Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (10 page)

"Doesn't that strike you as odd?" Yvonne
questioned. "I mean, who shows up to collect some items a day after
the person is killed?"

"Maybe someone with something to hide," I
speculated. "Or a young woman who simply saw an opportunity and
took it without considering how it might look to others."

"Well whatever happens from this point on, I
hope you stay out of it."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." I told
her about making the funeral arrangements and that I was a
beneficiary in Brent's will, while downplaying it. "My guess is he
left me a piece of the art work he collected over the years, some
of which he knew I loved."

"He obviously never stopped caring for you,"
Yvonne said.

I reflected upon that before saying, "That
goes both ways. Anyway, I'd better let you go as I have a lunch
date with Pierce O'Shea."

"The writer?"

"Yes and Brent's former research
assistant."

"Should I be asking why you're having lunch
with him?" Yvonne asked.

"It's not a romantic date," I said, and
explained that it was merely what I believed to be two friends of
Brent's exchanging thoughts about him and his death. I left out the
part about wanting him to speak at our next book club meeting.

Yvonne sounded disappointed. "There's nothing
that says you can't go out on a
real
date again
sometime."

"I know and I plan to whenever someone comes
along who suits my fancy," I told her.

"You mean someone like Brent London?"

"I mean someone I'm comfortable with and vice
versa," I stressed, while wondering if I was still using Brent as
the standard of measurement, even while trying not to.

* * *

The Crystal Club parking lot was packed, but
I managed to find a slot that another patron had just vacated. It
was one of the oldest eating establishments in Cozy Pines, catering
to high end visitors and tourists, and was located right off the
beach.

When I stepped inside, Pierce was already
there talking on his cell phone. He cut the call short when he saw
me.

With a preoccupied look on his face, he
greeted me. "Thanks for coming."

"Hard to turn down a free meal," I half
joked.

He grinned. "I believe our table is
ready."

I followed him through the dining room, where
the walls were adorned with framed photographs of the owners posing
with various celebrities, to a table with an oceanfront window.
There were already two glasses half filled with wine on the
table.

"I took the liberty of ordering white wine,"
Pierce said. "I seem to remember during one of Brent's parties that
it was your wine of choice."

"It is and thank you," I told him, taking a
seat.

Just as quickly, a waitress came and handed
us menus.

"You can't go wrong with anything here,"
Pierce said. "My personal favorite is grilled salmon with roasted
walnuts."

"Sounds tasty," I admitted, "but I think I'll
go with crab cakes and hazelnut salad."

"Good choice," he said.

Momentarily, our orders were taken.

No sooner had the waitress left, when Pierce
leaned forward and said, "I understand from Detective Whitmore that
Brent hired you to consult on redecorating his recreation
room?"

"Yes," I acknowledged. "I think he was tired
of his man cave décor and wanted something fresh."

"It was a good idea," Pierce said, sipping
wine. "I just wish Brent had lived to see it come to fruition."

"Me, too."

"And you happened upon the crime scene as a
result of your scheduled meeting with Brent?"

I nodded. "I certainly hadn't expected
anything like that."

Pierce furrowed his brow. "I dread to think
that you could have walked in on the killer. Or worse, that the
killer might have been present even while you were in the
house."

"I hadn't thought about that at the time," I
conceded, "but, yes, it is quite unnerving. Fortunately, there was
no sign of anyone else in the house—or outside it, for that matter,
which I told the police."

"It would have made their job much easier had
you seen someone, without the person seeing you, that is," he
said.

"I only wish that had been the case.
Obviously, the sooner the crime can be solved, the sooner Brent can
rest in peace and the entire community can feel safe."

"I agree." Pierce lifted his wine glass. "I
definitely want justice for my friend and you surely want the same.
That's why I've informed the police that my door is always open, if
there is anything I can do to help them nail the bastard and put
him or her away for a very long time, if not receive the death
penalty."

I gazed at him across the table. "Do you
really think the perpetrator could be a woman?"

He shrugged. "Sure, why not? The murder
weapon—a pool cue—could just as easily have been used by a female
full of rage."

"You mean like a vengeful ex-girlfriend or
wife?" I threw out.

"Yes, or even an unbalanced fan," he said.
"Brent has told me about encountering such on more than one
occasion. Of course, I could be entirely off track here. It's also
more than possible that a male perpetrator could have broken in and
attacked Brent."

"From what I understand, there was no sign of
forced entry," I pointed out.

"Yes, I heard that too. But someone
sophisticated enough would have had no problem bypassing Brent's
security system and door locks. Especially someone who was
determined to take his life."

"I suppose you're right about that.
Hopefully, whoever did it left behind clues, such as DNA."

Pierce nodded. "The police department has an
excellent forensics team. I'm confident that if there's anything to
be found, they will find it."

I took solace in those words as our food
arrived. The break gave me a chance to collect my thoughts and
approach a different front on Brent and why someone succeeded in
killing him.

"The day before Brent died, he and I had
dinner at Cheri's," I said while drizzling ranch dressing on my
salad.

"Nice place," Pierce said, slicing into the
salmon.

"He said he would be meeting you
afterwards."

Pierce nodded. "Yes, we did meet there for a
drink."

I looked at him. "Do you mind if I ask what
the meeting was about?"

He cocked a brow. "Nothing in particular. We
got together every now and then and talked about old times, new
times, and anything else that came up. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I just thought maybe he might
have said something that could have given a clue about his state of
mind or if he was having problems with anyone."

Pierce shrugged. "He never mentioned anything
about someone being after him or anything else of concern. As far
as his state of mind, he seemed sharp as a tack and ready to do
more writing."

