Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) (6 page)

"So the door wasn't shut all the way?"

"I thought it was—until I knocked on it. I'm
guessing whoever left it open left in a hurry, perhaps intending to
close it shut."

Whitmore took notes. "What then?"

"I called out to Brent from the foyer and got
no response. Unsure if he simply didn't hear me or was in some sort
of distress, I started to look for him, while continually calling
out his name. When I entered the recreation room—or his man cave as
he called it—that's when I discovered Brent slumped over the pool
table."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No," I said, assuming he was concerned about
my fingerprints showing up on the pool stick, which was presumably
the murder weapon. "But I did feel Brent's neck to see if there was
a pulse." I sighed. "There wasn't one. After that, I called 911 and
waited for you to arrive."

Whitmore seemed reasonably satisfied. But I
wasn't, as another thought entered my head. "There is something
else..." I told him. "When I turned onto Brent's street, I saw
another car speeding from it."

"Did the car come from Mr. London's
house?"

"I couldn't say, since by the time I saw the
car, it was well past Brent's house."

"So the car could have come from any of the
houses on the block before London's, which is at the end of the
street," Whitmore said skeptically.

"Yes, I suppose so," I admitted. "But the
fact that the driver just happened to be in a big hurry at the very
moment that I turned onto the street, and presumably around the
same time that Brent was murdered, seems like more than a
coincidence."

"Maybe," he allowed, "but it could also be
just that. Can you describe the car?"

I told him it was a dark sedan, but wasn't
sure of the make or model, though I suggested it appeared to be a
newer vehicle.

"So it could have been black or dark blue?"
Whitmore asked.

"Yes." I thought about it. "Maybe dark
blue."

"Did you get a look at the driver?"

"Not a good look," I hated to say. "It may
have been a male, but I can't say for sure."

"Meaning that it could have been a female?"
he asked keenly.

"Yes, it could have been."

"We'll check it out." Whitmore put his
notepad away. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Brent
London that might help in the investigation?"

I considered his revelation about early onset
Alzheimer's, which Brent had told me in confidence. Could it have
had any role in his murder? Was I still bound by confidentiality
even in death?

I decided that anything could be important in
solving Brent's murder, which I was sure he would grant me
permission to mention, if he were able to.

"There is one thing that may or may not be
relevant," I said.

"What's that?" the detective asked.

"Brent mentioned to me yesterday that he was
suffering from Alzheimer's disease, though it was in the early
stages."

Whitmore cocked a brow. "Do you know if
anyone else knew about this? Like perhaps his niece, Emily."

"I got the impression that Brent hadn't told
anyone else," I said. "He seemed to want to hold off revealing his
condition for as long as possible, so as not to disrupt his life
and writing any more than necessary."

"I suppose I can understand that, all things
considered," the detective said.

I met his eyes. "You don't think it could
have had anything to do with Brent's murder, do you?"

Whitmore pursed his lips. "Doesn't seem like
it. But, at this point, nothing can be ruled out."

I contemplated that, wondering if it was
possible that Brent had held back revealing his diagnosis for fear
that it might put him in danger. But who would want to kill him
with that in mind? And why?

As I weighed this, I suddenly heard some
commotion and turned to see Emily trying to enter the room, but she
was being restrained by a burly officer.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "Where is my
uncle? Riley...?"

"This is Emily Peterson, Brent's niece," I
informed Detective Whitmore.

"Let her go," he told the officer.

Emily scurried over to us. "Will someone
please
tell me what's happening? Why are the police here?
The officer wouldn't tell me anything."

"I've been trying to reach you," I told her.
"Don't you listen to or read your messages?"

"I didn't have my phone with me," she said
simply.

I found that odd, but certainly not
implausible, as I had occasionally left my cell phone at home
unintentionally.

Whitmore showed his badge. "I'm Detective
Whitmore." He paused. "I'm afraid I have bad news... Brent London
is dead—"

Emily's eyes bulged. "What?"

