Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (16 page)

"I don't know, but the police might be
interested in checking him out, if they haven't already, as an
alternative possibility to the ones they have in custody."

"Of course," she agreed, "you're right. After
I put this bag in the kitchen, I'll look for that information."

"Okay and I'll start loading the books in my
car."

By the time I finished the task—and was
looking forward to reading them all again—Luisa had come outside
holding a card.

"I found this inside a drawer in Mr. London's
desk—"

I looked at the business card from William
Hendrickson. It said he was a financial advisor and included his
address and phone number.

"May I take this?" I asked her, to be
sure.

"It's okay with me," Luisa said. "After all,
Mr. London won't need it anymore."

Sadly, that was all too true.

Luisa went back inside the house and I headed
toward my car. Before I got to it, I happened to spot Brent's
neighbor, Mrs. Potter, who had told the police she heard Emily and
Brent arguing the day of his death. She was watering some plants on
her porch.

I decided to have a little chat with her, to
see if there was anything else she had seen or heard that day.

Walking down two houses, I came to the
two-story brick Colonial home, admiring its symmetrical frontage
with pillars. It had a gable roof and windows with black shutters.
I could only imagine the interior with its traditional
architecture, midpoint entry hall, and elegant woodwork.

I approached the porch down a pathway
bordered by lavender, red, and green Caladiums.

"Mrs. Potter," I said, getting her attention,
as she seemed to be preoccupied tending to her plants rather than
studying her neighbors.

She turned to me, and put her watering can
down. "Yes...?"

"My name is Riley Reed. I knew Brent
London...he was a dear friend of mine."

She nodded. "Yes, he mentioned you. Brent
told me he was consulting with you about remodeling his man cave."
She chuckled. "That was how he referred to his recreation
room."

I cocked a brow in surprise that Brent would
have told her about the project. "That's right."

"Brent and I weren't very close as neighbors
go, but I enjoyed talking to him from time to time about our homes
and, of course, his writing. He'll be missed."

"Yes, he will," I concurred, pausing. "I was
wondering if we could have a word regarding the argument you heard
between Brent and his niece, Emily, the day he died," I said. "The
police discussed it with me during the course of their
investigation."

"Okay," she said guardedly. "Would you like
to sit down?"

I took her up on the offer, and we both sat
in matching chairs on the porch.

"What a tragedy that Brent welcomed her into
his home, only to have her do this to him," Mrs. Potter remarked,
shaking her head. "Given the heated discussion they had, I should
have known nothing good would come out of it."

"Do you have any children?" I asked her.

"Yes, a daughter. She's in college now."

"That's nice. Would you agree that parents
and children can sometimes disagree on things, causing them to lash
out at each other?"

Mrs. Potter studied the question. "Yes, of
course."

"Well, Brent was the closest thing Emily had
to a parent and, since they were both headstrong, they didn't
always see eye to eye on the direction of Emily's life. I think
that's why they were arguing that day. However, I don't feel for
one second that Emily murdered her uncle."

Mrs. Potter rubbed her hand. "Well,
apparently the police believe otherwise, since she's been charged
with the crime, along with that young man she was seeing."

"As I understand it, Emily and Tony were just
friends and not in a relationship," I said. "Apart from that, the
police case is largely based on circumstantial evidence. I think
they have focused their efforts in the wrong direction."

"I couldn't say one way or the other," she
offered. "I just told the police what I heard."

"That was kind of you," I told her in a
friendly tone. "Did you happen to hear or see anything else unusual
that day—or even during the last few days of Brent's life?"

Mrs. Potter leaned back in the chair
ruminating. "Nothing stands out that day. But I think the day
before there was some shouting back and forth between Brent and
another man. I never saw his face and couldn't make out what they
were saying as I walked by the house, but I know it had something
to do with money—perhaps mismanagement of it, but I can't be
sure."

