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    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle: Murdered in the Man Cave\Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen
    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle: Murdered in the Man Cave\Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen
    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle: Murdered in the Man Cave\Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen
    Ebook477 pages9 hours

    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle: Murdered in the Man Cave\Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen

    By R. Barri Flowers

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    About this ebook

    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle contains Murdered in the Man Cave and Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen, the first two complete novels in the popular series by bestselling author R. Barri Flowers, featuring interior design consultant and amateur sleuth Riley Reed.

    In Murdered in the Man Cave, when Riley is asked by her old flame Brent London, a bestselling mystery writer, to help him spruce up his man cave as a newly single man in the quaint Northwest town of Cozy Pines, Oregon, she readily accepts the assignment. But when she discovers him bludgeoned to death with a pool cue in his man cave, Riley finds herself thrust into the investigation to track down the clever killer at risk to her own health and well-being.

    In Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen, Riley once again finds herself immersed in a tantalizing murder mystery. Having recently helped her widowed friend Suzanne Crier, the director of a local battered women’s shelter, remodel the aging kitchen of her Victorian residence, Riley is invited over to celebrate the completion. Instead, she finds Suzanne dead on the floor of the gourmet kitchen. Her head had been bashed in with Riley’s own casserole dish. While fighting to clear her name as a suspect, Riley discovers there is more than one person who could be the true killer.

    Included is a bonus excerpt of Book 3 of the Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries, Murdered in the Luxury Suite, in which Riley attends an interior design convention on Maui, Hawaii, where murder mars paradise.

    Also included is a delightful complete cozy mystery short, Ph.D. in Murder, in which a doctoral student’s independent study reenactment of the well-known and still unsolved murder of Marilyn Sheppard ends with a modern-day murder and a killer on the loose.

    An extra bonus is a sneak peek at the bestselling author’s first book in an upcoming new cozy series, A Dead Inn Street: A Victoria Price Cozy Mystery, in which Victoria, a retired judge, finds that retirement can be murder.

    Cozy mystery, amateur sleuth, and women’s detective fans will love the Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherR. Barri Flowers
    Release dateApr 11, 2017
    ISBN9781370468102
    Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle: Murdered in the Man Cave\Murdered in the Gourmet Kitchen
    Author

    R. Barri Flowers

    R. Barri Flowers is an award winning and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of romantic suspense, mystery, thriller and crime novels, with twenty Harlequin titles published to date, such as Honolulu Cold Homicide and Special Agent Witness. Chemistry and conflict between the hero and heroine, attention to detail, and incorporating the very latest advances in criminal investigations, are the cornerstones of his crime thriller fiction.

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      Riley Reed Cozy Mysteries Bundle - R. Barri Flowers

      MURDERED IN THE MAN CAVE

      A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery

      By R. Barri Flowers

      MURDERED IN THE MAN CAVE: A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      MURDERED IN THE MAN CAVE

      A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery

      Copyright 2014 by R. Barri Flowers

      All rights reserved.

      CHAPTER ONE

      I went for my daily two-mile run at six in the morning along the sandy beach, taking in the fresh autumn air of Cozy Pines, Oregon. Located about 160 miles from Portland, the population of Cozy Pines is less than 18,000. This grew by several hundred people every year when spring breakers come and then the summer vacation crowd flocks in, seeking an alternative to better-known coastal towns, such as nearby Lincoln City and Seaside. Those who call Cozy Pines home permanently are attracted to its year round mild weather, ocean fishing, bicycling, hiking, whale watching, and many festivals and exhibits.

      Most locals are laidback, friendly, and active. Many are retirees, while others have decided to live here because it's a nice place to settle down and raise a family. I fit somewhere in between, having lived in Cozy Pines for most of my forty-three years. Never married and childless, the last serious relationship I had was nearly a decade ago. Brent London nearly stole my heart with his good looks, charm, and knack for the unpredictable. The fact that he was a brilliant mystery novelist was an added bonus. But, in the end, things didn't work out for us. Instead of me becoming wife number three, we decided that friendship would be far more enduring, which had proven to be the case as Brent had remained one of my dearest friends over the years.

