Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert)

by Melinda Leigh

  “What night was that?” Bree asked.

  “Tuesday,” Owen said.

  “What about her boss?” Matt asked. “Any tension there?”

  “I don’t think so. Paul isn’t in the office much. He’s hands-on with the business. Spends most of his time at jobsites.” Owen raised the whiskey to his lips, then lowered it with a sigh. “I guess I can’t stay drunk forever.”

  “You’ve met her boss?” Bree prodded.

  Owen nodded. “A few times when I had to stop at the office for some reason. He isn’t the kind of guy who hosts office Christmas parties or anything like that.”

  Bree stood, seemingly satisfied. “If you think of anything else you want to tell us, please call me.” She set a business card on the table. “I’ll need you to write down what you told me about your argument with Holly, the last time you saw her, and where you were between Friday at five p.m. and noon on Saturday.”

  “But I just told you all that,” Owen said.

  “I know,” Bree said. “But I’d like it in your own words for my official records. I wouldn’t want to get any details wrong.”

  Also, they would compare Owen’s written statement with his verbal answers for discrepancies.

  “OK. I will.” Owen got up, dumped his whiskey, and filled the glass at the tap. “It still feels surreal. I keep expecting Holly to walk through the door.” He stared at the water. “Can I see her?”

  “You mean view her body?” Bree straightened.

  Owen nodded.

  Bree’s brows knitted. “As soon as the DNA tests come back, the medical examiner will release your wife’s body.”

  “How long will that take?” Owen’s head swung back to Bree.

  “The ME says she’ll have the results within a week,” she said.

  He rubbed a hand across his scalp. “That long?”

  Matt added, “You’ll need to think about final arrangements. When Holly’s ID is official, the medical examiner will call you to ask which funeral home you’re going to use.”

  “Oh.” Owen dropped into his chair again, as if the reality of choosing a funeral home brought the situation clarity.

  A knock sounded on the door. Owen crossed the room and opened it. A deputy stood on the stoop.

  “He’s with me.” Bree dropped the bomb. “He has a search warrant. We need to search your house.”

  “What?” Owen’s voice rose with disbelief.

  “Your wife is a murder victim,” Bree explained. “We need to search her residence.”

  The deputy handed the warrant to Owen. He took it, not bothering to read it.

  “Take Mr. Thorpe outside and wait with him,” Bree said to the deputy. Then she waved a hand at Matt. “Let’s start upstairs.”

  Owen glowered at the deputy but went out the front door without resistance.

  Matt followed Bree. They tugged on gloves as they walked up the steps. Bree pulled a small digital camera from her pocket. On the left side of the landing were a full bath and a small bedroom currently being used as a combination guest room and home office. The main bedroom was on the right.

  They veered into the guest room. A man lay sprawled, snoring, on a daybed. He smelled of vomit. Bree began photographing everything.

  Matt tapped him on the leg. “Hey, buddy. Wake up.”

  The man startled awake with a loud snort. “What the fuck?”

  “Sheriff’s office,” Matt said. “You need to go outside.”

  He belched and stumbled to his feet.

  “I’ll escort him out.” Matt didn’t want him to fall down the steps. He hauled the drunk down the stairs and out the front door, then left him with Owen and the deputy.

  Back upstairs in the guest room, Matt walked past an open suitcase to the closet. Three polo shirts hung in a row.

  Bree’s camera clicked away as she photographed every drawer and surface. “We’ll take the laptop and mail.”

  “There’s only a couple of things in the closet.” Matt jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Probably the drunk brother’s clothes.”

  He looked under the bed. Nothing. He turned to the desk, looking over Bree’s shoulder. She was opening drawers. “Old bills, tax returns, large appliance booklets.” She closed the bottom drawer. “Let’s search the main bedroom. Keep an eye out for broken fingernails.”

  They had no idea where Holly had been killed.

  Matt ducked into the hall bath as they passed. He turned on the light. A toiletry kit stood open on the vanity. Vomit was splattered on the toilet seat, and the room stank. Matt held his breath as he opened the linen closet, which was stocked with towels and toilet paper.

