Dead on Ice (10 page)

“After which you would have found yourself sleeping in Admiral’s dog house.”

“Admiral doesn’t have a dog house.”

“True,” Cameron said.

“The least you can do is let me in on what you’ve got for when you guys give me the word to run with it.”

“You’re as tenacious as Tad and Josh. Are you sure you only married into the family? Josh tells me that a case could be made that some families in this valley are inbred.”

“That’s not true,” Jan said in a shrill tone. “I swear I’m going to slip arsenic in his tea for saying that. How about it?”

“Slip arsenic into Josh’s tea?” Cameron shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean, I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.”

Cameron raised an eyebrow in her direction. “It’s not obstructing an investigation if I don’t tell you what I know. It is if you don’t tell me.”

“You should give me something in return.”

Cameron studied her for a minute. “You don’t have anything.” She turned back to lift the lid to her laptop, only to find Jan’s hand holding it down. The detective sighed. “If I pay you twenty dollars will you go away?”

“When Cherry Pickens left Vegas—when she disappeared—she was driving a red Ferrari 308 GTS.”

“That’s a really bitching car,” Cameron said.

Even Irving seemed to take notice. He opened his emerald-green eyes to peer over at Jan. One of his black ears with white tufts cocked in her direction. His tail twitched.

“Yes, it is,” Jan said. “Not the average pickup truck you see around these parts. My question is, if Cherry Pickens was Cheryl Smith, and she came back here to get murdered, then what happened to the car?”

The two women exchanged glances.

She could have ditched the car before landing in Hookstown,” Cameron said.

“What if she didn’t?”

“Then there could be the motive for her murder,” Cameron muttered. “I’m impressed, Jan.” She lifted the lid to her laptop.

“Impressed with what?” Wearing his winter coat and carrying his briefcase, Joshua came in. He stopped when he saw Irving stretched out across his desk. “What is that doing on my desk?”

Irving directed his glare at him. His tail twitched like a fencer’s foil. He almost seemed to say, “Yeah, I’m using your desk for my afternoon nap. What do you intend to do about it?”

“He’s my muse,” Cameron said. “He helps me focus.”

“He also sheds.” Joshua set his briefcase next to the desk.

Wounded by the observation, Irving jumped down. With a glance over his shoulder at Joshua, he stuck his tail straight up into the air and hitched his rear end up in his direction before stalking out of the study.

“I think you just got the feline version of the finger,” Jan said.

“He does that to me all the time.”

Jan said, “I thought Irving liked you.”

“He did,” he replied.

“And then what?” she asked. “What did you do to him?”

“I did nothing.” Clutching his chest, he backed up a step.

“Joshua slept with his woman,” Cameron told her.

Jan turned to him. “Home wrecker.”

Joshua fought the blush rising to his cheeks. Judging by the grin that came to Jan’s lips, he knew his childhood friend saw his embarrassment. “Irving can find someone in his own species.”

“No, he can’t,” Cameron said. “He’s been fixed. I was it.”

“Then I guess he’s going to have to get over it.” Joshua went to his next concern. “I hope you two aren’t working together.”

“No,” Cameron said, “Jan’s just bugging me.”

“Stop bugging her,” Joshua ordered.

“What’s that?” Jan indicated the envelope that Irving had been guarding.

Cameron laid her hand flat on it. “None of your business.”

The gesture confirming her suspicion, she pounced. “Is that the autopsy report on Cheryl Smith? Is it official?”

Cameron glanced up at Joshua, who slowly nodded his head. “It’s official. It is Cheryl Anne Smith, aka Cherry Pickens.”

“What was the cause of death?” Jan reached for the envelope which the detective slid out of her reach.

“Broken neck,” Joshua said.

“Could it have been an accident?” she asked.

“Right,” Cameron smiled. “She got high on heroin and had an accident, broke her neck, then she crawled into that freezer, and died.”

“Did you say heroin?” Jan asked.

Cameron was equally coy when she answered, “Yep, the same drug used to kill Blake Norton, the pop star Cherry Pickens was fooling around with while Humphrey Phoenix was financing her boob job. He was found tied up in a chair and with a needle in his arm.”

Jan wondered out loud, “If Cherry knew about Phoenix killing her boyfriend, she had to have known that she’d be next. That’s why she came back here, and probably explains who killed her and stuffed her in that freezer.”

Cameron was shaking her head. “Nah, this wasn’t a professional hit.”

Jan was offended by her lack of agreement. “How can you be so sure?”

“Experience,” the detective said. “This case has none of the earmarks of a professional hit.”

Joshua agreed. “Albert had no mob ties. And if he did, he had thirty years to get rid of the body so it would never be found. That tells me he didn’t know it was there.” He turned to Cameron. “That business card found in her back pocket. It had the phone number to Brianne Davenport’s direct line. She wouldn’t give that number to just anyone.”

“If I was on the run,” Jan noted, “I’d be more likely to run to my ex- boyfriend than his wife. Cherry used to be hot and heavy with Ned Carter.” She asked the detective, “Have you interviewed him yet?”

“She had his car phone number written on the back of the business card,” Cameron said. “But think about it. Cheryl’s on the run. What do you need most when you’re on the run? Money to run with. Where was she more likely to get some? One of the richest women in the tri-state area.”

“Unless you had a drug habit and needed a fix,” Joshua mused. “Ned Carter did dabble in drugs back when she knew him. Managing the casino and track, he has connections; which, according to rumors, he still keeps in touch with.”

“But you need money to buy a fix,” Cameron pointed out.

“Ned Carter has both,” Joshua pointed out. “He’s got the connections to take care of her fix, and the rich wife from whom he can get the cash to give her to run with.”

