by Lauren Carr
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.
“Me, Ned, Kyle, all of Angie’s friends—that we were all watching her, and if we got anything . . . ” She paused. “I guess it worked too well because a couple of weeks later Cheryl was flying off to California, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop her.”
Cameron recalled her saying that she and Cheryl used to be friends.
“Cheryl, Angie, and I used to hang out together . . . until high school when Cheryl blossomed and got popular with the boys. Then it went to her head. She thought she ruled the world until Ned—”
“Your husband Ned?”
“That’s right. My husband Ned took a liking to Angie, who never did anything to anyone.” Her eyes fell to her feet. “But he never acted on it. Angie had no idea, but Cheryl saw it. She was bound and determined to make Angie pay, even though she never did anything to encourage him.”
“How did she decide to make her pay?”
Brianne replied with silence.
Their eyes met.
Cameron repeated her question.
Brianne sighed. “There was a big age difference between Doris Sullivan and Angie.”
“How big of a difference?” the detective asked.
“Seventeen years.” She explained, “Back when Angie was born, girls who had babies out of wedlock were considered . . . you know. So, when Doris got pregnant, she went to live with an aunt down in Wheeling. Then, when she had Angie, they pretended she was Doris’s younger sister. Somehow, Cheryl found out and told everyone.”
“Doris was secretly Angie’s mother.” Cameron pieced it together. “Did Angie know before Cheryl told her?”
“Yes, Angie knew. Doris told her after her parents, I mean grandparents, were killed in that car accident. Angie was cool with it, until Cheryl and her friends spread it all over, especially when they ganged up on her at the skating rink that night.”
“I guess by that time the friendship was over and done with,” the detective said.
“Oh, yeah.”
“When Angie disappeared, did you tell the police detective about Cheryl spilling the Sullivans’ family secret?”
“No, of course not.” Brianne shook her head with a loud gasp. “Doris was upset enough about Angie disappearing. When Cheryl first started spreading it around, Angie begged us all to keep quiet about it so Doris wouldn’t know. She didn’t want her sister—mother hurt. When Angie disappeared, we talked about it—me, Ned, and Kyle, and everyone else who had heard it—and we vowed not to let Doris find out.”
Cameron cleared her throat. “Which could have directly interfered with the detective’s investigation into Angie’s disappearance.”
“How?” Brianne’s eyes narrowed and her mouth dropped open in a scoff. “Cheryl killing Angie years later had nothing to do with Doris getting knocked up when she was a teenager.”
“How do you know t
hat?”
Brianne’s eye rolled up to the ceiling and across the room in the same manner as the adolescent men she adored.
“Well,” Cameron said, “you kept this information a secret before. Why are you telling me about it now?”
“To let you know exactly how much of a witch Cheryl was,” Brianne replied. “She deserved exactly what she got.” Under Cameron’s questioning gaze, she added, “But she didn’t get it from me.”
“If you did, I’ll find out.”
“Don’t be so certain of that,” Brianne challenged her.
When her host started to stand up to escort her out, Cameron said, “I have a few more questions.”
“Then get on with it.” Brianne sat back on the sofa.
Cameron showed her a copy of the business card found in Cheryl Smith’s pocket with her direct line phone number on it. “Am I correct in assuming that you don’t freely give that number out?”
Brianne slowly shook her head and tucked a loose lock of dark hair behind her ear. “When was she killed?”
“Summer of 1985.”
“I have no idea how she ended up with that phone number.” She suggested, “I give my business cards out to a lot of people. Someone must have given it to her.”
“Then you deny seeing her and giving this to her?”
“I haven’t spoken to Cheryl Smith since that night at the Melody Lane Skating Rink, which is when she killed Angie.”
“But didn’t you just tell me that you told her after Angie disappeared that you’d call the police if you ever laid eyes on her once they got proof that she killed Angie?”
Brianne’s mouth became tight.
“How did you tell her that after Angie’s disappearance if you never spoke to her since that night at the skating rink?” Cameron smirked. She had tripped her up.
“I meant since Cheryl left town after Angie disappeared.”
“Fair enough,” Cameron said. “You were eighteen years old when Cheryl Smith took off for Hollywood. Your father was running the winery at that time.” She showed her the copy of the business card. “This lists your name as owner, which you became in 1983 after your father’s death, before Davenport Winery expanded and went public in the 1990’s. This business card was made up after Cheryl went to Hollywood. Do you have any idea how she got it?”
“No.”
“How about your husband?”
Brianne scoffed. “Ned? He hated Cheryl more than I did.”
“But he was her boyfriend at one point.”
“In high school, and only because she put out.”
“There was another number on this card, on the back.” Cameron held up the paper for her to read. “Your husband’s car phone number.”
Brianne’s eyes widened. Her face grew pale. “You’ll have to ask him about that.”
“I will.” Cameron folded up the paper, and put it back in her pocket. “What were you doing at Albert Gordon’s house?”
Brianne’s eyes widened at the question. “What?”
“What were you doing at Albert Gordon’s house on the day of the explosion?”
“Same as everyone else,” she replied. “I was helping to clean it out. I hired the caterer, who’s mad as hell at me since he lost his truck. Don’t you remember?”
Cameron nodded her head. “Yes, I remember you being there. My question is why were you there? The volunteers were all members of the Albert’s church, to whom he had left the farm and his estate. You don’t belong to that group.”
“Neither do you,” she countered.
“I was invited by Joshua Thornton,” Cameron said, “Albert’s cousin—to help his family.” She cocked her head. “I still can’t figure out why you were there. You don’t strike me as the type who gets into doing hard, physical, dirty work. How well did you know Albert?”
