-12 Hours Earlier-
THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
As a psychic detective, I've had some of the most bizarre, if not bugnut crazy telepathic episodes. Like the time I experienced a migraine and an orgasm while doing a reading on a serial killer.
Twenty-six-year-old Ellen Neal's hatred for men resulted in ten brutal murders, all of which followed the same sadistic pattern- - -except for the last one. That victim she actually slept with. But after the man dozed off, sweaty and sated, she bashed his brains in with a paperweight. Jacked him up so bad, the funeral director insisted on a closed casket.
I worked the case in an unofficial capacity- - -read: off-the-books-so none of my telepathic observations could be used as evidence, but I did point the cops in Neal's direction. Turned out my instincts were right. The woman was a straight-up nutbag.
With an angel's face and a cheerleader's smile, Neal was sweetness and light personified, but her emotions painted a much darker picture. Namely, the skull-numbing headache-orgasm I had the first time she viewed the coroner's grizzly photos. The pleasure-pain combo hit me the second she touched them. What a terror that was. I suffered in silence while she secretly revelled in the memory of the sex and the kill. No question, she was guilty as hell, but it took a hidden bloody toe print and two pubic hairs before the cops could indict her.
Neal is currently sitting on death row in Muncy, Pennsylvania.
Whenever I read people's emotions, auras come to me through one or more of the five senses, but I can't control the form they take. Some days, I see visions or smell odors. Other times I taste or feel something, and on rare occasions, I even hear music and voices. Then there's the bizarro variety, like what happened during the Ellen Neal circus. Overall, my accuracy stands at about 89 percent, a success rate I hoped would carry me through my latest case, the most challenging of my career.
The death and possible murder of Caryn Gilson.
"Danielle!" Angela Pierce gushed from Frost's doorway. "Wonderful to see you again."
Despite all my preparations, the fake name still sounded foreign. I stepped into character and feigned a smile. "Good morning, Ms. Pierce."
Tall, beautiful, and impeccably dressed, Braeden Frost's thirty-something personal assistant had a Grace Kellyish air about her. Not a coiffed hair lay out of place. Not a cream-colored thread dangled from her sleeveless cowl-neck dress.
As always, I gave Ms. Pierce a psychic once-over- - -what I called a Reading, and her results were the same as the last time. Truth and sincerity had no telepathic signature, so I didn't detect anything, save the tuberose, jasmine, and myrrh in her perfume. She'd only radiated positive vibes since I answered her ad six weeks ago. That's why I was reasonably certain she had nothing to do with Caryn's death.
Ms. Pierce gestured toward the three suitcases at my feet. "Is this everything?"
I didn't glance down. "I have a couple others, but I'll come back for them."
My surveillance equipment would keep until later- - -when I could sneak it in. For now, my luggage lent the proper illusion- - -that I'd be staying for the duration of our six-month contract.
Ms. Pierce took a suitcase. "Come along then. Let's get you settled."
We'd gone halfway across the foyer, when a psychic buzz pulsed from the sterling silver cross around my neck; Caryn's cross. She'd worn it for years as a teen. I shook off a chill and followed Ms. Pierce up a long staircase that overlooked a living room stuffed with mismatched antiques and furniture. All coated in dust. From what I'd seen, the place fell somewhere between a museum and a horror movie set. The view only got worse on the second floor.
Most homes boasted a central theme, but Braeden Frost's twelve thousand square-foot house was a frightening clash of civilizations. Velvet drapes and wool-flocked wallpaper competed with medieval tapestries, Egyptian busts, Grecian vases, African woodcarvings and.... Oh-my-God. I shot a horrified glance behind me.
A suit of armor? Really?
Note to self: that monstrosity has to go.
"This way," Ms. Pierce called, turning a corner.
I hurried to catch up, trailing her down another musty hallway filled with more mismatched ugliness. Against the backdrop of Frost's dreadful décor, the impeccable Ms. Pierce and her alabaster heels stood out like a bonfire. She didn't just outshine the house. I was a bag lady compared to her, but this too was part of my plan. More than a decade had passed since I'd last seen Caryn, so if she'd shown anyone a photo of me it would've been at least that old. Still, I couldn't take any chances, which is why I'd gone to extremes to alter my appearance.