      I ran down the beach, creating fresh footprints in the damp sand, and then headed home. As usual, my mind was racing as I thought of fresh ideas for my popular blog that offered advice on home décor and renovation. On the side, I offered my services as a design consultant, equipped with a master's degree in interior design. My parents left me a small inheritance that afforded me the opportunity to live my life according to my own terms, for better or worse.

      Just as I turned onto my street, Hollow Lane, I approached my neighbor and friend, Annette Buckner. She was walking her poodle. For some reason unbeknownst to me, she had named it Mama.

      Annette was about my height, but a little heavier. Her short blonde hair was a shade lighter than mine, which was shoulder length. She was two years older than I was, but could have passed for someone younger. I suspected that her husband Fred, who was three years younger, admired that quality in her.

      I had already begun my cool down trot, and decided to come to a complete halt when I reached her, since my house was only five houses away.

      Hey, I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.

      Good morning, she responded.

      Mama barked playfully.

      I smiled as the dog brushed against my leg. Hello to you, too.

      I'm so envious that you run all the time, Annette said, which has obviously paid off.

      I smiled. What she didn't know was that running could only go so far. Diet, other forms of exercise, not smoking, and only moderate drinking of wine had a lot to do with it.

      You could always join me, I suggested, having done so before, only to have it fall on deaf ears.

      She frowned. I know, but that just isn't for me. With tendonitis in my knee, I'd never be able to keep up.

      Well, I had to ask, I told her politely.

      Annette forced a smile. So will you be at the book club meeting tomorrow night?

      Of course, I said. Annette and I, along with several other women and one man, got together once a month to discuss a book selection for all of us, as well as recommendations for other titles.

      Great, Annette said. Well, I have to get going now.

      I had a feeling it was the other way around, as Mama seemed eager to get moving and perhaps do her thing somewhere.

      My eyes, blue with gold flecks, twinkled. Okay, I'll see you later. And you too, Mama.

      The dog barked once as if it understood me perfectly.

      I started to walk away when I heard Annette say, Oh, by the way, that was a great piece of advice on your blog about installing glass front cabinets to replace the old ones that hide everything inside. Fred liked it, too.

      I was happy to hear that, coming from a friend. Thanks. It seemed like a practical solution for keeping your cabinets organized, along with an attractive alternative to the typical cabinet doors.

      I agree, Annette said. She glanced down at Mama and then gave me an apologetic look for keeping me from moving on again, which in this case I had no quarrel with.

      We said our goodbyes again and I headed home.

      * * *

      I lived in a two-story cottage style home that I purchased seven years ago. I was taken by its turn of the 20th century charm and its solid build that could easily withstand coastal storms. The fact that it had been upgraded with granite countertops, cypress hardwood flooring, and other modern amenities won me over.

      Much of the morning and afternoon was spent working on my blog and checking in on my stock portfolio, which had seen both better days and worse. After doing some household chores, it was evening and time to go to the local community college where I was taking a course in art and design. With a lifelong dream of being a landscape and seascape artist, this was the first step in making my dream come true.

      I arrived at Elk Community College at a quarter to six, giving me more than enough time to park my Subaru Outback and walk to the Art Center. I was halfway there when I spotted Emily Peterson up ahead. She was Brent London's twenty-three-year-old niece. After his sister and brother-in-law died tragically eight years ago in a car accident, Brent had stepped up as Emily's only living relative and taken her in, becoming her legal guardian. She had proven to be a handful at times, with an on and off drug problem, landing her in and out of rehab. In spite of this and, as Brent had put it, her tendency to hang out with the wrong crowd, he continued to this day to provide for her and give her a place to live, trying to do right by his sister.

      Emily was talking animatedly to a young man and vice versa as I approached them. They stopped abruptly, turning my way.

      I made myself smile while saying to Emily, I thought that was you.

      She seemed to force a smile of her own. Hey.

      Emily was tall and model thin with long red hair and green eyes. According to Brent, she was the spitting image of his late sister, whom I'd never met.

      I studied the man she had been talking to. He was even taller, of medium build, and bald headed with a dark goatee. He met my eyes with what I could best describe as a hard look.

      This is Tony Sullivan, Emily said. And this is Riley Reed. She's a friend of my uncle's.

      Hey, he muttered.

