Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 9

  After he’d been shot, he’d had enough minor procedures on his hand to know.

  “Or, Shannon just wants to keep her mother around as long as possible.” Bree reached for the key, then stopped and leaned back in her seat. “I know how hard it is to lose your mother. If I was Shannon, I might be fighting for every last second that I could spend with my mom too.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking . . .” Guilt swamped Matt. “I haven’t experienced the same losses that you have.”

  “You still have a right to your opinion.” Bree reached for the key and started the engine. “But Mrs. Phelps seems like she’s running out of fight after losing Holly.”

  “Cancer sucks.”

  “On that we agree,” Bree said. “But does the argument between Holly and Shannon give Shannon adequate motivation to kill her sister?”

  Matt had once responded to a call and found a man who’d shot his brother for drinking the last can of his favorite beer. “People find all sorts of reasons to kill each other.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bree drove back to the sheriff’s station, a headache throbbing in the back of her skull. She shouldn’t have skipped lunch, but the morgue wasn’t a great place to visit on a full stomach. She hadn’t had time to eat since. She checked her messages.

  “Paul Beckett called me back,” she said. “He’ll be available at his office tomorrow morning at eight o’clock if we want to talk to him.”

  “Big of him.” Matt’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt his business talking about his dead employee.”

  Bree scratched her forehead. “We’ll need to issue a statement identifying Holly as a murder victim. Controlled information is better than wild speculation.”

  “What do we do now?” Matt asked, reaching for the door handle.

  “We check in with Todd and see if the warrants are in yet. I’d like to go home before the kids go to bed, even if I have to come back.” Bree stepped out of her vehicle. She would likely miss dinner, but she could be home in time to read a bedtime story to Kayla. They were on the third Harry Potter book. Seeing Bree come home at the end of every day helped ease the little girl’s fears, as did sticking to their normal routine.

  Bree used the back door to enter the station. Todd was at his desk. As soon as he spotted Bree and Matt, he hurried toward them.

  “Do you have background information?” Bree asked.

  “I do,” he said.

  “My office. Five minutes,” she said.

  She and Matt stopped in the break room. Matt made a cup of coffee. Bree grabbed water and a pack of Peanut M&M’s from the vending machine.

  In her office, she sat at her desk and typed a brief statement for the press, which she gave to Marge to pass on to their media contacts. By the time she’d finished, Matt and Todd had joined her.

  Todd took a guest chair and set a manila folder, a three-ring binder, and his laptop on the front edge of Bree’s desk. He tapped on the cover of the binder. “I’ve already organized the case book.”

  The case book, also called a murder book, would hold a copy of every report, interview, and photo they collected on the case. Anyone who worked on the investigation would have ready access to all pieces of information.

  Bree sat in her chair and opened her bag of candy. Matt paced the narrow space behind Todd.

  “Let’s start with Holly.” Todd opened the folder and pulled out a photo of her. “She has no criminal record. She’s been married to Owen for five years and has worked as a bookkeeper at Beckett Construction for seven. I confirmed the story about her father. Walden Phelps died in a single-vehicle accident on Dead Horse Road sixteen years ago.” He slid a police report across the table toward Bree.

  She skimmed. “No questions about the accident not being an accident?”

  “No,” Todd said. “According to the report, he was coming down the hill too fast and hit black ice. The toxicology screen showed his blood alcohol level was elevated to 0.11.”

  “Impaired but still walking around,” Matt said.

  “Yes,” Todd agreed.

  Bree set the report aside. “What about her financial situation?”

  Todd shuffled through some papers. “They’re broke. No savings in the bank. They’re behind on all their bills, including the mortgage. Their credit card debt has been steadily increasing. They’re only making the minimum payments.”

  “What about paying a home health aide service?” Bree craned her neck to see the folder.

  Todd shuffled through his papers. “I see about a thousand a month going toward health-related companies. Some of that was charged to their credit cards. Seems like when they approach a card’s maximum, they open a new one.”

