Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 7

  “Let’s go see Owen,” Matt said. “I find it interesting that he never mentioned Holly’s father died at the same bridge.”

  “Me too.” Bree called Todd and asked him to send a deputy to Owen’s address with a copy of the search warrant in about thirty minutes.

  “We’ll stop at the bar on the way. I want to know how strong his alibi is before we question him again.” Bree drove toward the Grey Fox, the bar located a few blocks from Holly and Owen’s condo. The Grey Fox was a dive inside and out. A few men were lined up at the bar, sipping beer and watching sports on three TVs mounted from the ceiling. The bartender was about thirtyish and a scrawny five eight. The tattoo of a skull on his scalp showed through closely shorn dark hair. He was drying a wineglass with a suspiciously dirty rag. Bree crossed the Grey Fox off her list of possible hangouts.

  The bartender spotted Bree’s uniform and froze.

  She walked up to the bar. “I’m looking for Billy.”

  “I’m Billy.” But he looked like he’d rather be anyone else.

  Bree introduced herself and Matt. “What’s your full name?”

  “Billy Zinke.” He resumed drying the glass.

  Bree said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Owen Thorpe.”

  Billy shot her a wary frown. “What do you want to know?”

  Bree leaned her forearms on the bar. “When did you see him last?”

  “He was here most of the weekend.” Billy slid the dry glass stem up into an overhead rack and picked up another. “He showed up Friday night, pissed at his wife. Nothing new there.”

  “What time did he leave Friday night?” Matt asked.

  Billy snorted. “He didn’t. I had to pry him off his stool at closing and drive his ass home with me. If I let him walk, he’d have ended up in a ditch somewhere. Dude was hammered.”

  “What time is closing?” Bree asked.

  “Four a.m.” Billy tossed the rag over his shoulder.

  “Why did you take him to your place?” Bree asked.

  “Because he was so drunk, I was afraid he would fall and break something—like his head.” Billy folded his arms across his chest. “Owen’s been a regular here for years. Believe it or not, this place is not always busy. There have been plenty of nights that it’s just me and a couple of customers watching the game.” He nodded toward the TV overhead. “I’ve hung out with Owen plenty of nights.”

  “What time did he leave your place on Saturday?” Bree asked.

  Billy shook his head. “I don’t remember exactly, but neither one of us woke up before noon.”

  Bree glanced up at a surveillance camera mounted over the bar. “Do you have security feeds to back up that timeline?”

  Billy followed her gaze. “We have security cameras on the front and back door. That’s it.”

  “What about that one?” She nodded at the camera in the corner.

  Billy lowered his voice. “Hasn’t worked in years.”

  “Do you have a roommate?” Bree would have liked additional confirmation for Owen’s alibi.

  “No.” Billy shook his head. “I live alone.”

  “I’d like the footage of the doors then, please,” Bree said. “Also, I’ll need you to come to the station and sign a statement.”

  “Sure.” Billy disappeared through a doorway. He returned a few minutes later with a thumb drive. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Bree took the thumb drive.

  If Owen had an alibi, then her job just got harder. Who else had wanted to murder his wife?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Shading her eyes from the afternoon sun, Cady pushed the hand truck across the parking lot and into the pet supply store. She’d spent the morning on her hands and knees, trying to lure a pit bull and her three puppies out of the crawl space of an abandoned house. Mud caked her sneakers. Sweat stained her ADOPT DON’T SHOP T-shirt, and dirt streaked her jeans—at least she hoped it was dirt. She desperately needed a shower, but she also needed a couple hundred pounds of dog food.

  “Hey, Cady!” Russell called from the register as he scanned a leash for an elderly woman. A black French bulldog sat in her shopping cart. From its cloudy eyes and white muzzle, Cady assumed the dog was also a senior citizen.

  “Hi, Russell.” Cady waved on her way to the large cardboard box in the front of the store.

  Russell handed the old woman her change and closed the register. “The box is full this week.”

