Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (25 page)

"Maybe he does or maybe not as much as you
think." Elliot forked several ranch fries. "Just keep your eye on
the ball here, Madsen. You don't want to get involved in any
domestic triangles. Do you?"

"No, I don't." I put his mind at ease. "Only
where it concerns my independent study. The triangle between
Marilyn and Sam Sheppard and an assailant is enough for me. And
that brings me to where the reenactment will take place. Did you
get a chance to talk to your friend yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. Parker was
completely agreeable to the idea of renting his house to you for a
month, especially after I told him about the murder mystery you
were undertaking. He's real big on whodunits."

"That's great!" I sipped my lemonade. "So
when can I take a look at it?"

"Right after we're done here. I already
phoned the property management company and a rental agent will meet
us over there at two-thirty."

I smiled. "As usual, it looks like you're
right on top of things."

"Anything for you." He touched my hand
affectionately.

"I'll remember that," I teased.

Elliot rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Yeah,
that's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

The aging colonial house was two stories and
located near the ocean. I knew the Sheppard's two-story suburban
home in Cleveland was lakefront, so I considered this a good start
in my re-creation.

We were greeted at the door by the rental
agent. He was tall and lanky with dark brown choppy hair that had
blond highlights.

"Luther Pickford."

Elliot and I gave our names and shook hands
with him. His hand was wet, and I tried not to imagine under what
circumstances as I dried my hand on my jeans.

"So you folks are lookin' to rent the place
for a month, are you?"

"I am," I told him, not wanting him to draw
the wrong conclusions. "Elliot's here as my friend."

Luther gave me a sidelong glance. "Okay then.
I guess I'm s'pposed to give you the grand tour, huh?"

"That would be nice."

He made a noise that was a cross between a
snort and a chuckle. "Follow me, people."

We did. I whispered to Elliot, "I'm sure glad
he isn't going to be my neighbor, even if I won't be living
here."

Elliot grinned. "He is pretty creepy. But
Parker trusted the rental agency, so it looks like you'll have to
as well."

I resigned myself to that, even if my
instincts told me to remain cautious where it concerned Luther
Pickford.

The inside of the house itself was simple
enough. It was sparsely furnished and had a stuffy feel to it,
making me want to open all the windows.

A leather sofa sat in the living room. I
imagined this was where Victor Hawthorn would park himself as Sam
Sheppard, pretending to sleep when Camelia Fenkell in the role of
Marilyn Sheppard would be accosted by her killer upstairs.

"Is there a back door?" I asked.

Luther scratched his cheek. "Yeah. Why? You
plannin' to throw some loud parties back there and git your
neighbors all riled up?"

"No. I'd just like to see if there's another
escape route in case the front door is inaccessible for some
reason."

In fact, I knew the alleged perpetrator, as
told by Sam Sheppard, had made his getaway through the back door,
and I wanted to make this reenactment as accurate as possible.

We were led through a thin hall to a door. It
went to a small flight of stairs, ending with a back door. I turned
the knob to make sure it opened easily, which it did.

Next we went upstairs and looked at the three
bedrooms. They were brightly painted and not especially large. Only
one of them had a bed.

Guess this will have to be where the
murder takes place,
I thought
.

The stairwell leading to the second floor had
squeaked when we came up. It was loud enough for a light sleeper to
be alerted that someone was coming. Too bad Marilyn Sheppard hadn't
had the benefit of such or it might have saved her life.

"So you want the house or what?" Luther asked
anxiously.

Elliot peered at him. "Can you give us a
moment?"

"Yeah, no problem. I'll be downstairs."

Once he left, Elliot asked, "You sure you
wouldn't be better off just staging this murder scenario in the
school auditorium?"

It certainly would have been easier and
cheaper, but I wanted to be more creative than that. And I wasn't
about to let a weird rental agent scare me off.

"I think I would like to rent the place. It's
not like I'll be here alone. The actors and videographer will be
here. And you're certainly welcome, too."

"Thanks, but I'll sit this one out. Have to
work on my novel. Of course, if you need me for anything, give me a
buzz anytime."

"I'll do that."

I didn't expect to have to make that call,
not wanting to abuse the privilege of his kindheartedness and
companionship.

I filled out the paperwork Luther had brought
with him. Since Elliot had personally vouched for my reliability
and honesty with his friend Parker, the credit check was waived,
and I was allowed to rent the house for a month.

I decided right then that after the
reenactment was finished in a couple of days, I would use the house
as a place to relax and freshen up after long walks by the ocean,
since I had the place for a full month.

Now that I had secured a crime scene and
actors, using what I'd learned from my course on theater production
and screenwriting, I intended to write a short script re-creating
the tragic events that occurred on July 4th more than fifty years
ago.

Only this time, the ending would produce a
different suspect right from the start. And, hopefully, would
result in my passing the independent study with flying colors.

* * *

That night, after reading up on more details
of the Marilyn Sheppard murder, I wrote a script I felt conveyed
the atmosphere of the actual crime. The added scene, of course, was
the what-if of a bushy-haired intruder as the killer.

I made copies to distribute to the members of
the cast. We were all to meet at the house the next day at noon for
a dress rehearsal and Q and A, along with a friend from the theater
department, Peter Nagle, who would videotape it and later help me
edit before presenting the final product to Professor Tucker.

Too wired to sleep, I got up in the middle of
the night and made myself a cup of green tea. I had a mind to go
over to Elliot's and snuggle up beside him in bed. But I had
learned the hard way that he wasn't too big on surprises, even if
it benefited him equally.

I decided to drive to the rental house, where
I could go over the script once more in an atmosphere that would be
most apropos.