      Hi, Tony. I had a feeling he would rather be elsewhere or perhaps would prefer that I move on, so they could get back to their heated conversation. I was about to oblige them, but Emily seemed to prefer that he move along.

      I'll catch up with you later, she told him.

      He nodded. Yeah, later. After giving me another sharp look, he walked away.

      Hope I wasn't interrupting anything, I said, though curious nonetheless.

      You weren't, Emily insisted. We were done.

      I see. I paused before pressing on with my curiosity. So is he your boyfriend?

      She rolled her eyes. No, he's just a friend.

      "Well, things sounded pretty tense between you and your friend."

      Emily sighed. They weren't. It was just a little disagreement. We're cool.

      I gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided that I should probably mind my own business. That didn't mean I couldn't inquire on another front as a friend of Brent's and hers, by association, having known her for as long as she had been staying with him.

      Are you attending classes here? I asked.

      Yes, I'm taking a photography course. How about you?

      I'm enrolled in an art class.

      She looked at me as if this was hard to imagine for someone my age. Or was I misreading her?

      That's so cool, she said. There's been a standing invitation for Brent to teach a writing course at the college. So far, he's turned it down, stating he doesn't have the time.

      Emily had always referred to her uncle by his first name and he seemed to prefer it that way, perhaps to keep himself feeling young, though he was only in his mid-fifties.

      Well, writing can be all consuming, I pointed out.

      It doesn't have to be, she countered. Maybe he needs to start doing other things to make his life more fulfilled.

      I cocked a brow. You don't think he's getting enough fulfillment in his life? I couldn't help but think that the Brent I knew seemed to lead quite a fulfilling life with his writings, travel, hobbies, and trying to be a good a role model for his niece. Was that not enough for her?

      She shrugged. I'm just saying...

      The next time I see Brent, maybe I'll ask him about teaching here, I suggested as an olive branch.

      Emily grinned. That would be great.

      I glanced at my watch and realized that my class was about to start. I have to go before I'm late.

      Me too, she said. Have fun in your art class.

      Same to you.

      I found myself wondering if things were good between Emily and Brent, though I had no reason in particular to believe otherwise. Unless I counted Tony. He seemed a bit odd and someone I could imagine might somehow rub Brent the wrong way. Or was I just projecting my own gut feelings without cause.

      I went through the motions in class, focusing as best I could on the instructor, a thirty something, bearded, husky man, who clearly took his work seriously and did his best to make sure his students felt the same way. I admit that my thoughts occasionally drifted to ideas for my blog and then, strangely enough, I imagined Brent sharing his writing experiences and successes with eager to learn young novelists in the making.

      But would he actually do it? Or had he made up his mind that this was something he wasn't interested in pursuing?

      I considered whether or not I should get involved, sort of on behalf of Emily. Though Brent and I had remained friends over the years, I had no special pull with him and was fine with that. But that didn't mean I didn't believe he could make use of his talents in more ways than writing and selling books.

      * * *

      By the next day, I had replaced thoughts of Brent with creative ideas for kitchens on my blog. I also responded to comments left from the last two blogs, some more colorful than others.

      After watering my plants, I phoned my sister, Yvonne. Seven years my junior, she also lived in Cozy Pines with her husband George Flaunders. Yvonne was a stay at home wife, having given up a nice job in human resources when she married George, who was a successful businessman. Though she seemed happy enough, I couldn't help but wonder if Yvonne wanted to do more with her life, but wasn't sure how to get started.

      What's up? she said.

      I gave her my usual rundown on my day thus far, and asked about hers.

      George is away on another business trip—this time to New Jersey. I'm using the time to clean out the garage. It's a real mess!

      If you need some help, I can spare maybe an hour, I offered, assuming we were headed in that direction.

      But Yvonne said, Thanks, but I've got it covered.

      Maybe you need to get out more, I suggested tentatively, noting that she seemed to bury herself in that big house too much.

      I get out when I want to, she responded. Last weekend, George and I were in Portland.

      "I meant you should get out more for yourself," I told her.

      "When you're married, you do things for each other. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? After all, you've been single your entire life."

      I sucked in a deep breath at that jab.

      Sorry, forget I said that, Yvonne quickly apologized. I know you're just trying to be a big sister.