I immediately thought of William Hendrickson,
Brent's financial advisor. Could they have been arguing about money
being mismanaged? Could it have resulted in murder?

After learning that Mrs. Potter had no
further information that the police might be interested in, I
thanked her for her time, walked to my car, and headed home.

It seemed to me that there were at least two
other people the authorities could investigate concerning Brent's
death: William Hendrickson and Brent's third ex-wife, Ashley
McGowan. Admittedly, I had nothing to go on with Ashley, aside from
the fact that she visited her ex-husband as a married woman, which
didn't make her a killer. But since the police and prosecutor were
clearly honed in on Emily and Tony as the ones responsible for
Brent's death, I doubted that they were prepared to listen to a
home décor expert about any suggestions to the contrary.

Unless, of course, I had something more to go
on than gut feelings and amateur sleuthing.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

That afternoon, the plumber came over to work
on a clog in my kitchen sink while I busied myself finding the
perfect spot on my bookshelf for my collection of first edition
Brent London books. After the plumber had successfully cleared the
drain, I cleaned the kitchen, relieved that it had been a quick
fix.

While rearranging my bookshelf, I discovered
a couple of overdue books on home decoration. I headed to the Elk
Community College library to return them, hoping I might be lucky
enough to locate the librarian Emily said she had spoken with.

Inside, I went to the front desk and handed
over the books, paying my fine while promising myself I would be
more mindful of the due date the next time I checked out books.

The young librarian smiled at me and was
about to step away from the desk when I said to her, "Perhaps you
could help me out. I'm looking for a librarian who helped me
recently, but I didn't catch her name. She's in her sixties,
white-haired, and has a limp."

"Yeah, her name is Phyllis Bledsoe. You'll
find her at the desk on the third floor or thereabouts."

"Thank you very much," I told her and headed
for the stairwell.

I was stopped in my tracks when I heard my
name called. I swiveled to my left and saw Pierce O'Shea.

"I thought that was you," he said with a
smile.

"I'm afraid so," I muttered wryly.

He shook his head. "I must confess that I
never would have guessed in a million years that Emily of all
people would engineer Brent's death."

"Same here," I told him. "In fact, I'm not so
sure she was responsible for it."

"Wish I could say the same—if only because
I'd hate to think that Brent's niece would murder him for cold hard
cash. But, after talking with my detective friends on the force,
they seem like they have a pretty strong case against her and Tony
Sullivan."

I wanted to counter that with my views to the
contrary, but did not have enough evidence to back them up.
Instead, I tried another angle. "What do you know, if anything,
about Brent's dealings with William Hendrickson, a financial
advisor?"

He shrugged. "Not much really. I know Brent
wasn't satisfied with his work and cut him loose."

"Really? How did Hendrickson react to
that?"

"According to Brent, he wasn't happy about it
and was trying to find a way to worm his way back in." Pierce
looked at me curiously. "Why do you ask?"

I told him about Mrs. Potter overhearing
Brent presumably arguing with Hendrickson the day before Brent was
murdered. "Maybe Hendrickson was so resentful that he resorted to
murder to settle the score," I suggested.

"Sounds like a great plot for a novel,
Riley," Pierce said with amusement. "I might even borrow it myself.
But I wouldn't put too much stock in what a nosey neighbor heard
while eavesdropping, even if it's true—especially when stacked up
against the evidence that points directly at Emily and Tony."

I wasn't really surprised that he would
dismiss this possibility, given his apparent bias toward the police
department's findings. I saw no reason to go into my further
beliefs about Emily and Tony's innocence at this point.

"Maybe you're right," I told him, while
thinking:
Or maybe you've got it dead wrong
.

Pierce slid his hand into the back pocket of
his jeans. "So are you here returning books or checking them
out?"

"Returning," I responded, neglecting to
mention my other mission of trying to verify Emily's alibi. "How
about you?"

"Neither. I'm actually here to do a workshop
on writing mysteries. I try to do a few workshops every year—it's
something I started doing while I was working for Brent."