Colored extended-wear contacts turned my peepers from amber to stormy gray, but I didn't stop there. I threw in a hideous pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I also tamed my curly auburn hair with a perm, dyed it mousy brown, then pulled it back into a severe bun. My clothes were similarly dowdy. Shapeless calf-length skirts, heavy support hose, and penny loafers would be my new normal.
Thanks to Luke, I had the best alias money could buy: references, legal and historical documents, as well as a convincing electronic trail. The only evidence pointing to the real Denieve Knight lay tucked away in my purse. A .44 Magnum with enough firepower to drop a bear.
"Here we are." Ms. Pierce stopped at a set of double doors. She pointed toward a stairwell that lay across from us, but the corridor was pitch-black. "That leads to Braeden's private suites on the third floor, and these are your living quarters."
She threw the doors open and headed inside. A queen-sized canopy bed dripping in sheer curtains and overstuffed pillows caught my eye. The room smelled wonderful, like lemons and freshly laundered sheets. Ms. Pierce set my bag down and went for a window, drawing the heavy drapes back. Sunlight raced across the polished hardwood floor, revealing a stunning burgundy-and-beige motif. Put side by side with the other parts of Frost's ugly house, this was the Taj Mahal.
I ran a hand over an antique armoire. "When do I get to meet Dr. Frost?"
"He's out of town," she said, "but his flight is due at ten tonight. For now, come to the courtyard once you're unpacked and I'll give you a proper tour."
* * *
OUTSIDE THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Lonnie G
____________________________
Lonnie Gubczyk sat low in his sedan, just like he'd done for the past two weeks. Staking the place out, always alert, ever vigilant, he'd been looking for the perfect opportunity to whack Braeden Frost. So far, he hadn't caught a break.
Frost rarely left his home, at least not until a week ago. The SOB hopped a plane to Switzerland of all places. Rule number one? Never do foreign country hits. Too risky. So now he'd have to wait for the bastard to come back. Even worse, Lonnie's benefactor Milton- - -the pest- - -Vogel, was getting antsy, and Lonnie hated antsy clients. Antsy turned your average person into a royal pain in the ass.
Lonnie followed his own schedule and he wouldn't be rushed. Rule number two? Never do a hit unless the timing's perfect, and perfect never came twice.
If anyone deserved a bullet in the head, Dr. Braeden Frost did. Nineteen of his patients had mysteriously kicked the bucket. Twenty if you counted the dead receptionist. Rumor had it he'd burnt the bitch to a gnarly crisp in that office fire. Not that Lonnie had anything against a little population control, but Frost was a doctor for fuck's sake. It was the principle of the thing.
That's why Lonnie planned to put him in the morgue. This week, next...it didn't matter. Either way, the prick was going down.
Movement.
Lonnie saw something from the corner of his eye. He fished his binoculars from the heap of empty apple pie and Big Mac boxes on the passenger seat. Once he peered through the lens, he got an instant woody.
Great googa mooga! It was the dishy blonde Angela Pierce. Now there was a dame for you. Tits like mountain peaks and an ass a man could get lost in. She was strolling up the path with a mystery guest. What a dog.
Frumpy clothes. Ugly glasses. Compared to Pierce the brunette was a hag. The women came around the side with Pierce pointing at all the different trees and plants. They were heading for the- - -
Shit!
He ducked. The ugly one was staring straight at him. Had he been made?
* * *
OUTSIDE THE FROST ESTATE
DEARBORNE, MARYLAND
Denieve
____________________________
While Angela Pierce prattled on about chrysanthemums and dogwoods, I focused on the tree-lined road. I'd thought I'd seen something move in a sedan parked down the hill when I pulled up. The car sat a few feet from a cable truck. Paparazzi had been stalking Frost ever since his colleagues and patients had started dropping dead.
"This way, Danielle," Ms. Pierce called as she led me around a towering evergreen to the ten-acre lawn. Fall colors burst everywhere. "Braeden designed the landscaping himself. He's nurtured every plant out here. There's a rooftop greenhouse on the south side and his herb garden is straight ahead."