      I chuckled. And maybe I should just let you live your life the way you want to, I told her, knowing I had a tendency to micromanage other people. It still hurt a bit that she seemed to think being single meant only thinking about myself—and sometimes her—but I would get over it.

      Hey, guess what? We're thinking about having a baby, Yvonne blurted out.

      I cocked a brow in surprise. The last I knew, George was in no hurry to have children. It had something to do with his troubled relationship with his parents. Had he changed his tune?

      Oh, really, I said evenly.

      Well, actually, I'm the one who's been thinking about it, she admitted. It's been on my mind for a while now. I've just been waiting for the right time to bring it up to George.

      And when will that be? I asked.

      If all goes well, I'll tell him when he gets back on Friday.

      I wanted to ask her if she was prepared for a letdown, but decided I had already used up my quota of giving her my opinion during one phone call, so I told her, Let me know how it goes.

      We both left it at that and said our goodbyes.

      Admittedly, I loved the idea of being an aunt in the absence of being a mother myself. It was a choice I'd made earlier in life and it had become easier over the years since I didn't have a husband or lover in my life to encourage me otherwise. It might have happened with Brent, if things had worked out for us.

      But since it didn't, I wasn't going to second-guess my life's choices, any more than Brent's. Or even Yvonne's for that matter.

      CHAPTER TWO

      This month's book club meeting was held at Annette's house, with mine being next on the revolving list in a month. In between meetings, some or all of us met informally at a coffee shop or at the library to discuss our progress on the current book and also off-topic things. Along with Annette and me, the attendees were Stephanie Catchings, Kelli Rendell, Meryl Lamarr, and Josh Holden. There were two no-shows: Barbara Sinclair and Judith Eckersley. We were all within six years of each other in age, with two married, two widowed, two divorced, and two never married. Josh, forty, was recently divorced and in fact, had taken the place of his ex-wife in the book club when she moved out of state. Instead of being out of place, his love for books and laidback style made him a perfect candidate for the club.

      Annette, whose husband Fred was at the shoe shop he owned, had made homemade oatmeal cookies to go with lemonade for her guests as the meeting began after some chitchat. We discussed a mystery novel written last year by a local author named Pierce O'Shea. Titled Death's Dungeon, it was about a devious killer who brought unsuspecting victims to his dungeon, before disposing of them in ghastly ways. O'Shea himself was Brent's former research assistant turned mystery writer. He had yet to measure up to Brent's success and superior writing technique, but showed promise and had generally received nice reviews for the three novels he had put out.

      I loved how the protagonist, Clifford Stratford, used his charm more than his looks to entice his victims into his house without a clue that they would never leave, Annette said.

      I think O'Shea left a number of clues for them to pick up on, Josh said. "At least I was able to spot them without much difficulty. I just think they chose not to look for them because they were so caught up in Clifford's charisma."

      That's my point, Annette argued. Clifford's personality was so overwhelming that it kept his victims from really getting to know him and the evil that lurked within. She looked at me and said, Feel free to weigh in any time, Riley.

      I smiled and took her up on it. Well, I found myself focusing not so much on how O'Shea or Stratford, I should say, lured his targets to their deaths, but rather the process by which he cleverly built his own life and then was overcome by a wicked nature to go after others.

      I thought it was interesting, Stephanie chimed in, that Clifford somehow managed to be as sweet as could be in romancing Genevieve Donnelly, without giving a hint of his dark side, while sparing her the same fate as the others. He must have truly loved her.

      Kelli chuckled sarcastically. I'd hardly call it love when you manage to steal someone's heart and rip it out afterwards, figuratively speaking.

      I honestly thought the authorities would never figure it out, Meryl said. They seemed almost as baffled as the ones who were taken by Clifford Stratford, until the police finally put the pieces together.

      Isn't that what makes the mystery, I suggested, to keep everyone, including the characters, in the dark until as close to the end as possible?

      Meryl frowned. I guess, but I thought the book was boring for the most part. Maybe the author could take a lesson or two from someone who is truly a master of the genre like Brent London.

      I think he already has, Annette said. After all, Brent was his mentor.

      Clearly O'Shea has a ways to go to measure up to London, Josh said. I'm sure he'll get better over time.