It was clear to me that Brent had gone out of
his way to cover up his Alzheimer's disease, even to someone he
held in such high esteem as Pierce. Whether this was a good idea or
not, it seemed to have worked in giving off the appearance of being
well, when Brent was, in fact, slowly declining.

But that didn't mean he was unaware of his
surroundings. Or clueless that someone might have targeted him for
some reason. Had he let his killer in voluntarily?

How did the person get out of the house
without being seen?

Did Brent actually see the person who beat
him to death? Or had he been caught completely off guard, and never
knew what—or who—hit him?

"So what's going on in that head of yours?"
Pierce asked intently.

"Oh, I was just thinking about Brent and what
he went through on the last day of his life," I answered, lifting
my glass of water.

"It's hit me too. I can't imagine going
through anything like that."

"But you're a mystery writer," I said. "I
would think you would have no problem picturing such a
scenario."

"That's true," he said, scooping up mashed
potatoes. "I can picture anything where it concerns fiction
scenarios. But when it hits close to home in real life, well, the
mind just goes blank and shuts out things that are too
painful."

"I understand," I told him, hoping he didn't
think I was suggesting that what happened to Brent was like
something out of a mystery novel that either one of them could have
written. Seeking to switch to a less dreary subject, I mentioned to
him that our book club had recently featured one of his titles for
discussion.

Pierce smiled. "Yes, Brent told me. I'm
honored."

I left out the part that not everyone was
impressed with the novel. Perhaps that could change if he could
explain the characters and their motivations for doing the things
they did. "Would you consider coming to one of our meetings?" As he
chewed on the thought, I added, "Brent had already agreed to come
to our next meeting, but fell short of it through no fault of his
own."

"I'd love to," he said, using a cloth napkin
to wipe the corners of his mouth. "I get a kick out of meeting face
to face with fans and getting feedback from them on what I'm doing
right and what I could do to improve."

"That's wonderful," I said, impressed with
his openness to constructive criticism, should there be any once
the opportunity presented itself.

"Besides," Pierce noted, "if Brent had
planned to attend your meeting, the least I could do is the same in
honor of my mentor and dear friend."

"Then it's settled," I told him, setting my
fork down. "I'll let the members know and get back to you with the
details."

"Sounds like a plan."

When the lunch ended, we said our goodbyes
and expected to see each other again at Brent's funeral.

Back at home, I notified the book club about
the latest change in plans, which they all welcomed in light of the
tragedy of Brent's death. I spent the rest of the afternoon working
on my blog and watching television.

In the evening, I ate alone and found myself
actually missing my one day housemate. I hoped that once Brent's
affairs were settled, Emily was able to succeed on her own two feet
for perhaps the first time in her young life, and make something of
it, as Brent would have wanted.

In bed, I read a few chapters of
Rebecca
, before falling asleep, already thinking about the
day ahead.

CHAPTER
NINE

On Saturday, the church was packed as those
who knew Brent in the community, and fans from outside of it, had
come to pay their respects to a great mystery writer who would not
soon be forgotten. Brent London, wearing one of his best suits,
looked like he was sleeping peacefully in the open casket at the
front of the church.

I sat beside Emily in the front pew. Beside
Emily was her friend, Tony. Next to me was Pierce, who seemed to be
genuinely shaken up by the funeral.

On the other side of Pierce was Ivana
Croxley, an attractive, tall redhead in her early thirties, who
claimed she had been dating Brent when he died. Pierce had vouched
for her, stating that Brent had introduced them only a week ago at
a restaurant.

Brent's last girlfriend, Karla Terrell, had
insisted that she get a seat in the front as well, still asserting
that Brent wanted to get back together with her, even if I found
that hard to believe, considering that he had apparently moved on
to the lovely Ivana. But rather than cause a ruckus, Emily and I
had yielded to Karla's demands, allowing her to sit at the end of
the pew in the first row.

In the second row were Brent's three
surviving ex-wives: Deidre, Ashley, and Margo, along with the
current men in their lives.

A couple of rows behind them were my sister
Yvonne and her husband George, along with my good friend Peggy and
her fiancé Harold.

Some members of my book club had shown up as
well, including Meryl, Kelli, and Josh. I suspected that they were
just as curious to see the prolific author—who had given generously
to Cozy Pines over the years—as they were truly saddened by his
death.

Also present were Detectives Whitmore and
Gifford. Though they tried to make themselves inconspicuous, it was
clear to me that they were there as part of their investigation,
hoping the killer would show up and present clues that could be
used to nab them.

The thought that a killer would show up at
the victim's funeral turned my stomach, though I knew that it would
provide the perfect cover for someone trying to stay under the
radar by hiding in plain view.

Still, I wasn't convinced that this was the
case. I believed that most killers would prefer to keep a low
profile rather than take unnecessary risks by giving the
authorities reason to suspect them when they otherwise might
not.

On a strictly personal basis, I hoped the
killer of my friend did not have the audacity to show up at his
funeral, making Brent's death all the more tragic. At the same
time, I wanted the person apprehended as soon as possible, so life
in Cozy Pines could return to normal, to the extent possible.

I glanced at Brent again as the pastor,
Sylvia Quincy, spoke kindly about him and everything he had stood
for. It was hard not to shed tears for someone I had cared about
who was now gone for good due to a senseless act of violence.

After the service was over, I rode with Emily
and Tony to the cemetery.

"I
hate
this," Emily cried. "Uncle
Brent had a lot of years left. Now he's just...gone."

"Yeah, it totally sucks," Tony said.

I sensed that he was merely going through the
motions for Emily's sake. "Brent's in a better place now," I told
them.

She looked at me, wiping away tears. "You
really think so?"

"Yes," I reiterated. "To believe otherwise
would make faith and everything we go through in life
meaningless."