"Ms. Reed here found him in his recreation
room," the detective said solemnly. "He was murdered."

"Oh no..." Emily put shaking hands to her
mouth. "I
have
to see him."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Whitmore
told her. "The crime scene must be preserved for evidence. Apart
from that, a crime victim's corpse is not something anyone should
have to see to remember a loved one."

"He's right," I told her. "It's better for
you if you see him later, after the medical examiner has taken the
body."

Tears poured from Emily's eyes and she seemed
genuinely emotional reacting to the news of Brent's death, even if
their relationship had been up and down in terms of loving.

Feeling moved, I took a couple of steps
forward and took her into my arms. I could feel her body trembling.
Or perhaps we both were. It was certainly not the way I wanted to
get closer to her, but I was sure that Brent would have approved,
as she would surely need someone in her corner with him gone.

Detective Whitmore interrupted my thoughts
and brought me back down to earth as he said, "Ms. Peterson, I need
to ask you some questions."

I understood that this was my cue to release
her so she could better respond to the detective.

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted
to harm your uncle?"

Emily wiped tears from her eyes. "No," she
said. "I mean, I didn't know all the people in his life, but most
everyone really liked him."

"Were there a lot of people in his life?"
Whitmore asked.

"Yeah, he had a lot of friends, ex-wives, and
girlfriends, fans of his books, and more."

I could vouch for the fact that Brent was
fairly popular locally, though from what I understood, he wasn't
always on the best of terms with all of his ex-wives or his last
girlfriend, not too surprisingly. I mentioned this to the
detective, for what it was worth.

He noted this and carried on with Emily. "Did
anyone else other than you or Brent London have a key to the
house?"

"His ex-girlfriend, Karla Terrell, had one,"
she responded, "but I think she gave it back to him when they broke
up."

"And when was that?"

"A few weeks ago."

Whitmore nodded. "Well, since there is no
sign of a break in, it appears that the killer either had a key or
was let in by an unsuspecting Brent London."

"Or the door could have been left unlocked
accidentally," I suggested, "allowing someone to enter the premises
without a key or being let in."

"You mean like yourself?" he asked
tersely.

I shuddered at the implication, realizing I
had inadvertently placed myself as a suspect, at least in theory.
Recovering, I replied, "No, I meant someone who got here before I
did and entered the unlocked house."

He left it at that for now and regarded Emily
again. "Mind telling me where you were prior to coming home just
now?"

She blinked with what seemed like hesitancy
and then said, "I was at the library at Elk Community College where
I'm taking classes."

"I assume someone can back you up on that?"
Whitmore asked.

"Yes, of course." She frowned. "You think I
killed my uncle? Why would I do that?"

"No one's accusing you of anything," he
responded coolly. "It's just routine questioning as part of the
investigation. That's my job." He paused. "You said you didn't have
your phone. Where is it?"

Emily stared at the question. "I guess I must
have left it at the library."

Whitmore seemed less than convinced she was
being truthful. I had no reason not to believe her, other than the
convenience of the response, but gave her the benefit of the doubt
anyway.

"Do you know anyone who owns a dark
sedan—perhaps blue?" he asked her.

Emily seemed to ponder this. "Yeah, probably.
Why?"

"Ms. Reed says she saw someone hurriedly
driving away from this street as she was driving onto it. Of
course, the car could belong to one of the other residents on the
block. I just thought that if you knew of a person, in specific,
who drives such a car who also knew Brent London, it could help
speed up things in our investigation."

"My uncle's ex-wife, Margo, owns a dark blue
car," Emily said. "He gave it to her a couple of years ago for her
birthday."

"Do you know if she would have had any reason
to pay him a visit today?"

"Not really. The divorce wasn't that amicable
and they hardly kept in touch afterwards." She paused. "But who
knows? My uncle didn't talk to me that much about his relationships
with his ex-wives. Or ex-girlfriends for that matter."