  “That’s great. We really appreciate the donations.” Cady wheeled the cart to the front corner of the store. Inside, she found old towels, toys, and dog food. “Good score.”

  “Let me help you.” Russell hurried over.

  With his help, Cady maneuvered the hand truck under the edge of the box and tilted it backward. Then she wheeled it toward the door, which Russell held open. After she loaded the week’s haul into the back of her van, she took a quick mental inventory. She needed additional dry dog food and some chew bones. She put the hand truck in the van and went back into the store.

  Grabbing a cart, she hurried into the dog food aisle. She picked up a fifty-pound bag for her own four dogs. Then she selected additional bags for the dogs from Furever Friends that were boarding in Matt’s kennel. Cady hefted a case of cans into the cart. The piled-high cart was heavy, and she had to lean into it to move it, so she left it at the end of the row to grab treats and chews. She rounded the end of the aisle and ran smack into a large male body.

  She stumbled backward. “Excuse me.” Recovering her balance, she looked up.

  Shit.

  Greg.

  Her ex-husband stared at her. “Cady.”

  He was pale and his cheeks more pronounced than usual, but he was still the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His hair was jet black and wavy, and his eyes were bluer than a winter sky. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans that showed off the many hours he spent at the gym. She knew his abs were as sculpted as his cheekbones. He’d modeled underwear, among other things. The guy was built like a Greek statue.

  Of course she would run into him today, when he looked like that, and she looked like . . . Why couldn’t she have run into him last week, when she’d had a really good hair day? But then, the whole time they’d been together, she’d felt out of her league.

  His looks were the reason she’d been enamored with him, but she’d learned her lesson. She’d paid a high price for being superficial, and she’d never be taken in by a pretty face again. Greg’s head-to-toe handsomeness covered an ugly personality.

  Memories flooded her, and her eyes turned misty. Her tears had nothing to do with Greg.

  He coughed hard, the sound as deep and harsh as a seal’s bark.

  Despite the fact that she hadn’t seen him in six years, and he seemed ill, she didn’t inquire about his health. Instead, she remembered the bullshit he’d put her through, and she turned to get the hell away from him.

  He shifted the bag of dog food he held under his arm. “You don’t have to run away.”

  “I’m not running, but I have nothing to say to you.” She grabbed her cart and spun it toward the front of the store. The weight nearly toppled it, and she rammed into a cardboard display of dog biscuits. Boxes tumbled to the floor.

  Damn it.

  More tears welled in her eyes as she remembered everything: the pain of her far-too-early labor, the doll-size baby wrapped in a hospital blanket, leaving the hospital with empty arms. She would always carry that hollow ache in her heart.

  Now she was crying in a pet supply store.

  In front of Greg.

  Behind her, she heard Greg mutter, “Stupid bitch,” under his breath. Louder, he said, “You’re still crazy. I’m glad we broke up.”

  Anger gathered in her belly like a fireball. Greg didn’t have an empathetic bone in his entire perfect body. He thought about only himself.

  She whirled to face him. “You’re such an ass.”

  His face reddened, and he stepped closer. “Don’t talk to me like
that.”

  “Or what?”

  He glared but didn’t respond.

  Six years ago, Greg had been able to intimidate her. Not physically—she’d never been afraid of him. His intimidation had been psychological. He’d tormented her with guilt. She’d been an emotional and physical mess back then. She was neither of those things now. She straightened and lifted her chin. She and Greg were the same height. She couldn’t believe she’d once worn only flats to protect his fragile ego. She’d been stupid to marry him simply because their short relationship had resulted in a surprise pregnancy. But buried deep under her grief was the joy that had blasted through her when she’d read the home test. She’d felt like a whole different person. At first, it seemed he’d changed too.

  But he hadn’t, not really.

  She took one step closer and stabbed a finger toward his face. “Stay away from me, Greg. I’m not grieving the loss of my child this time around.”

  “Don’t you mean our child, the one you killed with your carelessness?” Greg’s words sliced right through her.