* * *

Twenty minutes later as I pulled into the
driveway, I noted a vehicle parked down the street beside a cluster
of pine trees. It struck me as odd only because there were no
houses on either side to associate it with. Maybe the driver had
car problems or decided to stop and get some sleep before heading
elsewhere.

I pushed those thoughts away and went up to
the house. The front door was slightly ajar. Studying the lock, it
looked as if it had been jimmied.

Had someone broken in?

I found that hard to accept as the house was
currently unoccupied, and I'd seen nothing inside of particular
value.

Nonetheless, I wasn't going to dismiss the
possibility outright. Especially with the door showing clear signs
of being forced open.

Taking out the pepper mace I kept in my purse
for protection, I entered the house guardedly. It took a moment or
two for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Hello..." I said, as if I were visiting
rather than being visited by an uninvited guest.

I got no response and called out again with
the same result.

I began to mount the stairs, hopeful that if
anyone had been in the house they were long gone by now.

That's when I heard the hardwood creaking on
the first floor, and there was no mistaking the footsteps.

My heart lurched. "Who's there?"

Instead of an answer, the steps picked up
their pace, past the kitchen, down the hall, and into the doorway
leading to the back door.

A moment later, I heard the door open and
slam shut.

Instinctively and perhaps foolishly, I ran
back down the stairs and out the front door, hoping the intruder
might come that way and show his or her face.

I was too late for that. I saw the back of
someone wearing a hooded sweater race toward the car parked on the
street and get inside.

Without giving it much thought, I jumped off
the porch and ran after the person, still hoping to get a look at
the face or a license plate. I failed on both counts as the car
sped away, leaving me in its wake.

What did the intruder want in the house? I
thought of the creepy rental agent and wondered if he had left
something inside from yesterday. But he had a key, so he wouldn't
need to break in.

Stranger things had happened though.

I went back inside and cut on some lights.
There was no indication anything had been taken. Not that I would
know upon a cursory glance, as I wasn't familiar with the house's
contents.

I thought I heard a noise upstairs. Was
someone still here? Or was it just the sounds associated with an
older house settling?

Climbing the stairs once again, I kept my
mace handy. Upon reaching the second floor, I cut on the hall
light. The illumination poured into the various rooms, but I
focused on the master bedroom.

The door was partially shut, which was
strange in and of itself. I distinctly remembered it being wide
open when Elliot and I completed our tour yesterday. And I was
pretty sure that Luther Pickford had left the house at the same
time we did. There was no reason to believe he would have come
back. Which wasn't the same thing as saying he hadn't.

It occurred to me that besides the intruder
who got away, the house could have mice or some other pests looking
for company. The thought was unsettling.

Using my foot, I pushed the door open slowly,
keeping the pepper mace as my line of defense.

My eyes went straight to the bed. I screamed
in shock and horror when I saw a woman lying flat on her stomach
with a large knife protruding from her back. The woman's face was
turned awkwardly to the side, and her eyes were staring blankly at
me.

It took only a moment to realize where I'd
seen that face before.

Twice.

Yesterday at the library. And then the
Biltmore Theater Company.

Camelia Fenkell.

Why had she been here hours before our
scheduled practice session?

Who had killed her and why?

Why here at this house?

All I knew was that Camelia played the role
of Marilyn Sheppard in a way none of us could have imagined.
Someone decided to take the reenactment to a whole new level—making
sure Camelia wouldn't walk away when the proverbial curtain came
down.

Camelia had been murdered, and it was
anything but a history lesson.

* * *

Half an hour later, the house had become the
scene of a real life murder investigation. There were crime scene
technicians and investigators combing the place for evidence and
clues. It wasn't exactly like
CSI
, but Pearl's Village did
pride itself on being up to date in crime investigation.

I hoped that would be enough to get to the
bottom of Camelia Fenkell's death.

"Why didn't you wake me to go with you?"
Elliot asked. He'd rushed over the moment he got the disturbing
news.

I knew he was concerned about what might have
happened if I hadn't scared the killer off or had arrived just a
few minutes earlier. We were standing in the living room. Camelia's
body remained upstairs until the coroner and police chief
arrived.

"There was no reason to. I didn't expect to
find a murder scene when I got here."

"I didn't either or I never would have let
you rent this house."

"You couldn't have known, Elliot. Besides, it
wasn't the house per se. I suspect Camelia would have been murdered
whether she was here or somewhere else tonight."

"That's assuming the rental agent wasn't the
one who killed her."

I considered that prospect and certainly
couldn't rule it out. Especially if it was Luther Pickford's intent
to make this look like a break-in to cover his tracks.

"Yes, that's possible," I conceded. "But I
think it's more likely Camelia knew her killer than came upon a
stranger. She was probably lured to the house and murdered."

"Interesting theory, Ms. Vensetta, though
that's all it is at the moment," the voice said succinctly.

Elliot and I turned to see the Pearl's
Village Chief of Police, Ham Rutger, approaching. In his late
forties, he was muscular and had short grayish hair.

We'd met last semester when he was a guest
lecturer in my police procedures course.

"Good morning, Chief Rutger," I said.

His brow furrowed. "I don't think so. Not
with a dead body up there."

I couldn't argue the point. "Well, it's
certainly not the way I planned to start my day either."

"I'll get to you on that in a moment." He
looked toward the stairs. "Right now, I'd like to take a look at
the victim."

"Be my guest," I said as if he needed my
permission.

"Don't go anywhere—either of you."

"We wouldn't think of it," Elliot said.

I concurred, having no desire to flee the
scene of the crime prematurely. Not when there were so many
unanswered questions as to why Camelia Fenkell had been murdered in
my rental house.

* * *

By the time the coroner came and removed
Camelia's body, the reality of her mysterious murder really began
to set in as death hung over the house like fog.