, if only to make sure Brent knew I was there,
given that he had requested my visit.

I stepped into a large foyer with a marble
floor. "Brent," I called out, "Are you there? It's Riley. We have
an appointment at seven o'clock."

When he didn't answer, I walked further
inside, partly feeling as though I were intruding and partly
feeling very much at home in a residence where I had spent a great
deal of time when Brent and I were dating.

I continued to call out his name as I peeked
in one room after another, admiring the architecture along the way
while maintaining my focus. With no sign of him in the gourmet
kitchen, where Brent had prepared numerous very tasty dishes as a
great cook, I headed for his recreation room also known as his man
cave.

The moment I stepped inside, my heart skipped
a beat. Brent was slumped over face down atop the pool table. I
could see blood coming from a wound on the back of his head. I
glanced to the floor and saw a bloody pool stick that had obviously
been used by whoever did this.

Before I could even run to Brent and shout
his name, my gut told me that he would not hear me. Not as a living
human being anyway. Someone had
murdered
my friend, who was
once so much more. Now he would never get to write another book or
fight to hold onto his failing mind.

CHAPTER
FIVE

Ten minutes after I called 911, the police
came and immediately declared Brent's man cave a crime scene before
extending it to his entire estate with investigators combing the
place for evidence and clues, while keeping the media at bay. Brent
had been murdered by an as yet unknown assailant with an unknown
motive. Having verified that Emily was nowhere in the house as I
waited for the authorities to arrive, I phoned her, but received no
reply.

Two more calls and a text followed and she
had yet to respond. I was more than a little concerned for her
safety, wondering if there might be a kidnapping involved with
Brent's murder.

I brought this up to Detective Stan Whitmore,
the investigator in charge of the case, as we stood in the Great
Room. He was in his late thirties and solidly built, with short
black hair parted on the side and blue eyes.

"That's certainly something that can't be
ruled out," he voiced with concern. "You say you phoned the
victim's niece"—he glanced down at his notes—"Ms. Peterson, and got
no answer?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Does she normally not respond to calls and
text messages to her cell phone?"

"I can't really say, Detective," I responded
honestly. "I haven't had much need to call or text her in the
past."

"Perhaps she just turned off her cell phone
and doesn't know she has messages waiting," he suggested.

"That's possible. And it's just as possible
that she's unable to answer her phone if she's being held against
her will. Or someone else has it."

Whitmore mulled that over, but did not seem
overly concerned for Emily's safety at this time. "There is no
indication as yet that anyone other than Mr. London is a crime
victim," he said. "Nevertheless, we're still attempting to contact
Ms. Peterson."

I supposed there was little more they could
do at this point, so I didn't press it. I could only hope that
whoever killed Brent had not targeted Emily as well, though
admittedly I had no reason to believe this, apart from the fact
that I was unable to reach her.

"We'd like to speak with the housekeeper,
too..." He looked at me, trying to recall her name.

"Luisa Sanchez," I told him. "As I understood
it, this was her day off."

Luisa had been Brent's housekeeper for as
long as I could remember, having outlasted all of his wives and
girlfriends, including me. I was sure that his untimely death would
be as much a shock to her as it was to me, if not more.

"Do you happen to know where I can reach
her?" the detective asked.

I seem to recall Brent once mentioning that
she stayed in an apartment complex on Daisy Street, and passed that
on to the detective, while suggesting that Brent would likely have
her number on his cell phone.

Whitmore nodded in agreement and sent an
officer to check the cell phone, now being held as evidence, after
it had been discovered on the floor near the pool table where
Brent's body was found.

"Do you know if Brent London had any
enemies?" Whitmore asked with a keen eye.

"None that I'm aware of," I told him. "Brent
was a well loved and respected bestselling author. I can't think of
any reason why someone would have wanted him dead."

"There's always a reason or two that tend to
come out eventually," the detective said, smoothing a thick
eyebrow.

"You're probably right," I said. Though I had
no reason to believe that any of the past women in Brent's life
could have had anything to do with his murder, I thought I should
at least mention them to the detective, knowing he would discover
this anyway during his investigation. "For the record, Brent was
married and divorced four times and had no children. All of his
exes, aside from the first, who died years ago, are still living in
Cozy Pines. I also know that he recently ended a relationship with
a young woman named Karla Terrell."

Whitmore peered at me. "Think any of them
could have had it in for him?"

"I'm not sure. I know some of them and not so
much the others. I'd like to think that none of them would have
stooped to the level of murder, but I'm aware that in many such
cases, the killer is pretty close to home."

"All too true, I'm afraid," he said. "But, as
someone who's gone through a divorce, murder never entered my mind,
no matter how painful the process was. Of course, that's just me.
We'll check out everyone and anyone who may have been associated
with Mr. London till we get to the bottom of this."

"In that case, you might also want to talk to
Pierce O'Shea," I suggested. "He's Brent's former research
assistant and now a fine local writer himself, who remained good
friends with Brent. If there was someone who had a beef against
him, Pierce might know about it."

"I'll pay Mr. O'Shea a visit and see if he
can provide any useful information." Whitmore regarded me intently.
"If you don't mind, let's go over again exactly how you happened to
have entered the house and discovered the body."

I could tell by his gaze that he considered
me a possible suspect. The mere notion might have caused the hair
to rise on the back of my neck had I not been able to put myself in
his position. Everyone who knew Brent had to be viewed as a
suspect, especially the person who called in the crime. I was aware
that in more than a few true life cases, such a person had proven
to be the killer when all was said and done.

That obviously wasn't the case here, but the
detective had no way of knowing that by my appearance and cool head
alone.

I sucked in a breath and said, "I came to the
house for a seven o'clock appointment with Brent. I was supposed to
take a look at his recreation room because he wanted me to do a
makeover—"

"You're an interior designer?" Whitmore broke
in.

"I operate a blog on home décor and
renovation, and I'm a consultant." I started to leave it at that,
but decided it was important for him to know that my association
with Brent went further than that. "Brent and I have been friends
for a long time. We dated briefly several years ago. It was for
that reason that when no one answered the door, which opened on its
own, I came inside the house."