      Everyone seemed pretty much in agreement with that belief, with the possible exception of Meryl, who seemed unsold on the notion. As someone who had read all of Brent's novels, with the exception of the first, which had apparently gone out of print before he found success and incredibly had remained that way, it was certainly easy to distinguish the pupil from the student. This notwithstanding, I believed that Pierce O'Shea had a lot of potential as a novelist and I suspected that bigger things were coming his way.

      Before the meeting was adjourned, we agreed that our next book club selection would be the gothic novel Rebecca, by British author Daphne du Maurier. Though I had read several of her other novels, somehow I hadn't gotten around to arguably her most popular one. As such, I welcomed the opportunity to read and discuss it with the club members.

      * * *

      After my morning run and breakfast the following day, I paid a visit to my favorite flower shop, The Blossoming Florist, owned by my good friend Peggy Lawrence. Like me, Peggy, who was the same age, had never been married. However, she was engaged to a charming man. According to her, it was one of those long engagements that would give them plenty of time to make sure this was what they both wanted.

      I didn't have to look far for Peggy, as I found her in an aisle arranging some potted plants.

      Well look who the wind blew in, she said with a smile, gazing up at me through her glasses.

      Actually, it is a bit gusty out there this morning, I had to admit.

      Peggy was petite with dark short hair. If you'd like to work for me, I can always use the help, even with two part-timers already on the payroll.

      I grinned. Thanks, but no thanks, I told her politely. I prefer my green thumb in the comfort of my own home.

      She sighed. I figured as much. She wiped her hands almost self-consciously on her stained apron. So are you shopping or did you just drop by to say hello?

      Both. Hello and I'm looking to add a couple of nice houseplants to my collection. What do you suggest?

      I think I have the perfect plants for you, she said. Follow me.

      I did and we ended up in front of some tropical bromeliads and other colorful blooming plants.

      These plants would certainly be great additions for your house, Peggy said.

      I agreed, and I also liked the containers, which were perfectly suited for them.

      But Peggy wasn't content to leave it at that. I can also show you some lovely orchids and hanging amaranthus.

      Tempted as I was, but knowing I could only keep a handle on so many plants, I told her, Thanks, but I'd better quit while I'm ahead.

      She smiled. Got it. But I'll let you know when something new comes in that I think you might like.

      Please do, I said nicely. As she rang up my purchases, I asked casually, How's Harold? He was her fiancé.

      He's great—thanks for asking.

      I've got to have you both over for dinner soon.

      We'd like that. Harold's always telling me that we should hang out with my friends more. I usually respond by saying we should hang out with his a little less. Not that I think they're too stuffy. Or maybe they are.

      I chuckled. You know what they say—you marry a person and inherit their family and friends, for better or worse.

      So true, she said. Guess I'll learn to get used to his friends.

      And vice versa, I told her, taking back my credit card. I'll call you next week and we'll set up a dinner date.

      Sounds good.

      Now that I had committed to it, I had to double check my schedule and make sure I hadn't overcommitted.

      * * *

      I had just returned home and set my new plants down on the counter when my cell phone rang. Grabbing it from my back pocket, I saw that the caller was Brent London. He was asking for a video chat.

      Feeling I was presentable enough, I clicked it on.

      Hey you, he said, sporting a half grin on a face that was still handsome, if not a bit more seasoned now that he was pushing sixty. He still had a full head of rich, gray hair and gray-blue eyes.

      Hey back, I said, thinking that it must have been mental telepathy that he should call, since he had been on my mind lately.

      Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time, he said.

      You didn't. I figured that working on my plants could wait.

      Do you have any dinner plans? he asked.

      No.

      Good. There's a nice place called Cheri's on Hagadorn Avenue. It will be my treat.

      Yes, I've been to Cheri's a few times, I said. They have great food.

      I think so too. So are we on?

      Yes, I'd be happy to have dinner with you, Brent. We can catch up.

      He nodded. I'd like that. What time should I pick you up?

      I pondered his request. Though I felt quite comfortable with him, knowing Brent as I did, I didn't want to give him the wrong impression with the dinner date by making it seem more personal than it was. Especially since, the last I knew, he had a lovely young girlfriend, whom I couldn't possibly compete with. Not that I wanted to. As far as I was concerned, anything romantic between us was ancient history. Fortunately, we were still able to stay friends.