  “What about payments to Shannon Phelps?”

  Todd shook his head. “I don’t see any checks to Shannon or any significant cash withdrawals.”

  “Shannon said Holly was paying a couple of thousand a month. Owen said a thousand, which agrees with their statements. Where did the rest of the money come from?” Bree’s question was rhetorical. “Moving on to phone records.”

  Todd continued. “I reviewed her calls for the week before her death but didn’t see anything that stood out. She mostly called and texted with Owen, her sister, and her mother. There were several calls to Beckett Construction and her boss, Paul Beckett, including one on Thursday. She made a very brief call to her sister at 5:05 Thursday evening. The last use of the phone is a text message chain with Owen late Friday afternoon discussing what they were having for dinner. The phone shows no use after that point.”

  “Makes sense. She died between five p.m. Friday and noon Saturday,” Bree said.

  Todd nodded. “Moving along to Owen. He’s employed by Randolph Savings and Loan. He doesn’t use his phone as much as his wife did. Most of his texts are with Holly and three additional numbers. One of those numbers belongs to Steve Thorpe.”

  “That’s Owen’s brother,” Bree said.

  Todd nodded. “The remaining few calls are businesses: an insurance company, an auto shop, a pharmacy, et cetera.”

  “Have a deputy call Owen and ask him to identify the three additional numbers, including his brother’s,” Bree said. “Then verify his information.”

  Todd made a note. “Onward to Shannon Phelps. Never married, started her marketing company six years ago. Seems to be moderately successful. She’s not rich, but she pays her bills on time and has a small amount of savings.”

  Bree updated her chief deputy on the interviews she and Matt had conducted. “The bartender at the Grey Fox has provided Owen with an alibi for Friday night. Let’s get a background check on him. His name is Billy Zinke.”

  Todd scribbled on a piece of paper.

  Bree handed him the thumb drive she’d collected from the Grey Fox. “Here’s the surveillance video from the front entrance to the bar Owen says he was in all night. Have a deputy review it and confirm any sightings of Owen.”

  Matt scrubbed a hand over his face. “What’s the plan for the evening?”

  Bree checked her watch. “Let’s call it a day and start fresh in the morning with a visit to Beckett Construction. Hopefully we’ll have more data at that point.”

  “OK.” Matt got up and left the room.

  Todd stood.

  Bree held up a hand. “Is Deputy Oscar in yet?”

  Todd nodded. “Just.”

  “Please send him in when you leave,” Bree said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Todd slipped out the door.

  Oscar appeared a minute later. He adjusted his duty belt and swaggered into her office.

  “Please close the door.” Bree folded her hands on her desk and waited for him to shut the door and sit facing her desk.

  His mouth was flat and his eyes dark. “If this is about the other night . . .”

  Bree responded with a lift of both eyebrows. “It is.”

  He squirmed and clenched his hands into fists on his thighs.

  �
�This is not the first time I’ve had to reprimand you for not following procedures. We have those procedures for a reason.”

  Oscar’s gaze dropped to study his hands.

  Bree continued. “In this case, you told a man that his wife had died by suicide. Not only had her remains not yet been identified by the medical examiner, but suicide was not the ME’s finding.”

  Oscar’s chin jerked up. “What?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “But she jumped off the bridge.” Oscar blinked.

  “Why do you think that?” Bree asked.

  Oscar was silent for a moment. “That’s what I heard.”

  “From who?”

  His jaw tightened and he looked away again.

  Propped on her elbows, Bree massaged her temples for a few seconds. She didn’t want to pressure Oscar to reveal who had told him. Cops stood by each other. One should be forced to rat out another in only an emergency or very important situation. Oscar had been with Owen Thorpe. The information must have come from one of the deputies at the scene. It didn’t matter who, she decided. Deputies talking among themselves wasn’t the problem. Making assumptions and relaying those assumptions to victims’ families were the real issues.

  Bree lifted her head. “The victim was already dead when she went into the water.”