“He and my father were fishing buddies,” Brianne said. “And as for why I was there—Joshua invited me.”
“Joshua? My Joshua?”
“My Joshua.” Brianne smirked. “Any more questions?”
“No.” Cameron stood up. “I’m through here.” She got halfway across the room before turning around.
Brianne was smirking like a schoolgirl, who just got one over on the nerd.
“One more thing.” Cameron stepped up to her. “Don’t ever lie to me again. Because that makes me mad—seriously mad. It’s not a good idea to get a woman who carries a police shield—and a gun—seriously mad at you—because you’re very liable to get seriously hurt. Understand?”
The color drained from Brianne’s face. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Understood.”
“Stay away from Donny. He’s not into older women.”
Brianne’s attractive features dissolved. Her face hardened with determination. “I have yet to meet a young man who’s not into older women, especially when that older woman is me.”
Chapter Eight
“Has the board made any decisions yet about Albert’s replacement as church elder,” Doris asked Joshua while his mouth was filled with runny scrambled eggs.
I wish I were someplace more pleasant right now—like in Tad’s morgue watching him perform an autopsy.
It was the Rotary Club’s weekly breakfast meeting at the Mountaineer Resort in Newell. The meal was served as a buffet, which Joshua despised anyway. Resting under the heat lamps, the food resembled leftovers to him. Cameron claimed he was spoiled after years of eating meals cooked by his daughter Tracy, a gourmet cook.
Her plate loaded with scrambled eggs and biscuits drenched in sausage gravy, Doris Sullivan took the seat across from Joshua to make a case for her taking Albert Gordon’s position on the church’s board of elders.
Such a position was coveted. Often, it was inherited, a coincidence that was purely unintentional. Joshua’s grandfather had been an elder and, upon his death, his wife took his spot. In the early 1970’s, a woman being given such a position was a big deal. Tad took Frieda Thornton’s place on the board after she had passed away. As soon as he moved back to Chester, Joshua was offered a newly created seat, even though he had been gone for over twenty years. Somehow, it only seemed right.
Such positions were quietly offered by the pastor or other elders from behind the scenes. However, both Doris Sullivan and Mildred Hildebrand had launched into what resembled a full-fledge campaign to take Albert’s place on the board—complete with negative advertising.
At first, Joshua welcomed the change of topic from Cherry Pickens’s body being found in his cousin’s basement. While the identity of the lady in the freezer wasn’t public knowledge, enough people knew about it to make the murder a hot topic for speculation. The murder case that was growing in fame with every day that passed without a statement from the lead investigator, who happened to be the girlfriend of the cousin of the prime person of interest in the case.
Accusations of a cover-up were getting closer with every passing day.
“Were you aware that Mildred Hildebrand has high blood pressure?” Doris sprinkled salt over her eggs and biscuits before tasting it. “This is only my opinion, but it really wouldn’t do to select an elder who is likely to have a stroke at any time. At my last physical, the doctor told me that I have the body of a twenty-five year old. I’m still down in the barn at six o’clock every morning feeding the horses and cleaning stalls. I haven’t had a cold in over forty years.”
“When it comes to serving as church elder,” Joshua said, “spiritual maturity is more important than physical health.”
He fought to keep his attention focused on Doris when he spied Brianne across the room working her charms on a good looking server who looked to still be in college. Not far away, Ned Carter had also noticed his wife rubbing her hand up and down the server’s biceps.
“I understand Cheryl Smith was a chief suspect in your sister’s murder.” Joshua refrained from mentioning the rumor about Angie being Doris’s daughter. In all the years that he had known Doris, he had never heard about it. That made him th
ink it was an ugly, juvenile rumor. Even if it was true, it was still a family secret, which he didn’t want to mention unless forced to since Doris had lost the last member of her family.
Doris started at the abrupt change of subject. “Everyone knows Cheryl killed her.”
“But she had an alibi,” Joshua replied.
“Her lying friends.” Doris cast her eyes on him. “I got a call from the Hancock County sheriff’s office. He says you want to dig up Angie’s body and have another autopsy done.”
“I think you should do it.”
“Why should I?”
“What if Cheryl didn’t kill her?” he asked.
“Who else would have?” she replied.
“I don’t know,” Joshua said. “But forensics has come a long, long way since 1984. If it was one of my kids, and there was any chance that I was wrong about who killed them, I’d want to know it.”
“They want to disturb her grave,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“I’m sure she won’t mind if it helps to catch her killer.”
Doris’s lips pulled together. “Are they sure it was Cheryl’s body in Albert’s basement?”
“Definitely.”
“How’d she get there?”
“Someone stuffed her in a freezer and hid it in the basement, the same basement where the bomb that could have killed a dozen people had been planted.”
She blinked at Joshua. When his eyes met hers, she clutched her chest. “You certainly don’t think I planted that bomb.”
“You were the last one down in the basement before it was discovered. That freezer contained the body of the prime suspect in your sister’s murder. If the blast had destroyed the freezer and body—”
Doris snorted. “A lot of people went down into the basement that morning including Mildred and her daughter Gail.”
“Why would they have planted that bomb?”
“Gail Hildebrand hated Cheryl Smith as much as anyone,” she said. “Cheryl and her friends were abusive to her.”
“How were they abusive?” Joshua looked around the banquet room until he spotted the topic of their conversation.
The owner of a marketing agency, Gail Hildebrand was a fixture at all of the business networking organizations in the area. Her agency was under contract with the Mountaineer Resort.
