Dead Against Her (Bree Taggert, #5)(3)

Bree called both the landline and cell number on record for Ms. Brown. When no one answered, she left messages.

The thought of finding Ms. Brown’s body depressed Bree, and she almost wished she hadn’t volunteered to take the call. But her deputies were always busy, it was near shift change, and the farm was on Bree’s way home, so it had made sense for her to handle it. Plus, after an afternoon of negotiations over renovation and expansion plans for the sheriff’s station, she’d wanted to escape the office like a prisoner newly granted parole. The plans were exciting. They were adding a locker room for her new female deputies, plus new holding cells and other sorely needed general updates throughout the station. But bureaucracy gave her a throbbing pain behind her eyes.

It was only Tuesday.

Bree turned at the sound of an approaching engine. A pickup truck rattled up the drive and parked next to her SUV. An elderly man climbed out, looking spry for his age, which she estimated to be at least seventy. Skinny and bowlegged, he dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt like an old-movie cowboy. His face was as wrinkled as a piece of foil that had been crumpled into a ball and smoothed back out.

“Sheriff.” He touched the wide brim of his hat. “I’m Homer Johnson. I live on the next farm. I called you.” He nodded toward the house. “Drove by the place earlier and saw the goats outside.

Camilla usually brings them in by four. Chickens should be in by now too. She’d never leave them out past dark. They’ll be coyote food. I tried calling her and banging on the door. She won’t answer her phone, and her door is locked. She never locks up during the daytime.” Homer seemed to have thought of everything.

“When did you see her last?”

Homer squinted at the setting sun. “I saw Camilla at church last Sunday. She never misses, and neither do I. This is the first time I’ve been by since then. But I’m worried. Camilla is a widow, and like me, she’s getting up in years. She had one of those mini strokes last year. Had to sell off a bunch of her goats ’cause she couldn’t keep up with the work.” He sighed. “I feel for her. I’m struggling with the same thing. At least my boy is involved in the business and we still turn a decent profit.”

“Do you have a key to her house?”

“No, ma’am. If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.”

“Let’s see what’s going on.” Bree started toward the front walkway. Dead leaves crunched under her boots. Though early September was still warm, the leaves of a mature oak tree in the front yard had already begun to turn and fall. Winter was just around the corner in upstate New York.

Homer followed her. They went up the porch steps.

Bree stopped on a welcome mat and thumped on the door. “Ms. Brown? This is the sheriff.

Please come to the door.”

The house remained quiet. In the background, goats bleated.

“I already did that.” Homer scowled. Worry deepened his crow’s-feet into craters.

“We have procedure to follow.” Bree couldn’t just break into a house.

The front door was solid wood, with no glass panes and a dead bolt. Gaining entry here would require a battering ram.

As if reading her mind, Homer said, “No one uses the front door.”

“Let’s try the back.” Bree descended the steps and started around the house, standing on her toes and peering in windows as she walked, but all the curtains were drawn. The most she could see were narrow slashes of dim rooms where the drapes didn’t quite meet.

Homer strode at her side. They rounded the back corner of the house and turned to look at it. A rear porch spanned the back, mirroring the one in front.

“She never closes her curtains either.” Homer propped his hands on his hips. “Leastways not the downstairs ones. The weather’s been nice this week. The windows should be open. Mine are.”

So were Bree’s. She went up the back-porch steps and knocked. No one answered.

“I’m going to check the barn.” She jogged down the wooden steps, a growing sense of urgency quickening her pace.

Homer kept up with her as she crossed the weedy backyard and passed an open chicken coop.

The big birds squawked and scattered. The goats ran in circles, bleating and stomping, as Bree passed their pen.

She went to the heavy double doors and rolled one side open. The interior was less barn and more commercial milking operation and was better kept than the rest of the property. Milking machines were elevated on a raised platform. She peered through a doorway into another room that contained large stainless-steel tables and refrigerators. The equipment might be a little dinged up, but everything was immaculately clean.

“Hello?” Bree called. “Ms. Brown? This is Sheriff Taggert.”

The goats bleated louder, as if trying to get her attention.

Bree turned away from the empty barn and inclined her head toward the goats. “Are they normally this agitated?”

“No, ma’am. I suspect they’re hungry.” He rubbed his white-stubbled chin. “Might be overdue for milking as well.”

Bree scanned the pen. The muddy ground was heavily trampled. The pasture was mostly dirt, the grass having been chewed to the ground. “What does Ms. Brown do with the goats?”

“She sells goat cheese at the farmers market, along with free-range chicken eggs. There’s a restaurant in town that buys her cheese as well. That’s all the business she has left. It’s a shame. This farm used to be a lot bigger.”