Dead Against Her (Bree Taggert, #5)(11)

She stepped out of the car and started up the cement walkway. With a deep breath she knocked on the door. The house remained quiet for a minute. Bree pressed the doorbell and heard the echo of the chimes inside the house. A light went on in an upstairs window. A face appeared behind the glass, peered down at them, and then withdrew. A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps approached the front door.

A man in his late sixties answered the door. He was tall and slim, in leather slippers and a navy-blue robe over old-fashioned pajamas. His face was narrow. He wore his silver hair on the long side and swept back from a high forehead in a dramatic wave. His eyes narrowed at them. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Bernard Crighton?” Bree asked.

“Yes,” he said in an anxious tone.

Bree didn’t want to give him the news on the doorstep. “May we come inside?”

His eyes were heavy with sleep. “Yes. Of course.” He stepped back to give them room. The foyer was like its owner, dated but well kept. The wallpaper and dark-stained molding looked more antique than run-down.

“What’s this about?” Mr. Crighton’s tone was clipped.

Bree supposed the foyer was as far as she was going to get until she explained their visit. “I’m Sheriff Taggert from Randolph County.” Bree introduced Matt. “I’m sorry to inform you that the bodies of Camilla Brown and Eugene Oscar were discovered this evening on Ms. Brown’s farm.

We’re sorry for your loss.”

Crighton didn’t react for a few long seconds. Then realization dawned in his eyes and he pressed a hand to the V of his robe. “They’re dead?”

“Yes, sir.” Unfortunately, Bree had done enough death notifications to know it was best to deliver the news quickly and directly. Police did not arrive on a doorstep in the middle of the night to deliver good news. Anticipation only added stress. Euphemisms could confuse people, and confusion made everything worse. “Camilla was your sister?”

Instead of answering, he waved them inside, turned, and walked through a wide doorway.

Bree and Matt followed him into a wood-paneled study. Crighton navigated the space in the dim light spilling in from the hall, but Matt went to the wall and flipped a switch, flooding the room with soft light from several lamps.

A large antique desk occupied half the space. A leather couch and chairs formed a conversation area on the other side. Overflowing bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk.

Additional volumes were stacked on the desk and floor. The decor had the potential to be stuffy, but the furnishings were just worn enough to make it a comfortable, well-used working room.

Crighton went to a sideboard and poured what appeared to be whiskey from a decanter into a tumbler. After a sip, he turned to face them, leaning on the front of the desk. His hands were shaky. “I assume you won’t accept any?”

“That’s correct.” As the daughter of a raging alcoholic, Bree wasn’t much of a drinker, and she would never imbibe on duty. “I know this is a shock, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

Crighton took another small sip of his whiskey. “Was it an accident? I told Camilla the farm was too much for her, but she refused to leave it.”

The statement felt odd. Farm accidents happened, but typically they involved heavy equipment or large animals. A dozen goats and a few chickens didn’t seem particularly dangerous to Bree, especially when two people had been killed, one of them a healthy, younger man. She supposed a single individual could have fallen, but both? Seemed unlikely. Fire was more likely in old buildings.

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m afraid Ms. Brown and her son were shot.”

Crighton froze, his glass halfway to his lips. “Shot?”

“Yes.” Bree waited while he absorbed the news.

Crighton moved to sit on a leather couch. Bree and Matt eased into the wing chairs facing it.

Bree pulled her notepad and pen from her shirt pocket.

“Was it suicide?” Crighton asked, his head tipped down.

Bree evaded the question. “Was either Camilla or Eugene suicidal?”

“I’m no psychiatrist, but they were both struggling. Eugene was struggling with the recent end of his career, and he was still bitter about his divorce, though that happened a couple of years ago.”

Crighton stared at his whiskey. “Camilla hasn’t been the same since her second husband died.”

“When was that?” Leaning forward, Matt rested his clasped hands between his knees.

Crighton jerked a shoulder. “Seven, eight years ago, I think. She bounced back after her first husband’s death. He was killed in a car accident when Eugene was young. Back then, she had a son to finish raising, so that forced her to keep moving forward. But after Husband Number Two had his heart attack, she seemed to withdraw from life.” A huge sigh shuddered through him. “I suspect she was depressed. I probably should have gone to see her more often. I should have helped her.”

Bree wrote a note. She thought anyone close to their sister would refer to her late husbands by their names, not their numbers. But then, she was hardly one to judge a person for not maintaining family ties. She had let down her own siblings for years and hadn’t pursued a real relationship with her brother until after their sister had been murdered. If guilt was consuming Crighton tonight, Bree could understand.