Dead Against Her (Bree Taggert, #5)(4)

Farmers cared for their livestock before themselves. Their animals were their livelihood.

“I could toss them some hay for now,” Homer offered.

“Thank you. That would be helpful.” And keep him occupied while Bree entered the home.

Who knew what she would find?

“Yes, ma’am.” He moved through the open barn door and toward some hay bales stacked on a raised pallet.

Bree turned toward the house. She retraced her steps to the back porch and examined the door.

Unlike the front door, glass panes were set into the top half and she could see into the kitchen, which was empty. There was no dead bolt, just a simple doorknob lock that would take thirty seconds to breach.

Country living.

She shook her head, thinking of the state-of-the-art alarm system at her own farm. But then, Ms. Brown probably hadn’t received the threats that Bree had.

She used her cell phone to update dispatch. “There’s no response at the door and no sign of the homeowner. The livestock hasn’t been fed. I’m concerned the homeowner could be ill or injured. I’m going in.”

Not wanting to break a window or bust in the door unless it was absolutely necessary—the sheriff’s department didn’t need a lawsuit in the event Ms. Brown was fine and simply indisposed— Bree pulled a small tool kit from her pocket and deftly picked the lock. The lock was so old, she probably could have opened it with a credit card. She pushed the door open and the smell of rotting flesh hit her like a fist.

Decomposition.

Bree’s gut twisted. Ms. Brown wasn’t napping, nor was she in need of assistance.

No. That smell meant something—probably Ms. Brown—was dead.





CHAPTER THREE

Bree took a step back to regroup. Whatever was decomposing had probably been dead at least a day or so. Her stomach tangled, and she was grateful it was empty. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she pushed the door wide open. Inside, the buzz of insects tightened the queasy knot in her belly.

The flies always found a way in.

With a last gulp of fresh air, Bree stepped into the house. The kitchen was dated but tidy, with wooden countertops worn smooth with decades of scrubbing. Her gaze swept over the room. A rectangular table sat in the middle. One end was set with two plates, two glasses, and two sets of utensils, catercorner to each other. Four chairs were tucked under the table. Empty spaces marked where two more would fit. An iconic CorningWare casserole dish sat on the stovetop. On the counter, a clear dome covered a cake on a pedestal. Flies buzzed around the glass lids, trying to get at the food. Bree moved through the kitchen, trying to block out the sound.

She hated flies.

The smell thickened as she approached the doorway to the living room. Breathing through her nose and clamping her mouth closed, Bree suppressed a quick, reflexive gag. At the threshold, surprise stopped her cold. She froze, her feet rooted to the worn linoleum as she took in the scene with disbelief.

She’d expected to find the homeowner dead of a fall, heart attack, or stroke, but the image in front of Bree was so unexpected, she couldn’t move. Her brain didn’t want to accept what it was seeing. She squeezed her eyes closed for a few seconds, then reopened them. Nothing had changed.

The scene was still horrific.

Two bodies slumped, tied securely to straight-backed wooden chairs. The chairs had been placed side by side a few feet apart and turned in the same direction.

Like an audience facing a stage.

The first victim was an elderly woman, her head hanging sideways at an unnaturally relaxed angle. Ms. Brown, Bree guessed. A bullet hole marred the center of her forehead. Flies hovered around the wound, her eyes, nose, and mouth. Bree’s throat went dry and she swallowed. She saw no other injuries on the old woman’s pale blue cotton blouse or jeans. A cell phone poked out of the front pocket of her blouse. Bree made a note to have it bagged and tagged before the ME removed the bodies.

The second victim was male, and his body seemed younger. His head lolled forward, so Bree couldn’t see his face. But he was clearly dead. Unlike the woman, he’d been shot multiple times.

Patches of dark dried blood bloomed on his plain gray T-shirt and jeans. The blood had dripped to the floor and puddled under the chair. Bree noticed that the blood had had time to dry.

She closed her eyes. At the age of eight, Bree had hidden her two younger siblings under the back porch of their house while their father shot their mother and then turned the gun on himself. She hadn’t seen their bodies. Had their deaths been this bloody?

A scraping sound brought Bree back to the present. She whipped her head around. Her hand automatically went to the butt of her weapon. Homer stood in the kitchen doorway, his tanned face as white as raw flour.

“Stop!” Bree commanded.

He didn’t move, but she doubted he could hear her. His gaze was locked on the bodies, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. Nothing short of physical intervention would break his shocked trance.

Bree stepped in front of the carnage, blocking his view. He blinked and stared at her, slowly returning to his senses. His mouth opened, then closed again, and he looked as if he might be sick. Not wanting the scene to be contaminated, Bree commanded, “Do not come into this room!”

He flinched.

Recognizing the harshness of her tone, Bree lowered her voice. “Back out of the house carefully. Do not touch anything. I’ll be out shortly.”