  The deputy looked confused.

  “Today, I had to tell Mr. Thorpe that his wife’s death wasn’t a result of suicide. That she’d been killed. As you can imagine, this came as quite the shock to him after your pronouncement.” Bree sat back in her chair. “Last time you didn’t follow procedure, you lost control of a violent suspect. I gave you a break, even though your sloppy technique endangered everyone in the station.” She let that statement sink in for a few seconds. “We were all lucky no one was seriously injured.”

  Oscar swallowed. A few months before, he’d unintentionally allowed a dangerous suspect to slip out of his restraints.

  “This time, a written warning will go in your personnel file.”

  “That’s not fair!” Oscar jumped to his feet.

  Bree stared him down. “Procedures are in place for reasons. I expect you to follow them. Do not fail to follow proper procedure a third time.”

  “Is that all?” Oscar’s face reddened.

  Bree waited three heartbeats to answer. “Yes.”

  “Can I go out on patrol?”

  She nodded, and he stormed out of her office.

  Her headache crescendoed. She glanced at her watch, packed her briefcase, and locked her office. Todd was still working at a computer station.

  She stopped in front of the desk. “Don’t stay too late. You need sleep too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze slid to the door Oscar had just exited.

  Bree shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about Oscar. She wanted to shower, eat, and read to Kayla. When had her wants become so simple?

  Todd lowered his voice. “With all due respect, ma’am, watch your back.”

  Bree jerked awake with her phone vibrating on her hip. She was sitting up in Kayla’s bed, the book they’d been reading open in her lap. Kayla’s head rested on Bree’s shoulder. The little girl’s breathing was deep and even, her eyes closed. Bree’s foot was numb. Ladybug was stretched out, her head on Bree’s ankle, cutting off the circulation. Bree wiggled her foot free and flexed her ankle. A pins-and-needles sensation rushed into her toes.

  After closing the book and setting it on the nightstand, Bree extricated herself from under the child and set her head gently on her pillow. Kayla snuggled deeper under her blanket and sighed. The dog’s eyes followed Bree to the door.

  Bree’s phone vibrated again. She hurried into the hallway and pulled Kayla’s door almost shut. Closing her own bedroom door behind her, Bree answered the call. “Sheriff Taggert.”

  The voice on the other end of the line whispered, “This is Shannon Phelps. I think there’s someone outside my house.”

  “Are your doors locked?” Bree checked the time. Eleven thirty.

  “Yes,” Shannon said in a low voice. “And my alarm is on.”

  “Stay put. I’m on my way, and I’m sending a car. Do not go outside.”

  “OK. Oh, no!” Shannon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I hear something downstairs. I don’t want them to hear me.” The line went dead.

  Bree phoned dispatch and requested a patrol vehicle be sent to Shannon’s address. As she spoke, she grabbed her gun from the safe. After fastening the hip holster to her belt, she put on her backup piece and ankle holster. Without bothering to change clothes, she hurried downstairs.

  Dana had fallen asleep on the living room sofa with a book in her lap. She blinked awake and looked up as Bree hit the landing. “Something wrong?”

  “Shannon Phelps, the victim’s sister, thinks someone is breaking into her house.” Bree went to the kitchen. At the back door, she shoved her feet into her black athletic shoes and tugged the hem of her jeans over the baby Glock on her ankle.

  Dana followed. “Be careful.”

  “I will. Don’t wait up.” Grabbing a jacket that read SHERIFF on the back, Bree opened the door. “I’ll text you.”

  She jogged to her SUV, slid behind the wheel, and drove onto the main road. She stepped on the gas pedal and called Matt. When he answered, she explained what was happening.

  “I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  Bree drove to Shannon’s address and parked at the curb. Using the radio, she called in her arrival to dispatch. “What is the ETA on the responding units?”

  “Four minutes,” dispatch answered. “No units were close by.”

