Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery) Read online

  I cut the conversation short, realizing I had a few more things to do before heading over to Brent's house.

  One of those was to call Klackston Industries on behalf of Emily. I asked to speak to Jill Woodward in human resources.

  "This is Jill Woodward," she said.

  "Hi, I'm Riley Reed," I told her. "I understand that Emily Peterson has applied for a job there."

  "That's right."

  I did my best to sing the praises for Emily as a bright and enthusiastic young lady who would be a good employee—identifying myself as a longtime resident of Cozy Pines and a family friend. She seemed suitably pleased with the recommendation, promising to take it into consideration where it concerned possibly hiring Emily.

  If it happened, I would certainly tell Brent that he owed me one, even if I had no intention of ever trying to collect.

  * * *

  Brent's house was in an upscale subdivision of seaside homes. He had lived there for the past twelve years and I could understand why. It was a beautiful location and he had a lovely home, in spite of wanting me to do a makeover on his man cave. I couldn't help but wonder just how long he would be able to stay there and take care of himself. I wondered how much assistance he could count on from Emily, who seemed pretty busy with her life.

  I imagined Brent had made provisions to that effect in his will, though I'm sure it pained him to do so, being a proud man who was used to his independence and calling the shots. Perhaps if he had been married again, it would have made this transition in his life easier. But apparently things with his latest girlfriend hadn't worked out, so they never got the chance to head to the altar. And his relationship with his ex-wives had soured long before he developed early onset Alzheimer's disease.

  Just as I turned onto Diamond Drive, the dead end street where Brent lived, another car sped past me. I didn't get a good look at the driver, but thought it might have been a male based on a general, though vague, impression on height above the front seat. Whoever it was, they were obviously in a big hurry in the dark sedan.

  I drove past several spacious homes with well-groomed lawns and shrubbery till I reached Brent's house at the end of the road. The rustic, two-story Craftsman home was on a hill with unobstructed views of the beach and ocean. It was something Brent took pride in, refurbishing several rooms over the years, but never his man cave.

  Better late than never, I thought, getting out of my car.

  I noted Brent's silver Mercedes was parked in the driveway. Emily appeared to be gone, as I did not see her red Prius, which Brent had given her last year as a birthday gift.

  After walking down a cobblestone path to the front door, I rang the bell. There was no answer and I rang it again. I remembered that Brent had said his housekeeper, Luisa, had the day off. I considered that maybe Brent had the water on and couldn't hear me. Or maybe he was asleep and had forgotten our appointment.

  I took out my cell phone and called him. It went straight to voicemail. After ringing the bell again and getting no answer, I banged on the front door. To my surprise, it actually opened. Apparently, Brent or Emily had failed to close it properly.

  After weighing whether or not to enter, I decided to do so, if only to make sure Brent knew I was there, given that he had requested my visit.

  I stepped into a large foyer with a marble floor. "Brent," I called out, "Are you there? It's Riley. We have an appointment at seven o'clock."

  When he didn't answer, I walked further inside, partly feeling as though I were intruding and partly feeling very much at home in a residence where I had spent a great deal of time when Brent and I were dating.

  I continued to call out his name as I peeked in one room after another, admiring the architecture along the way while maintaining my focus. With no sign of him in the gourmet kitchen, where Brent had prepared numerous very tasty dishes as a great cook, I headed for his recreation room also known as his man cave.

  The moment I stepped inside, my heart skipped a beat. Brent was slumped over face down atop the pool table. I could see blood coming from a wound on the back of his head. I glanced to the floor and saw a bloody pool stick that had obviously been used by whoever did this.

  Before I could even run to Brent and shout his name, my gut told me that he would not hear me. Not as a living human being anyway. Someone had murdered my friend, who was once so much more. Now he would never get to write another book or fight to hold onto his failing mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ten minutes after I called 911, the police came and immediately declared Brent's man cave a crime scene before extending it to his entire estate with investigators combing the place for evidence and clues, while keeping the media at bay. Brent had been murdered by an as yet unknown assailant with an unknown motive. Having verified that Emily was nowhere in the house as I waited for the authorities to arrive, I phoned her, but received no reply.

  Two more calls and a text followed and she had yet to respond. I was more than a little concerned for her safety, wondering if there might be a kidnapping involved with Brent's murder.