  “Looks like it’s kept for guests.” He turned off the light.

  The main bedroom had a large space for furniture. Walk-in closets flanked a short hallway that led to the en suite bathroom.

  Bree walked straight through into the bath. Matt went into the first closet, which was clearly Owen’s. Jeans, sweatshirts, and sweaters were stacked on shelves. Pants and button-up shirts hung on double poles. Six pairs of shoes were lined up under the hanging clothes. Matt looked between items and checked the pockets of Owen’s jackets and inside his shoes. Boxes lined up on the top shelf held off-season clothes. Matt lifted the lid on the last box. Baseball cards. Unfortunately, they were wrinkled, stained, and otherwise damaged, unlikely to be worth any real money.

  He emerged as Bree came out of the bathroom.

  “Find anything?” She blew a stray hair off her face.

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” She stopped in the doorway to Holly’s closet. “Wow.”

  Matt glanced in. Unlike Owen’s neat space, Holly’s looked like a department store had exploded. He counted forty purses.

  “I’ll start with the top half.” Matt took down a plastic shoe-storage box and opened it. Silver high heels. He tried another. More heels, these bright red. “How many pairs of shoes can one woman wear?”

  “Don’t look at me. I hate shopping.” Bree crouched to open a large shopping bag on the floor. She pulled out a square red purse. “This still has the tags on it.” She set it aside and removed two shoeboxes. Pulling out another pair, Bree whistled softly. “OK. I have to admit. These are gorgeous.”

  Matt glanced down. The shoes were bright blue suede. They had a skinny heel and a red sole. He thought Bree looked amazing in her uniform or just jeans and boots. She was more of a simple woman. But he couldn’t help picturing those sky-high heels on her.

  Mind out of the gutter, Matt.

  “They’re Louboutins.” Bree gently placed them back in the box.

  The name was vaguely familiar to Matt. “Expensive, right?”

  “Yes.” Bree reached into the bag and pulled out a receipt. “These two pairs of shoes and the bag totaled eighteen hundred dollars.”

  “Seriously? When did she buy them?”

  “Last week.” Bree sat back on her heels. “She paid cash.”

  “Where was Holly getting all this cash?”

  Bree took photos, then set the shopping bag aside. “We’ll take these with us.”

  “Are they your size?” Matt joked.

  Bree gave him a deadpan look. “As evidence.”

  He grinned down at her, and she couldn’t hold her composure. Chuckling, she moved on to searching the rest of Holly’s bags and boxes, opening every zippered compartment. “Those are the only items with a current receipt.”

  “Some of these other shoes look brand new.” Matt turned a short boot over in his hand. The sole was perfectly clean and smooth.

  “But we can’t prove when she bought them without a receipt.” Bree straightened.

  Matt opened his phone and took a video of the entire closet.

  They finished Holly’s closet without finding anything else of note. The nightstands held the usual books, tissues, pens, and other odds and ends. They checked under the mattress and behind the headboard.

  Bree opened a jewelry box on the dresser. “Damn.”
/>   Matt looked inside. Lots of shiny objects. “Some of that looks valuable.”

  She snapped pictures. “Let’s ask Owen about all this.”

  Matt carried the shopping bag and laptop downstairs. The kitchen and family room didn’t take as long to search. When they’d finished, Bree opened the front door. “You can come back inside now.”

  Owen went into the kitchen. His brother made a beeline for the stairs. He looked like a zombie, and Matt assumed he was going back to bed.

  Owen stood in the middle of his kitchen, his face locked in a sullen frown. “What are you taking?”

  “We’ll give you a receipt for everything we take as evidence.” Bree set the shopping bag on the table. She took out the receipt. “Where did Holly get the cash for these?”

  Owen lifted a shoulder in a jerky movement. “I don’t know.”

  “She bought them last week.” Bree read off the total on the receipt. “With cash.”