      Actually, why don't I meet you there, I told him. I have a few errands to run in the area first. How about we have dinner at say, six?

      He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Six works for me. See you then.

      Goodbye, Brent.

      When I disconnected, I couldn't help but wonder if he wanted to have dinner for some reason in particular. Or was it simply to get together for a friendly chat between former lovers?

      I would find out soon enough. It also occurred to me that this might be a great time to offer my two cents about him accepting a teaching position at Elk Community College, assuming the offer was still on the table.

      * * *

      I dropped some things off at the post office just before five, and then stopped by a department store to buy a new tablecloth, which I planned to use when Peggy and her fiancé came to dinner next week. After that, I headed over to the restaurant to meet Brent. Though our friendship had remained steady over the years, I was happy that we had ended the romance when we had. For one, he had a terrible track record when it came to successful relationships, with four ex-wives and more than his fair share of girlfriends during and after, including his current one. His first ex, Sheryl, had literally dropped dead of a heart attack two months after the divorce and well before I came into the picture.

      Wife number two, Deidre, had lasted for a year before she filed for divorce, according to Brent, citing irreconcilable differences. One month after their divorce was finalized, she married a local farmer named Mitt Carter.

      Brent's third wife, Ashley, came into the picture after I bowed out as his possible bride. In fact, I had known Ashley indirectly. We both had the same hairdresser and actually ran into each other there once—whereby she happily announced her engagement to Brent. After he verified this to me, second thoughts crept up about the one I'd let get away. Those regrets ended quickly enough when I realized that we weren't right for each other, no matter how many women came after me.

      I wished him well and actually attended their wedding.

      The marriage lasted three years before Brent set his sights on the woman who would become wife number four, Margo London. In the meantime, Ashley would move on too, eventually marrying a newspaper editor named Dean McGowan.

      Margo, also a novelist, though hers were romance novels, seemed like a good match for Brent. She was also the closest to his age and appeared unfazed by his previous failed marriages.

      Brent gave every indication that Margo was the true love of his life, displaying public affection whenever I happened to come along for the ride at some event. I was genuinely happy for them and not at all jealous, as I was content with my own life and career.

      Then last year, things grew sour in their marriage with Brent accusing Margo of cheating on him, which she apparently conceded was true, while making no apologies. After a brief separation, then an attempt to reconcile, they called it quits for good.

      Brent appeared to have come to terms with the breakup and divorce, pouring himself into his writings, before starting to date his latest girlfriend, Karla Terrell, a local model who seemed to have little in common with him. Not that this had stopped Brent before, so who was I to say it wouldn't work?

      I pulled into an open slot in the restaurant parking lot, while again wondering about the purpose of the dinner invitation.

      Could it be that he was planning to go down the aisle for the fifth time and wanted to share the news with a dear old friend?

      If so, I promised to support whatever decision he had made on his future, just as he usually respected my choices in how I lived my life.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Brent was waiting inside the lobby when I stepped into the restaurant. He was several inches taller than me and several pounds heavier than when we first met. But he remained well put together, dressed in a black sport coat, light blue shirt, and dark slacks.

      Riley, he said in a deep voice, giving me a formal peck on the cheek. Glad you could make it.

      I smiled. You know me—I never pass up a good meal, especially when it's free.

      He grinned. And I'm never one to pass up good company.

      I blushed. Always a charmer.

      I'm afraid not everyone appreciates old fashioned charm the way you do, Riley, he said.

      I met his eyes. I'm sure your girlfriend does.

      He frowned. We broke up last month.

      Oh, sorry to hear that, I said, wondering how many times over the years I'd had to repeat those same words to him.

      Don't be. It was mutually agreeable. Well, truthfully, I wanted out more than she did, but Karla understood that the romance had run its course.

      In that case, perhaps it was for the best, I muttered, but still felt sorry for him, as he deserved to find someone who could make him happy for the long run. Or was that asking too much?

      Yes, I think it was for the best, he said. Brent held my elbow like a true gentleman as the hostess led us to a table.

      We both ordered wine while studying the menu. Any suggestions? I asked.