  I brought this up to Detective Stan Whitmore, the investigator in charge of the case, as we stood in the Great Room. He was in his late thirties and solidly built, with short black hair parted on the side and blue eyes.

  "That's certainly something that can't be ruled out," he voiced with concern. "You say you phoned the victim's niece"—he glanced down at his notes—"Ms. Peterson, and got no answer?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Does she normally not respond to calls and text messages to her cell phone?"

  "I can't really say, Detective," I responded honestly. "I haven't had much need to call or text her in the past."

  "Perhaps she just turned off her cell phone and doesn't know she has messages waiting," he suggested.

  "That's possible. And it's just as possible that she's unable to answer her phone if she's being held against her will. Or someone else has it."

  Whitmore mulled that over, but did not seem overly concerned for Emily's safety at this time. "There is no indication as yet that anyone other than Mr. London is a crime victim," he said. "Nevertheless, we're still attempting to contact Ms. Peterson."

  I supposed there was little more they could do at this point, so I didn't press it. I could only hope that whoever killed Brent had not targeted Emily as well, though admittedly I had no reason to believe this, apart from the fact that I was unable to reach her.

  "We'd like to speak with the housekeeper, too..." He looked at me, trying to recall her name.

  "Luisa Sanchez," I told him. "As I understood it, this was her day off."

  Luisa had been Brent's housekeeper for as long as I could remember, having outlasted all of his wives and girlfriends, including me. I was sure that his untimely death would be as much a shock to her as it was to me, if not more.

  "Do you happen to know where I can reach her?" the detective asked.

  I seem to recall Brent once mentioning that she stayed in an apartment complex on Daisy Street, and passed that on to the detective, while suggesting that Brent would likely have her number on his cell phone.

  Whitmore nodded in agreement and sent an officer to check the cell phone, now being held as evidence, after it had been discovered on the floor near the pool table where Brent's body was found.

  "Do you know if Brent London had any enemies?" Whitmore asked with a keen eye.

  "None that I'm aware of," I told him. "Brent was a well loved and respected bestselling author. I can't think of any reason why someone would have wanted him dead."

  "There's always a reason or two that tend to come out eventually," the detective said, smoothing a thick eyebrow.

  "You're probably right," I said. Though I had no reason to believe that any of the past women in Brent's life could have had anything to do with his murder, I thought I should at least mention them to the detective, knowing he would discover this anyway during his investigation. "For the record, Brent was married and divor
ced four times and had no children. All of his exes, aside from the first, who died years ago, are still living in Cozy Pines. I also know that he recently ended a relationship with a young woman named Karla Terrell."

  Whitmore peered at me. "Think any of them could have had it in for him?"

  "I'm not sure. I know some of them and not so much the others. I'd like to think that none of them would have stooped to the level of murder, but I'm aware that in many such cases, the killer is pretty close to home."

  "All too true, I'm afraid," he said. "But, as someone who's gone through a divorce, murder never entered my mind, no matter how painful the process was. Of course, that's just me. We'll check out everyone and anyone who may have been associated with Mr. London till we get to the bottom of this."

  "In that case, you might also want to talk to Pierce O'Shea," I suggested. "He's Brent's former research assistant and now a fine local writer himself, who remained good friends with Brent. If there was someone who had a beef against him, Pierce might know about it."

  "I'll pay Mr. O'Shea a visit and see if he can provide any useful information." Whitmore regarded me intently. "If you don't mind, let's go over again exactly how you happened to have entered the house and discovered the body."

  I could tell by his gaze that he considered me a possible suspect. The mere notion might have caused the hair to rise on the back of my neck had I not been able to put myself in his position. Everyone who knew Brent had to be viewed as a suspect, especially the person who called in the crime. I was aware that in more than a few true life cases, such a person had proven to be the killer when all was said and done.

  That obviously wasn't the case here, but the detective had no way of knowing that by my appearance and cool head alone.

  I sucked in a breath and said, "I came to the house for a seven o'clock appointment with Brent. I was supposed to take a look at his recreation room because he wanted me to do a makeover—"

  "You're an interior designer?" Whitmore broke in.

  "I operate a blog on home décor and renovation, and I'm a consultant." I started to leave it at that, but decided it was important for him to know that my association with Brent went further than that. "Brent and I have been friends for a long time. We dated briefly several years ago. It was for that reason that when no one answered the door, which opened on its own, I came inside the house."

  "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?"