  The color drained from Owen’s face. “I don’t know.” This time his answer sounded less cocky and more unsure.

  “What about her jewelry? Do you know where it came from?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to my wife’s earrings.” Owen spotted the computer in Matt’s hands. “Hey, you can’t take my computer!” he protested.

  “Yes, we can.” Bree nodded toward the folded warrant on the table. “It’s listed on the warrant.”

  “Shit.” Owen rubbed a hand down his face. “What am I supposed to use?”

  “We’ll get it back to you as soon as possible,” Bree said. “We’re almost done.”

  Bree and Matt went through the basement quickly. She wrote a receipt for the items they were collecting and handed it to Owen.

  He snatched it from her. “I’m getting an attorney. I have an alibi.”

  Bree gave him a polite smile on the way out.

  Matt headed for the door. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Owen looked angry enough to explode.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Outside, the fresh air wiped the stink of booze from Matt’s nostrils. He followed Bree to the SUV and went around to the passenger side.

  She stared at him over the hood. “Maybe Holly’s source of cash killed her.”

  “Money is always a good motive for murder,” he agreed.

  Bree hesitated, one hand on her car door handle. “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”

  They walked to the house next door. No one answered their knock. They had better luck at the unit on the other side.

  A white-haired man of about sixty opened the door and gave Bree a hard stare. “You’re here about the girl next door, right? How’d she die?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Bree introduced herself and Matt. “How well do you know the Thorpes?”

  “Well enough to say hi. But I know one thing about them.” He zipped his cardigan. “They fight all the time. Loudly. These walls are thin. I can’t tell you how many times I went to bed with my noise-canceling headphones on.” He shook his head.

  “Did you hear them fighting last Friday night?” Matt asked.

  “Yes. They screamed at each other for a good twenty minutes, then she stormed out with a suitcase.” The older man rolled his eyes. “I also saw him drunk as a skunk the next morning. I was hoping they’d get a fucking divorce this time so I could get some sleep.”

  Bree pulled out her small notepad. “Do you know if Holly was close to any of the other neighbors?”

  “No,” he said. “I barely saw either her or her husband. Just when they were going out or coming home.”

  Bree took the neighbor’s contact information. She and Matt tried several more doors in the same building. Two additional residents answered and confirmed the first neighbor’s story: Owen and Holly kept to themselves and fought constantly.

  Bree and Matt returned to her SUV.

  “What next?” Matt asked from the passenger seat.

  Bree blew out a hard breath. “What’s next is even worse than meeting with the victim’s husband and sister. We have to talk to Holly’s mother.” She checked in with Todd, who gave her the address for Penelope Phelps.

  Mrs. Phelps lived in a senior-housing community of tiny, almost identical one-story homes. They went to the door and knocked. Nothing happened. Matt pressed the doorbell. The ringing echoed through the door. A minute later, something scraped inside the house, and the footsteps that sounded were slow and halting. What seemed like minutes passed before the door opened.

  The woman in the foyer was probably about sixty, but she looked decades older. Frail and thin, she leaned heavily on a walker. Tennis balls capped the two nonwheeled feet. Petite like her daughters, Mrs. Phelps had clearly shrunk. She squinted hard through glasses thick enough to distort the size of her eyes.

  Bree introduced them, showing her badge.

  “You’re here about Holly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bree folded her hands in front of her body.

  Matt bowed his head.

  With a labored breath, Mrs. Phelps stepped back. “Please, come in. I have some questions for you.”

  The door opened into the living room, where Mrs. Phelps shuffled to a chair. Easing into it, she reached for an oxygen cannula and arranged the tubing on her face. Wheezing, she gestured toward a blue sofa.

  Matt and Bree sat next to each other. Matt rested his elbows on his knees and hung his clasped hands between them.

  Bree perched on the edge of the cushion. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “I never thought I’d outlive one of my girls.” She met their gazes with rheumy eyes that didn’t seem to focus well. “I don’t care about much these days—except my children. It doesn’t matter how old they get; your baby is your baby. If life wanted to kick me in the teeth one last time, this was the only way to do it.”