      Try the honey glazed duck breast, Brent said. It's really good. I think I'll have the teriyaki marinated sirloin.

      I took him up on that when the waitress came to take our orders, adding spinach-mushroom salad and dinner rolls.

      When the waitress left, Brent asked, So how have you been?

      Fine. Busy as ever, and I imagine you could say the same.

      "Maybe not quite busy as ever, he said, but busy nevertheless."

      I tasted the wine thoughtfully while wondering what was on his mind in inviting me to dinner. As I waited for him to be forthcoming, I decided to say what was on my mind.

      I ran into Emily at Elk Community College the other day.

      Oh? Are you taking classes there too?

      Just one, I told him. An art class.

      That seems to suit you, with your artistic flair, he said.

      I suppose it does. I smiled slightly. Emily told me that the school asked you to teach a course on writing.

      Yes, they thought I might have something useful to offer students interested in writing fiction as a career.

      I waited for him to say more, but he didn't. So I said, I think that's a marvelous idea.

      You do?

      Yes. With your success as a novelist and your understanding of the creative process, I'm sure you would have a lot to offer.

      Brent tasted his wine, frowning. Maybe at one point in my life, but not now.

      I wanted to leave it at that—recalling that Emily had told me his reason for declining the invitation was that he didn't have time—but decided to do some more probing. May I ask why? I know you probably get such offers all the time and have to be selective, but—

      I have Alzheimer's disease, Brent muttered quietly.

      My eyes popped wide in disbelief. What?

      Yeah, that was my reaction too, he said.

      But you're only in your mid-fifties.

      It's still in the early stages, he said, and obviously it's early onset. I've started forgetting little things, which my housekeeper Luisa has noticed, but hasn't figured out yet. And I've even forgotten some bigger things, though I still clearly remember other things. But this isn't something I can run away from.

      Oh, Brent, I said emotionally, as if he were dying, which in some ways he was. I'm so sorry.

      Don't be, he said. I have a pretty good life and hopefully I'll have enough time left to do some good. Unfortunately, trying to focus on teaching a class isn't in the cards, even if I could perhaps bluff my way through it. But I will continue to write for as long as I can process my plots, characters, and promote what I've written adequately.

      The waitress brought our food and refilled the wine glasses.

      I sliced into my honey glazed duck breast while pondering Brent's devastating news. In doing volunteer work at the Senior Center, I knew some senior citizens with Alzheimer's disease and it broke my heart to see such minds going to waste with nothing that could be done to reverse it. To see a friend, much too young, have such an affliction was sad, though he seemed to be taking it well, considering.

      Have you told Emily? I asked.

      Brent sighed, while cutting into his steak. I've wanted to, but I'm just not sure she's stable enough to be able to handle it.

      I met his eyes. Are you saying she's had a relapse?

      I'm not sure, he admitted. She hasn't exactly been herself lately, but then I haven't been either, so maybe I'm just projecting that on her.

      But you'd rather not burden her with your situation until you're sure?

      You've got it.

      I ate some salad and thought about Emily's exchange at the college with her friend Tony. Could they have been arguing over money for drugs? Or, as my mother used to say, was I making a mountain out of a molehill?

      Is something on your mind, Riley? Brent asked.

      I was just wondering if you know Emily's friend, Tony. I met him when I ran into her at the college.

      Brent studied the question. Yeah, I've met him. They've had an on-again, off-again relationship. Last I knew, it was off. Maybe now it's on again. He shrugged. She could do better, but the more I talk about it, the less she seems to listen.

      What is it you don't like about Tony? I asked curiously.

      I just think he's a bad influence on her.

      You mean like supplying drugs?

      Maybe, though I have no proof. Brent took a sip of water. Maybe you could talk to her...see where her mind is.

      I lifted a brow. I'm not sure that's such a good idea, I said honestly.

      Emily's always respected you, perhaps more than she does me, he said. If she's in trouble, I want to be able to help her, while I still can.

      Though I wasn't convinced that Emily respected me all that much, I felt obliged to do what I could to help him as a friend. I'll talk to her.

      He grinned. Thanks, I owe you one.

      My mind started racing. Actually, maybe you could return the favor... I

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