"How nice." I recalled when Brent used to do
the same thing, having accompanied him one time when we were
together. The turnout was great and would-be writers seemed truly
inspired. I wondered if Pierce was able to bring out that passion
in them as well. "I won't hold you up," I told him.

"By the way," he said, "I'll be doing a book
reading and signing at one o'clock next Saturday afternoon at the
Cozy Pines Bookshop to celebrate the release of my new mystery
novel,
Before He Strikes Again
. I'd like to invite you and
your book club to attend. I know it's short notice, but it would be
good to meet some fans and autograph copies of the book that you
plan to grill me about at your next meeting."

I couldn't imagine anyone from the book club
not wanting to attend the signing, if they had no other pertinent
plans. As such, I responded, "We'd love to come."

He flashed his teeth. "Wonderful. I'll see
you there."

I watched briefly as he headed off, while
wondering if he might actually be able to fill Brent's shoes one
day. Or would he have to spend his entire career playing catch
up?

On the third floor, I noticed the desk was
unoccupied. I began walking down aisles with books until I spotted
Phyllis putting books that were on a cart back on the shelves.

She stopped when it became clear that I was
in need of assistance. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," I told her and brought her back
to the evening of Brent's death. "Do you remember finding a cell
phone that was left on a table by a student named Emily
Peterson?"

"Yes, I do." She paused. "She's the girl
charged with killing her uncle."

I acknowledged as much and said, "I'm a
friend of Emily's. The fact that you found the cell phone proves
that Emily was at the library that evening, contrary to the belief
of the police."

"Yes, I can verify that," Phyllis said,
"especially since I saw her sitting at the table studying. Indeed,
just after she left I noticed the cell phone on the table and tried
to catch up to her, but she had gone before I could locate her. So
I kept the cell phone at the desk, figuring she would come back for
it sooner or later—which she did."

"Do you happen to remember what time it was
when you saw her studying?" I asked.

"I would say it was sometime between five and
seven, before I went on break."

Since this encompassed the estimated time
frame of Brent's death, it proved conclusively that Emily could not
have been at the house when he was murdered. Though it didn't prove
she had not planned the crime, it backed up Emily's alibi that
could no longer be ignored by the authorities.

I let Phyllis get back to work. Feeling
inspired, I left the library and drove to The Train Stop, hoping to
verify as well Tony's whereabouts around the time of Brent's death.
It was on the other side of town, and much of the area was older
and consisted of working class residents.

I parked and went inside the club. There were
only a few patrons scattered about and blues music was playing
softly in the background.

At the bar, I saw a husky, bald bartender
stacking glasses. He gazed at me.

"Are you Elliot Quail?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's me. Who's asking?"

"My name's Riley Reed," I said, and explained
to him that I was an acquaintance of Tony Sullivan and Emily
Peterson.

"Heard they're in hot water," Elliot
muttered.

"Doesn't get much hotter," I said. "But Tony
and Emily claim they're innocent."

Elliot scratched his pate. "I believe it. The
Tony I know would never kill anyone."

"I don't know him very well, but I do know
Emily, and she loved her uncle. Conspiring to kill him for any
reason seems highly unlikely, which brings me to why I'm here. I
visited Tony in jail and he told me you saw him that night here in
the club."

"Yeah, he was here—just like I told the
police detectives. We had a drink together and then he left."

"Do you remember what time that was?"

"Sure, it was around six-thirty, just before
the next shift started."

I left The Train Stop at approximately the
same time Tony had on the evening in question. Driving back to
Brent's place at slightly more than the speed limit in normal
traffic took me about twenty-three minutes—which put me there at
seven minutes to seven. Since I had arrived at Brent's house at
precisely seven o'clock the day of his murder, that would have
given Tony about seven minutes to kill Brent, considering I had
seen his car whizz past me at the same time I arrived.