Death of the Ice Angel by J.C. Ceron

Author:J.C. Ceron [Ceron, J.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Oil on Canvas

Martha Ramirez lived on ten acres, most of which was dense woodland that fell away down the side of a mountain. The remaining flatland was large enough to give her farmhouse an idyllic country setting.

The chief navigated a frozen dirt road that was long and rutted, challenging the patrol car’s suspension. Like a straphanger, I held on to the grab handle screwed into the roof to keep from lurching as the car pitched and yawed. Eventually, the road ended at a snow-covered clearing. We parked and got out. The snow on the ground, crusted with ice, crunched under our feet. The frigid wind blew lightly in the open space, carrying with it the scent of pine and balsam fir.

The farmhouse was a two-story rectangular structure with a pitched roof and white clapboard siding. A sweeping wraparound porch gave its otherwise dull exterior a little character. Kelly drew my attention to a mid-2000s Chevrolet Silverado parked in the driveway next to the house.

“Does it have a sticker?” he asked.

Sam had told the chief that Martha paid her membership dues online every year but hadn’t shown up to any events or visited the club in years.

I walked around the pickup truck. It had an extended cab and a short bed. It was fire engine red and in pristine condition. “It does. Right here on the quarter panel.”

That injected urgency into the chief’s step. He beckoned me to hurry. I met him on the porch, which had a wind chime that clanged pleasantly, a pair of Boston rocking chairs, and a shocking number of wine cases.

He saw what I was gawking at and gave me an I-told-you-so look.

Stacked waist-high around windows and shoulder-high everywhere else, the cases filled the porch. I lifted the outer flaps of a random case and peeked inside. It was packed with empty wine bottles.

The chief couldn’t find a doorbell, so he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder. Still no answer. “Martha! Are you in there? It’s Chief Wayne Kelly. I need to speak with you.” He walked to the front window and looked inside. “She’s in there.”

As he went back to knocking on the door, I peered through the same window. Between the curtains, I glimpsed a sliver of a couch and a body in jeans and a red flannel shirt sprawled out on it. Two empty wine bottles lay sideways on a rug.

“Martha, I know you’re in there,” the chief said. “If you don’t open up on the count of three, I’m breaking the door down for probable cause that you’re either sick and need assistance or you’re stone-cold dead.”

A leg twitched.

Kelly banged on the door. “I mean it, Martha. One!”

An arm moved.

“Two!”

“Fucking hell! Give me a minute!”

I stood next to the chief and listened to stumbling, more cursing, an angry ouch, a wine bottle rolling across a wooden floor, and finally a deadbolt turning. “It’s open.”

The chief pushed the door, and we went inside.

We stood in a small foyer strewn with work and snow boots and mud-covered shoes.

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