  Randolph County encompassed a large chunk of mostly rural land, including several unincorporated towns with no police departments. The sheriff was responsible for all policing within those jurisdictions. It was impossible for Bree’s small force to adequately cover the area. Having a unit nearby when it was needed was largely a matter of luck.

  “Roger that.” Bree didn’t wait. Too much could happen in four minutes. “Responding units, be advised Sheriff Taggert is on scene in plain clothes.”

  Don’t shoot me was implied.

  Grabbing her Kevlar vest, she shrugged into it and fastened the Velcro straps. Then she drew her weapon, pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment, and slid from the SUV.

  The neighborhood was dark and quiet. Bree heard the distant bark of a dog. She approached the gray farmhouse. No lights shone in the windows. Even the porch light was out. Bree eased up the front walk, her sneakers silent on the concrete. She cut across the lawn, staying in the shadow of a huge oak tree in the center of the front yard.

  Overhead, the wind whistled in the big oak. Bree put one shoulder to the tree and glanced around it. She saw no one. She jogged up the front porch, stood to one side of the door, and knocked. Keeping her back to the siding, Bree scanned the front lawn.

  Shannon didn’t answer the door. Nothing moved. The house sat in eerie silence.

  Bree left the porch and started around the side of the house. She peered around the corner. The side yard was empty. Sweat dripped between her shoulder blades, and her heart thudded behind her breastbone.

  A siren approached in the distance. Bree exhaled. Backup was on the way but sounded as if it was still a few minutes away.

  Barking sounded from inside the house. Bree ran back toward the porch. She leaped up the front steps. She tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Using the butt of her gun, she broke a narrow window next to the door, reached in, and turned the dead bolt. Standing off to the side, she shoved open the door.

  Bree held her weapon in front of her and stepped across the threshold. In the shadowed hallway, she paused to listen, but the sound of her own heartbeat drowned out the small noises. Adrenaline surged through her bloodstream. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds to control her heart rate and blood pressure. Then she grounded herself in her physical surroundings so she didn’t get tunnel vision. Living room on
the left. Wood floor underfoot. A hallway led to the kitchen.

  When she let out her breath, her hearing improved. A door banged. Bree moved toward it. She reached the end of the hall. Moonlight streamed in the window, highlighting the kitchen island and stools. Bree eased through the room, sweeping her gun as she checked each corner. The kitchen and family room were clear.

  Gun in hand, nerves standing on end, she headed toward the sound. She opened the pantry. Clear.

  An eerie silence blanketed the house. There was no hum of appliances. No air moved through the vents.

  She crept through the darkness to a short hall off the kitchen. There were no windows, and the corridor was pitch-black. Bree raised her flashlight. Holding it away from her body, she turned it on and illuminated a closed door. She eased closer and reached for the knob. It turned in her hand. She pulled it open and swept the beam of her flashlight around an empty powder room. Bree exhaled hard.

  She checked the attached laundry room. There was no space big enough for an adult to hide. She backtracked to the kitchen. A light wind ruffled her hair. She stopped short, looking for the source of fresh air. Then she saw it. The french door leading to the deck wasn’t completely closed.

  Did the intruder leave through that door?

  Or is that how they got in?

  She crept toward the open door, out onto the deck, and scanned the yard. A six-foot wooden fence enclosed the yard. A few trees cast shadows on a large expanse of grass. On the side of the yard, the gate swung in the wind.

  The breeze passed over Bree’s skin. Goose bumps lifted on her arms. He or she could have just left the house when he heard Bree arrive. Damn it. She wanted to give chase. But she couldn’t leave Shannon alone.

  Bree went back into the house, returned to the foyer, then went up the stairs. She stepped onto the landing. A floorboard creaked, and she held her breath, listening. But all was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Moving as swiftly as possible, she turned. The first bedroom on the left of the landing was empty. Bree opened the closet and shined her flashlight inside. Nothing. The second was a home office, with a desk and a built-in wall unit. The third room was outfitted as a guest room. Bree ducked out. The hall bath was clear.