Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (4 page)

I made a mental note to inform the members of
this change of plans; sure they would be on board, even if it meant
postponing the
Daphne du Maurier
discussion to the meeting the following month.

We were silent
for a moment or two, before I commented, "I appreciate your trust
in asking me here to talk about the Alzheimer's. If there is
anything at all that I can do for you—"

"Actually, that's not why I invited you to
dinner," Brent said, "though I am glad I was able to confide in
someone about this." He paused. "I'd like to hire you as a
consultant."

"Oh..." I tasted my wine. "Tell me more."

Brent sipped his wine. "I think my man cave
needs a makeover."

"You mean your recreation room," I gathered,
having been to his house many times and knowing this was the room
where he seemed most at home.

He nodded. "Yes."

"As I recall, it seems like a pretty nice,
modern looking room," I told him.

"That's the whole point," he said. "For
years, I've pretty much catered to the whims of the women in my
life when it came to home décor, including the man cave. Now that
I'm on my own for the first time in a while, and with my mind still
reasonably intact, I want something that's more my style and I'm
hoping you can help me get there."

"I'm certainly willing to try." Given his
feelings on the subject and my area of expertise, it was the least
I could do for an old friend.

He smiled. "Excellent. So when can you come
by?"

I thought about my schedule for the next day,
which included volunteer work at the Senior Center. "How about
tomorrow night, say around seven?"

"Perfect. I'll be waiting—and don't forget to
have a word with Emily when you can. She likes to run on the beach
and hang out at a place called The Train Stop."

I was familiar with the club, though I had
never been to it. Meeting on the beach would be even better, since
that was where I liked to run. I was kind of surprised that we
hadn't managed to run into each other there, but maybe she ran in
the afternoon or evening. "I'll talk to her," I promised.

We chatted a bit longer about things in town,
politics, sports—basically trying to avoid mentioning his
Alzheimer's and what it might mean to Brent's future. One could
only hope that with medication and good luck, he could delay the
full blown effects of it for as long as possible.

In the meantime, I was only too happy to give
him something to hold onto by helping to spruce up his man cave and
turn it into something he could call his own and mean it.

CHAPTER
FOUR

The following morning, I began my day as
usual with a run on the beach. I had considered changing my time in
the hope of running into Emily, but decided that it was best to
stick to my routine. Perhaps I would catch her at the house this
evening when I went to see Brent, and then Emily and I could talk
afterward.

No sooner had that thought left my mind, when
I saw Emily heading toward me jogging leisurely. This seemed as
good a time as any to have a word with her, assuming she was
willing to talk.

We stopped in front of each other.

"Hey," she said, sucking in a deep
breath.

"Good morning, Emily," I told her, noting
that she was wearing skimpy jogging attire and her hair was in a
ponytail. "I see you're up bright and early."

"Yeah, I had some time to kill before other
things on my agenda, so thought I'd get in some exercise."

I smiled. "Good idea." It occurred to me that
perhaps sometime we could even run together, but decided against
going there for the moment. Instead, I said, "I had dinner with
Brent last night."

She flashed a look of surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, he invited me."

"So are you two back together...or heading in
that direction?" she asked.

"Heavens no," I answered swiftly. "It was
just a nice meal between longtime friends."

Emily looked disappointed. Or was it
relieved?

"Well, that's cool," she said. "Did you
happen to mention the possibility of him teaching at the
college?"

"As a matter of fact I did," I told her.

"Did he say he might do it?"

I wished I could tell her about the
Alzheimer's disease and Brent's concern about how it might affect
his ability to teach a writing course, but I would never betray his
trust. Not even to someone who had a right to know as Brent's only
living relative. Not including his ex-wives.

And so I told her in what amounted to a white
lie with a grain of truth, along with good intentions, "I think
Brent might be giving some thought to it, along with the other
things he has on his plate."

Emily started to jog in place. "At least he's
keeping the possibility open. Thanks for talking to him about
it."

"It was nothing," I told her, while curious
as to why she seemed so interested in him teaching at the college.
I decided it was simply out of genuine affection for the uncle who
took her in, wanting to see him share some of what he had achieved
as an author with others. Since the moment seemed right, I thought
it might be a good time to turn the conversation in a different
direction. "So what's going on in your life these days, aside from
school and jogging?" I asked her. From what I understood, she was
not working at the moment. She'd had a few different jobs, but each
one was of short duration, and Brent covered the majority of her
expenses.

As though she had read my mind, Emily said,
"Actually, I have an interview today for a job. I think I have a
pretty good shot at getting it, but you never know."

"What type of job?" I asked. "If you don't
mind me asking."

"It's a clerical position at Klackston
Industries."

I was familiar with them. The tech company
was one of the biggest employers in Cozy Pines, having relocated
there from St. Louis ten years ago. "I'd be happy to give you a
recommendation," I offered, realizing it would be based on
character, though I didn't really know her that well. But I figured
anything that could help her become more self-sufficient would help
Brent too. At the same time, I knew that eventually he would have
to let her in on his secret and decide how best to protect his
assets.

She grinned. "Would you?"

"Sure. I don't know how much it will help,
but I suppose it can't hurt."

"I can text you the name and number of the
woman in human resources I'll be meeting with this afternoon."

I smiled while gazing at her and trying to
determine if she was back on drugs. Though she seemed normal enough
in her behavior, I agreed with Brent that something seemed a little
off, though I couldn't put a finger on it.

I decided to just come out with it. "Brent's
a little worried about you."

She cocked a razor thin brow. "About
what?"

"He thinks that you haven't been yourself
lately."

She rolled her eyes. "Who else would I
be?"