I took another fleeting glance over my shoulder, but the vehicle was gone.
"Stunning, isn't it?" she continued. "Braeden's got quite the green thumb."
The view was spectacular. Unlike Frost's cold, neglected house, every tree, every flower, every stone had been loved, and dearly.
Ms. Pierce motioned me inside a gazebo overlooking the herb garden. We sat next to each other on a two-seater bench. "I'm flying to Montreal next week to look at some properties. From there, I'll be taking a much-needed vacation. You'll be on your own for the next couple months, so we need to get you up to speed ASAP."
She was house hunting for Frost's relocation to Canada. I'd been hired to get his estate in order for the move they assumed I'd be taking with them, but my investigation would only take a month- - -if that.
"We're eager to put all this behind us, so see about hiring a real-estate agent and a moving company immediately. I've left you the names of our preferred vendors. Don't stray from the list."
"Oh, of course. I know how delicate the situation is."
"Exactly. Considering the media exposure, I've had to be vigilant about protecting Braeden's privacy. We get gawkers and protestors at the front gate sometimes. So unless he tells you he's expecting a guest, don't buzz anyone in, and don't respond to strangers." She pulled a piece of paper from her dress pocket along with a wad of cash and two credit cards. "Here's a list of his favorite foods. Least favorites are on the back. Sorry I haven't had time to shop, but you can order the groceries from Jenson's over the Internet. They deliver."
I examined the least favorite foods. Hates Brussels sprouts, liver, beets, onions, asparagus, and cauliflower. Yep, my kind of guy.
"He never eats breakfast," Ms. Pierce went on. "Doesn't like being disturbed before noon." She tilted her head in thought. "He takes his lunch at 1:30 p.m. sharp. Always use the intercom to announce yourself and if he's in his lab, leave his tray on the credenza in his sitting room- - -I can't stress that enough. He works well into the evening, so he likes his dinner at ten."
I tucked the paper into my pocket. "What about his work? Does he see patients here or...?"
She took a pregnant pause. "He doesn't practice anymore."
Not surprising. Who'd be crazy enough to trust him with a needle? Bad form, Deni. As a professional, I had to reserve judgment until I read him. Frost's guilt or innocence was still an unknown.
"What kind of work is he doing now?" I asked.
"Research mostly." She licked her lips. "Have you reviewed the file?"
Not the smoothest segue. Obviously, this "research" wasn't something she cared to discuss. "You mean the news clippings?"
She nodded.
Two weeks ago, Ms. Pierce had given me a stack of notes and media reports chronicling Frost's plunge from grace. The suspicious deaths. The police inquiry. His exoneration. The hate mail and protests, and lastly, the fire that killed my friend and destroyed his medical offices. Nothing I didn't already know.
Once a renowned internist with a specialty in hematology, Braeden Frost had become an outcast- - -hence the new Canadian digs.
"Well?" she prompted. "Any thoughts?"
Though I'd tried to keep an open mind, staying objective wasn't easy. "He's obviously had a difficult time. I feel sorry for him."
"I appreciate your sentiments, but the last thing he needs is pity. I only gave you those news clippings so you'd know what you were getting into. We've had many applicants, Danielle, but once they learned who they'd be working for...." She sighed. "Finding a housekeeper hasn't been easy, much less one willing to relocate, even temporarily."
I tasted tears in her words. The subject made her very sad. "If you don't mind, Ms. Pierce, can you tell me why my predecessor left?"
Martha Higgins, Dr. Frost's sixty-three-year-old housekeeper, quit eight weeks ago, almost a year to the day Caryn died. The woman's exit gave me the in that had eluded the other PIs Caryn's late mother hired. Rachel passed away suddenly- - -from a broken heart, I suspect. She'd never gotten over losing Caryn. My one regret was that I didn't get to say goodbye to either of them.
Worry creased Ms. Pierce's brow. "Martha had several issues, namely all the media attention. It unnerved her." She started worrying her fingers. "And well, I don't know how you'll take this, but she claimed the house was haunted."
Oh, joy....