“I love a man with the power of deductive reasoning,” she said in a husky voice.

Chapter Seven

Cameron drove up the winding hill to the Davenport estate. The sprawling white farmhouse resembled a southern plantation home built into the side of a steep hill. Vineyards cascaded down the front of the estate to the peasants’ farms hidden among deep woods beneath the hundred-year-old colonial. The original home had been added onto again and again until it became the biggest along Snowden Road.

Making her way up the long twisting drive, the thick woods gave way to rows of grapevines, one row above the other until the driveway leveled off at the floral gardens that surrounded the house.

Acreage-wise, Doris Sullivan’s horse farm, Sullivan Stables, located on the other side of the country road, was bigger than the Davenport estate. Grandeur-wise, the winery had everyone beat.

“I have a feeling we’re not in Chester anymore, Irving,” Cameron told the skunk cat in the passenger seat of her cruiser.

Irving let out a mixture between a growl and a meow upon sighting a squirrel racing out of a flower bed and up a maple tree.

“If she’s such a debutant,” Cameron muttered in a low voice to the cat, “Then what’s she doing here in Hookstown? Why isn’t she on some reality show chasing some teen pop star?” She pulled the Pennsylvania State Police cruiser around to park in front of the wrap-around porch. “This place is big.” Concluding her skunk cat would not be welcome inside the mansion, Cameron delegated Irving to guarding the cruiser while she went inside to interview Brianne Davenport.

A housekeeper named Harriet answered the door. After studying the detective’s gold police shield, the older woman showed her into the foyer with the pleasantness of a friend. “What makes a woman want to become a homicide detective?”

“I wanted to meet men.” Cameron was admiring the high ceilings and luxurious decor of the foyer. She forced herself to keep her chin from her knees while she took in the antiques and classic style of the furnishings.

Harriett invited her into the living room to show off the garden that started at the end of the patio. The entire northern side of the house was made up of windows to take in the trees, fountains, statues, and a garage the size of a middle-class home on the far side of back yard. In the distance, Cameron could make out another vineyard that stretched to the far tree line.

“You can wait here,” Harriet told her. “Ms. Davenport will be right with you.”

Several minutes after the housekeeper left her, Cameron heard a door open and shut down a hallway before footsteps galloped in her direction. A young man who looked only a few years older than Donny slid to a halt when he saw the detective, her hand on her gun, in the room.

His long, blond hair fell straight to his shoulders. His soft face was flushed down to his chest. In contrast to his effeminate face, his broad shoulders and chest was muscular. “Oh,” he said upon seeing her.

“Oh,” she replied. “Who are you?”

As if he didn’t know how to answer, he paused before answering. “I’m Freddie.” His eyes never left her face.

Cameron felt like she was looking into the face of a department store mannequin. All looks, but hollow inside. She didn’t know who Freddie was, but she had already determined that he wasn’t very bright.

“Are you really a cop?”

“That’s why they give me the gold shield.” Who is this guy?

Carrying a stack of sealed envelopes, Harriet came back into the room. “Freddie, Brianne asked that you take these party invitations to the post office. She wants them post marked today. Could you also wash the Mercedes? She’ll be driving that to the McDonald party tonight.”

“Later, detective.” He rushed out to the foyer.

“Cameron, how good of you to come!” Brianne Davenport bound into the room and up to her with a wide grin on her face. A waft of perfume combined with a musky scent came into the room with her. Her pink cheeks and bright eyes left little to the detective’s imagination about what she had been doing during her meeting with Freddie. Brianne ushered the detective to the sofa where they sat down.

“I didn’t mean to upset your . . .” Cameron began their interview with an apology.

“My what?”

“Meeting.”

“Oh, you mean Freddie.” She cast Cameron a wicked grin. “That’s perfectly fine. Freddie and I will finish later, I assure you.”

“How does your husband feel about that?” Cameron asked.

“What he doesn’t know—”

“Still hurts him,” she finished.

Brianne’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Did you come to give me unsolicited marriage counseling or to talk about that bomb in Albert Gordon’s basement?”

“I came to talk to you about Cheryl Smith.”

Brianne batted her thick eyelashes. “Who?” It came out as a high-pitched squawk that was not befitting to her sultry image.

“Someone from your past,” Cameron explained, “who we found hidden in that basement where the bomb was planted.” She cocked her head at her and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t know Cheryl Smith.”

“A lifetime ago,” Brianne said. “She used to be my friend.”

“Really?”

“Until she destroyed and killed my best friend.”

“That friend being . . .”

“Angie Sullivan.” Sadness filled Brianne’s flawless face. “Why are you asking about Cheryl Smith?”

“Cheryl Smith’s body was found stuffed in a freezer in Albert Gordon’s basement.”

Brianne scoffed. “You know Albert Gordon was the one who got the judge to give Cheryl permission to take off after she killed Angie. I didn’t speak to him for years after he did that.”

”Were you mad enough to kill her and hide her body in Gordon’s basement to make some sort of statement—only to have him not notice it to get the point?”

Brianne cocked her head. “Do you mean, instead of Cheryl running off, someone killed her and hid her body in her lawyer’s house?”

Cameron explained about Cheryl Smith changing her identity and becoming an actress in sex movies before returning to the area and getting killed. “Did you see her when she came back here?”

“No way,” Brianne replied. “I hated her for what she did to Angie. She knew that if I laid eyes on her, I would have called the cops.”

“How did she know that?”

“I told her,” Brianne said. “When Angie disappeared, everyone knew Cheryl killed her. But the police didn’t have anything because her warped friends gave her an alibi. So they couldn’t arrest her. I let her know, we all let her know—”

“We being who?” Cameron asked.