  She knew she hadn’t been at fault, but guilt speared her in the heart anyway. She’d been five months along in a very healthy pregnancy. The doctor had told her she could continue with exercise she was comfortable with until the last trimester. She’d been rowing since high school, but Greg had wanted her to stop. The fact that she was faster than him had always made him insecure. She’d been out on the river when the miscarriage started. She would carry that moment—and the nightmare that followed—for the rest of her life, like a scar on her soul.

  Later, they’d learned the baby had had a heart abnormality, that he had died before she ever set out on the water that day, and even if he’d been born, he couldn’t have survived. But right after his death, she hadn’t known that. She’d blamed herself.

  And Greg had blamed her too.

  Instead of supporting her at the lowest moment of her life, he’d made everything worse.

  But she would not argue about her son’s cause of death with Greg. She didn’t owe him anything.

  “Leave me alone.” Cady turned her back to him and pushed her cart toward the front register. She would not let him run her out of the store. She would not take his shit this time around.

  “Sure,” Greg called to her back. “Run away. That’s what you do best.”

  The fingers of one hand curled around the handle of the shopping cart. With the other, she shot him the bird over her shoulder.

  Russell appeared at the head of the aisle. He glanced between Cady and Greg and back to Cady. “Is everything OK?”

  Cady forced a small smile. The muscles of her face were frozen. They felt like they might shatter. “Fine. Sorry about the mess.”

  Russell lifted one hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He frowned back at Greg, who was still standing in the same place, his face locked in an angry scowl.

  Cady checked out and pushed her cart to the van. Across the parking lot, she saw Greg get into a small dark-gray SUV and drive out of the lot. Cursing at him, she heaved the heavy bags into the cargo area. The physical labor dispelled some of her anger.

  Then she climbed behind the wheel and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tuesday afternoon, Matt stood on the front step of the Thorpe condo. He leaned away from Owen and the waft of alcohol. The whiskey fumes coming off the man’s body were overwhelming, as if he’d been marinated in booze. If someone lit a match within six feet of him, he was going up like a TIKI torch.

  “What?” Owen swayed on his feet.

  “We have news about your wife’s death,” Bree said.

  Owen stared, glassy-eyed. “OK.” With a whatever wave of his hand, he turned and staggered down the hallway. He clearly hadn’t showered recently.

  Matt and Bree followed him back to the kitchen. On top of the BO, the faint smell of vomit hit Matt hard. Someone—presumably Owen—had been sick somewhere. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter. A second bottle stood at the ready. A tumbler on the table held an inch of amber-colored liquid. Was Owen attempting suicide by alcohol poisoning?

  “Wasn’t your brother coming over last night?” Matt asked.

  “He did.” Owen pointed to the stairwell. “Steve is passed out upstairs.”

  He must be the puker.

  “Who do you think brought me more whiskey?” Owen asked.

  Not helpful.

  Owen took a seat at the table and picked up the glass, the motion sure and smooth, as if he were operating on a professional level.

  Bree sat on the other side of the table. Matt stood behind her chair.

  “You haven’t gone to work?” Her voice wasn’t accusatory, just inquisitive.

  “I called out sick.” Owen sipped. “My boss cleared me to take the rest of the week off. First not-dickish thing he’s ever done. I guess your wife has to die before you become a full-fledged human being to a bank.”

  Matt wanted to pour the rest of Owen’s whiskey down the drain and shove Owen into a cold shower. He was killing himself, but what would Matt do if the love of his life were gone? He glanced at Bree. The way his thoughts automatically went to her unsettled him. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just one that was strange to him. Did his feelings for Bree run deeper than he’d realized?

  So, what if they do?

  She was the whole package: smart, honorable, sexy, great sense of humor. Hell, she was literally a fucking hero. Yeah, he was totally fine with getting serious with her. The only sobering realization was that she might not feel the same way. But life was full of risks, right?

  “Mr. Thorpe—” Bree began.

  “Owen,” he interrupted. “Mr. Thorpe sounds old.”