Whitmore took some notes. "That'll be all for
now," he said, glancing at me as if to suggest he was dismissing
both of us.

"Then I can go?" Emily asked impatiently.

"Yes, as long as you both remain available,
in case I have any other questions." He looked at her. "By the way,
do you have somewhere else you can spend the night—and maybe
longer?"

"Not really," she said. "Why?"

"This house is an active crime scene. As soon
as we get our work wrapped up, you can move back in, though I
imagine it will be a while before the rec room is cleared for you
to spend time in."

"She can stay with me for as long as
necessary," I volunteered. I wasn't used to having overnight
company or a young woman as a house guest. But, under the
circumstances, I felt it was the right thing to do.

Emily looked surprised. "Are you sure it's
okay?"

I smiled at her. "Yes. I think we could both
benefit from each other's company as we come to grips with this
terrible tragedy."

"Then it's settled," Whitmore said. "I'll
have an officer escort you to your room, if you need to pack an
overnight bag."

Emily nodded, but still looked a bit out of
it after hearing such dreadful news about Brent. Given that I was
still reeling from finding his body, I could understand on some
level how traumatic this must have been for Emily, after losing her
parents too.

"I'll be right here when you're ready," I
told her as she walked away.

Just then, the medical examiner arrived. A
short man in his fifties with thinning gray hair, he walked up to
us.

"Wish I could say it was good to see you
again," Whitmore told him. "But it never is, under the
circumstances."

"Ditto," he said.

He gazed at me and Whitmore said, "This is
Riley Reed. She discovered the decedent."

"I'm Dr. Striver," he said. "Were you a
friend of Brent London's?"

"Yes," I said sadly.

"I called him a friend, too. He often sought
my advice for his mystery novels so he could make the medical
examiner in his stories as accurate and realistic as possible."

"I'm not surprised," I told him. "Brent was
always thorough when researching his plots."

"That's what made him such a good writer,"
Striver muttered and frowned as he turned to Whitmore. "So where's
the body?"

"I'll lead the way," Whitmore said and then
gazed at me. "I'm sure we'll talk again, Ms. Reed."

"I'm sure we will," I agreed.

I watched as the two men walked away,
continuing to discuss the situation that awaited the M.E. in
Brent's man cave, before the grim task came of removing his
body.

CHAPTER
SIX

Emily, who had been at my house once with
Brent for lunch, had taken a detour to retrieve her cell phone from
the library. I went straight home to see if I needed to tidy up the
place for an unexpected guest.

I had barely stepped inside, while still
trying to process the notion that Brent was gone before his time
and deciding who to call first, when the doorbell rang.

Figuring that Emily had found her phone
somewhere other than the library, I opened the door, expecting her.
Instead, it was my sister, Yvonne.

She was a little shorter than me and had
recently begun dying her black hair, which had started to gray.

"I heard on the news that Brent is dead," she
said solemnly, stepping inside. "That he was murdered..."

"I was going to call you," I told her,
pausing. "I was the one who found his body."

Yvonne's blue eyes grew behind her glasses.
"What?"

"I was supposed to meet him there as a
consultant. When he didn't show up at the door, I went inside. He
was lying on the pool table. Someone had apparently beaten him to
death with his own pool cue."

"Oh, that's terrible," Yvonne said. "Even
worse is that you had to see such a horrific sight of someone that
you once cared for."

"I never stopped caring for him," I told her.
"He was my friend and didn't deserve this."

"Who does?" She suddenly gave me a hug. "You
could have walked in on the killer, who could've turned the pool
stick on you."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that," I
muttered, while considering as well the car that had sped past me
on the street. "Thankfully, that wasn't the case."

"I'm so sorry about Brent."

"So am I." I thought about Emily and what was
going through her head at this moment as his next of kin. I could
only imagine that she was in a surreal state, just as I was. Yvonne
released me. "I was about to make some tea. Do you want some?"