  Empathy flooded Matt. He couldn’t imagine facing his own death and suffering the loss of a child.

  Mrs. Phelps reached a shaky hand toward a shelf behind her. She selected a framed photo from among a dozen and brought it close to her face. “I still see them as little girls.” She handed the picture to Bree, who tilted it so Matt could see.

  Two girls sat across from each other at a table, drawing. Their postures were mirror images of each other. One was a little taller, with straight hair. The smaller girl had a head full of curls. Matt glanced at the adjoining kitchen and could see the same table.

  “The girls were raised here in Grey’s Hollow,” Mrs. Phelps said. “We had a bigger house then.”

  Matt’s heart squeezed at the innocent image. “How old are they in this picture?”

  Mrs. Phelps touched the taller girl’s face. “Holly was twelve. Shannon is two years younger.” Her fingers fumbled as she opened the frame and removed the photo. She thrust it at Bree. “Take this with you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Bree protested.

  “I want you to have it as a reminder that Holly was a real woman, not a case number or a statistic. She had people who loved her.” Mrs. Phelps teared up, then wiped her face with her fingertips. “I can’t hardly see good enough to make it out anyway.”

  Bree accepted the photo. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Phelps took a deep breath and appeared to calm. “Up until this last chemo cycle, I was doing OK. But this one was rough. Even worse, it didn’t even slow the cancer down.” She leaned back in her chair and breathed. “I don’t have the energy or appetite to eat. Shannon wants me to get a feeding tube. She says it’s a minor procedure.” She placed a hand protectively over her belly. Her chin dropped with defeat. “Shannon wants me to keep fighting, but my body is done. I’m done. I can’t hold out much longer. I don’t want to. Not after this. Losing a daughter is just too much. It’s all just too much. I’ve decided to go into hospice.”

  “Have you told Shannon?” Bree asked.

  Mrs. Phelps shook her head. “It wouldn’t be fair to do it over the phone. I’ll wait until I can tell her i
n person.”

  Bree cleared her throat. “When did you last talk to her?”

  “She called late last night. I was asleep when the phone rang. At first, I thought I was having a nightmare.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips. Covering her mouth, she coughed, a dry, hacking sound.

  “Can I get you anything, ma’am?” Matt asked. “Water?”

  She nodded and gestured toward a doorway. Matt went into the tiny kitchen, found a glass in the cabinet, and filled it at the tap. He brought the glass back and handed it to her. She took it with both hands.

  “No disrespect intended, ma’am, but are you all right being here by yourself?” Bree asked.

  “The nurse will be here soon,” Mrs. Phelps said. “Usually Shannon or Holly come in the evening.”

  “When did you last see Holly?” Bree asked.

  “I think it was last Wednesday or Thursday. I can’t keep track of the days.” Mrs. Phelps paused to catch her breath. “And I can’t believe Holly killed herself.” She tried to lift her glass to set it on the table, but her arm sagged.

  Matt took the water and set it down for her.

  “Holly didn’t die by suicide,” Bree said in a gentle voice. “She was killed.”

  “I knew she wouldn’t have done it. I knew it.” Mrs. Phelps’s voice weakened. She seemed to deflate even more. Her eyes drooped and closed. Her breathing grew shallow. Alarmed, Matt watched her for a few seconds, relieved to see her chest rising and falling.

  He leaned closer to Bree and whispered, “Is she asleep?”

  He was hoping she wasn’t dying. But then, given her physical discomfort, maybe dying would be merciful. He and Bree crept from the room.

  In the car, Matt glanced back at the house. “I sure as hell don’t want to die like that.”

  “She can’t opt to not have cancer.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He struggled for the words. “Maybe Shannon is being selfish in wanting to drag out her mom’s death. You could make a case that asking her to keep fighting is cruel. Having a tube surgically placed in your stomach doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “She said it was considered a minor procedure.”

  Matt snorted. “My definition of minor is a procedure performed on someone else.”