"Maybe someone who has had a relapse and is
trying to hide it."

She glared at me. "Is that what you and Brent
think—that I'm back on drugs?"

I held her irritated gaze. "Are you?"

"No," she insisted. "I'm clean."

I wasn't in a position to dispute it. "Okay.
Maybe you should tell Brent that and give him some peace of
mind."

"I will," Emily said. "He doesn't need to
worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you can," I told her, while waiting
to see that actually happen in all phases of her life, rather than
those in which she saw fit. "Well, I'd better let you get back to
your run and I'll get back to mine."

She smiled. "Okay. See you later."

I started to run again while she did the same
in the opposite direction. I sincerely hoped that she was being
straight with me in saying she was not on drugs again, while also
hoping that applied to any other behavior that was
self-destructive. Right now, Brent could use all the help he could
get and he needed a niece he could truly depend on.

* * *

When I approached Annette's house, I saw her
mowing the lawn with a self-propelled push mower. She stopped when
she saw me.

"Morning," she said, using the back of her
hand to wipe sweat from her brow.

"Good morning, Annette."

"How was your run?"

"Great for my limbs and heart," I told
her.

"I think the same is true for mowing the
lawn," she said wearily.

I smiled. "I wouldn't doubt it." The fact
that I paid a local teenager to mow my lawn once a week didn't
change my belief that it was hard work. It occurred to me that this
was a great time to share some news with Annette about Brent ahead
of the other book club members. "I got Brent London to agree to
speak with us at our next book club meeting."

"That's great," Annette said. "He's one of my
favorite authors."

"Mine too," I said.

"And your ex-boyfriend," she reminded me, as
if I had forgotten.

"That was a long time ago," I told her, while
trying to keep my feelings in check regarding the awful news Brent
had shared with me last night.

"But not so long ago that you couldn't twist
his arm into meeting with us," she said.

I grinned. "No arm twisting was necessary.
Brent was only too happy to share a little bit of his time. I
figured no one would complain about postponing the discussion on
Daphne du Maurier's book until the
following month."

"I agree," Annette said. "I'm sure everyone
will want to come up with some tough questions that only Brent can
answer."

"Just not too tough," I told her, mindful of
his condition. "Brent wants to keep it lighthearted and fun, while
providing answers in his own way."

"Sounds fine to me."

"I'll let the others know about the change of
plans," I said.

"Great," Annette said. "And I can talk about
it further this afternoon with Meryl when I meet her for
lunch."

I smiled. "Perfect."

"Well, I'd best get back to this lawn that
sure isn't going to mow itself. And since Fred has a bad back, that
puts the onus on me to do it."

I wanted to recommend the young man who mowed
my lawn, but figured that if she had wanted to hire someone, she
would have. "I have to get ready for my volunteer work at the
Senior Center," I told her instead.

"Maybe I can volunteer one day when I have
more time," she suggested.

"Any time you like," I encouraged her.
"They're always looking for more volunteers in various
capacities."

She nodded and went back to mowing the
lawn.

I jogged down to my house and went inside.
After showering, I grabbed a bite to eat, did a little work on the
blog, and headed out.

* * *

The Cozy Pines Senior Center was near
downtown on Venice Avenue. The old Victorian had been converted
into the center fifteen years ago, responding to the needs of
individuals fifty-five and older, including offering classes on
many subjects, tours, trips, exercise, and hot meals daily.

Inside, I chatted briefly with the center
manager, Julie Gable, a widow who had endured watching her husband
spend the last two years of his life under hospice care. Then I
went into the dining hall where the kitchen coordinator, Lynda
Menounos, was already barking orders. She was a single mother in
her thirties and had worked there for two years. Her mother, age
seventy-five, was a regular at the center.

Lynda turned her attention to me. "I see you
made it," she said tartly.

"I always do," I reminded her, "and right on
time."

Her features softened. "That's great, because
we have some hungry seniors this afternoon and we're one server
short. Meaning everyone else will have to pick up the slack."

"I'm ready and more than willing to do my
part to make sure everyone is served lunch," I assured her.

"In that case, I won't keep you from heading
into the kitchen."

I smiled briefly, realizing she was under
pressure to keep up with the demand, as were others involved with
the center. The task could be monumental at times, but well worth
the effort, given the needs of those who depended on the
services.

In the kitchen, I slipped on an apron and
hairnet, washed up, put on gloves, and took my place at the serving
counter alongside another volunteer named Rachel Schroeder. She was
my age and had been doing this since her father died of cancer last
year. According to Rachel, this was her way of honoring his
memory.

"Hey," she said to me. "Hope Lynda didn't
give you a mouthful just being her ornery self."

"I'm used to it," I told her.

"Still, she needs to learn to chill," Rachel
complained, making it obvious that she too had apparently
experienced Lynda's testiness.

"All in an afternoon's work," I said. "The
important thing is that we remember why we're here in the first
place and not allow anything or anyone to get to us."

"Well put—and you're right, of course."

I flashed a smile, happy to ease the tension.
Soon we were serving meals. The menu for today was tossed salad,
roasted chicken, carrots, mashed potatoes, gravy, and chocolate
cake for dessert.

At one point, Rachel asked, "Do you like
kittens?"

"I love kittens," I made the mistake of
saying.

"My cat just had six kittens. If you'd like
one, you can have one."

I was sure if I told her I'd had cat
allergies since childhood, it would sound lame. So I had to think
of something else.

"Thanks for the offer, but with my busy
schedule, including my volunteer work here, I wouldn't be able to
give a kitten the proper time it deserves."

"I understand," she said, sounding
disappointed. "But I had to put it out there."