  Bree continued with a nod. “Owen, the medical examiner has issued a cause of death for your wife.”

  Owen paused with his glass halfway to his lips.

  “Holly was murdered,” Bree said.

  He blinked several times in rapid succession, as if he couldn’t comprehend the news. “What?”

  “Your wife did not die by suicide,” Bree explained in a patient voice.

  Shock paralyzed Owen’s face for a few seconds. “I don’t understand.”

  Bree looked as if she was struggling to find the right words. But Owen was too drunk to understand any subtleties. Only the simple, brutal truth would penetrate his alcohol haze.

  “Someone choked your wife to death,” Matt said.

  His statement was the virtual slap across the face that Owen needed. He startled. One hand went to his neck, and his face turned ashen. A range of emotions passed over his features, from grief to horror to confusion. He set his drink on the table. “Who would do that?”

  “We were hoping you might have some information that will help us find whoever did this to her.” Bree leaned forward. “Do you know anyone who was angry with your wife?”

  “Maybe her sister.” Owen jerked a shoulder. “They had a fight Thursday night. But I can’t see Shannon killing Holly. They argue, but they’re sisters.”

  “Holly told you about their fight?” Bree took out her pad and jotted down a note.

  “Yeah.” With a sigh, Owen picked up his whiskey and sipped it. “She came home crying.”

  Bree shifted her weight back. Her nose wrinkled, as if she was trying to ignore the smell. “Do you know what they fought about?”

  “Money.” Owen finished his drink. “Shannon wants to bleed us dry. She has tons of money, with her fancy house and nice car. But she was leaning on Holly for money for their mom’s bills.”

  “According to Shannon, she’s just better at saving,” Bree said.

  “Shannon’s a bitch.” Owen rolled his eyes. “It’s easier to save more money when you make more money.”

  “You took a cruise a few months ago,” Matt pointed out.

  “So? We paid for that trip a long time ago, before Holly’s mom got sick. We probably couldn’t really afford it, but it was our first vacation since our honeymoon five years ago
.” He shoved his chair back and stood. “Shannon is right. Holly wasn’t the best at saving. Neither am I. But weren’t we entitled to some pleasure in life?” He carried his glass to the counter and refilled it. “I’m glad we took that trip.” Tears shone in his eyes when he spun around. “At least I’ll have the memories.”

  “What about the trip to Vegas?” Matt asked.

  “Did Shannon tell you about that?” Owen gritted his teeth and walked back to his chair. “That was a business trip. A conference for community bankers. The bank paid for our hotel. We just had to spring for Holly’s airfare. She flew on one of the bargain airlines. Cost us less than a hundred bucks.”

  Bree waited for Owen to ease into his seat. “Did you gamble while you were there?”

  “A little,” he admitted. “I lost a few hundred bucks. Holly was pissed. It was stupid. We ran out of money on the second day. The bank only covered my meals, so we ended up splitting meals for the second half of the trip.” He toyed with his glass. “Look, just because Shannon is happy holed up in her house alone all the time doesn’t mean the rest of us can stand it. Some of us actually need social interaction.”

  “When we spoke to you last night, you didn’t mention that Holly’s father died at the same bridge,” Matt pointed out.

  Owen shrugged. “I forgot. He died a long time before I met Holly.”

  “What about your wife’s job?” Bree shifted topics. “Did she get along with her boss and coworkers?”

  “For the most part,” Owen said. “She didn’t talk about her boss much, and the office is small. Other than Holly, he has a secretary and a few part-timers.”

  Bree pressed further. “And Holly never complained about anyone at work?”

  “Everyone complains about work,” Owen said. “And no one always gets along with their coworkers all the time, but I don’t remember anything serious. The secretary is an old bitch who didn’t like Holly. She was always making backhanded comments, but it seemed like she treated everybody in the office that way. Holly sometimes went out for happy-hour drinks with one of the part-timers. They went out last week, as a matter of fact. Her name is Deb.”