"I didn't mention it because I've never seen anything, and neither has Braeden." She gestured. "Frankly, I think Martha's drinking had more to do with her hallucinations than a mysterious phantom. All the stress drove the poor dear to the bottle." One of her thin brows rose a fraction. "This is a very demanding job, Danielle. Are you sure you're up for it?"
No, but I nodded anyway.
She sighed in relief. "Good, because you don't want to give Braeden a reason to fire you." A shadow crossed her face. "You see, your presence here- - -well, let's just say he isn't crazy about the idea."
"If he doesn't want another housekeeper, then why- - -"
"He's indulging me," she said. "If he can make you quit, then he's held up his end of the bargain." A flicker of feeling warmed the woman's ice-blue eyes. "With Mrs. Higgins gone, it's just not healthy for him to be alone."
A rose aura, which, at the very least, signaled strong affection for Frost, bloomed over Ms. Pierce's heart, and not for the first time. Was it any wonder she'd hired a mousy replacement for his housekeeper? That's another reason I chose this particular disguise. To get to Frost I'd had to go through Angela Pierce. The last thing I needed was to be seen as a rival. Not to say anything was going on between them, because I hadn't the foggiest. One of the drawbacks of my gift was that I still hadn't learned how to differentiate romantic love from platonic. Their psychic signatures were indistinguishable to me.
"Losing his patients was bad enough," she continued, "but the media frenzy nearly destroyed him. And just when I thought he'd gotten past Caryn's death, Mrs. Higgins quit."
Caryn's mother Rachel believed Frost killed her daughter. She was convinced that Caryn, who'd worked as Frost's receptionist, learned the truth about him. That he'd used the office fire to cover up her murder. Rachel even hired an independent investigator who concluded the blaze was arson rather than an electrical mishap. When the DA called the findings "spurious," Rachel accused Frostp- - -a multi-millionaire- - -of buying everyone off.
Outrageous? Maybe. However, this whole thing started after Caryn's ghost appeared to Rachel, begging her to hire me. Since Caryn and I had been estranged for ten years, I didn't even know she'd died until Rachel's PI called me in New York. He said Rachel passed away several months after Caryn's appearance, and she'd made a deathbed request for my help.
"Long story short," Ms. Pierce continued, "Braeden has changed dramatically- - -and not for the better." She stared darkly into her folded hands. "He's...eccentric, Danielle, in that he doesn't like to be touched. So you'd do well to keep your distance."
Interesting. They'd made me undergo an extensive psych and medical evaluation. They also inoculated me for every disease known to man. Not only that, but I'd never seen Frost without his trademark leather gloves. Some said he'd scarred his hands during the fire; however, I had another theory.
"Is Dr. Frost a germaphobe?"
Ms. Pierce hesitated. "I honestly don't know."
Now this was a first. I actually detected dishonesty in her words, and lies smelled awful. Like cow manure. Thankfully my gift had an off switch; otherwise, I'd be bombarded by auras every waking hour. I do what I call Tuning Out. All it takes is focus- - -like switching a radio from AM to FM.
I turn it back on the same way- - -at will.
Rather than challenge her, I asked, "Given everything that's happened, would you say he's walled himself in? Emotionally, I mean."
"Pretty much." She gazed skyward. "There was a time when he lit up a room just by entering it. He was easygoing, charming, artistic, and very expressive." Her face sobered. "Now he's curt and distant- - -if not downright rude. But that's usually when his routine is broken. Or if he feels threatened." She looked pointedly at me. "He lives in his own head a bit too much. Some find him intimidating, and well...his temper can be quite foul. Not to mention, he's made decisions about his life that I cannot fathom, but there's nothing I can do to change his mind. I've tried."
"What kinds of decisions?"
She shook her head at my question, turned her face away, and quickly wiped at her left eye, as if to hide a tear. Then I tasted it. Soul-deep sorrow. What was she not telling me?
"He's just a handful," she said, after a discreet sniff.
I eyed her warily. "It sounds like you're trying to talk me out of this job."
"On the contrary, dear. I'm just giving you fair warning."
-END CHAPTER 2-
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