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

Homer’s Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed hard, visibly composing himself. Then he followed her orders.

Bree drew her weapon. These deaths were clearly not fresh, but that didn’t mean the killer couldn’t still be here. She’d seen weirder things in her law enforcement career. Once, she’d arrested a man who’d killed his wife and lived with her dead body for two weeks, until the smell was so bad the neighbors called the cops.

She cleared a formal parlor and study in the front of the house, then went up the stairs to the second floor. She stopped on the landing and listened but heard nothing. Turning left, she went into the primary bedroom, clearly occupied by the old woman. Bree opened the closet. Church dresses and shoes were lined up on the left. Working clothes hung neatly on the right. Everything had been ironed, even the jeans. Bree stooped to check under the bed. In the attached bath, she pulled aside the shower curtain that hung around a huge claw-foot tub. Then she retreated from the main bedroom into the hallway.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears as a floorboard creaked under her weight. One glance told her the hall bath was empty. The second bedroom held a twin bed and appeared to be unoccupied. In the third bedroom, suitcases, boxes, and masculine clothing indicated the male was in the process of moving either out or in. She looked in the closet and under his bed as well. But as she’d suspected, the killer was long gone. Easing her weapon back into its holster, she returned to the first floor.

Passing the dead in the living room, she went through the kitchen and out the back door.

For a full minute, she stood on the porch and gulped fresh air.

Homer was doing the same, leaning forward, his hands on his thighs. “Who would do that to her?” His voice was weak and sad, but he no longer looked as if he were going to vomit.

“I don’t know. It was definitely Ms. Brown?”

He replied with a single, tight nod.

“Do you know who the man is?” Bree tried to smell the grass and earth, but the foul of decomp clung to the insides of her nostrils, coated her throat, and overrode every competing odor.

“I couldn’t see his face, but it could be her son.” Homer’s use of the present tense sent a spear of sorrow through Bree. “She said he was going to move in with her. I didn’t know exactly when.”

Throat dry, she nodded. Sadness and anger warred inside her as she pictured the table in the kitchen: the silverware in its proper place, the cloth napkins, the home-baked cake. The scene spoke of effort and care and love. Who had prepared dinner for the other? Ms. Brown or her son? It didn’t matter.

Before they could enjoy their meal, someone had murdered them both.

Bree addressed Homer in a gentle but firm tone. “I want you to stay here but not touch anything. I also need to get a statement from you, but there are a few other things I must do first.”

Homer nodded. “Yeah, OK.”

“Also, I’m going to ask you not to make any calls. I don’t want this news getting out before any next of kin is notified. Death is hard enough on a family without them hearing about it on TV.”

“I understand.” Homer’s watery eyes locked on Bree. “She didn’t have much family except for her boy. Just a brother in Scarlet Falls. A few nieces and nephews there too, but she wasn’t real close to them. They live nearby, but they don’t visit.”

“I need to make a few calls.”

Homer nodded toward the barn. “Camilla clearly didn’t pass today.”

Bree knew he used the word pass in respect for the dead, but the word scraped on her nerves.

Pass was a gentle word, and Camilla’s death had been anything but. She’d been violently murdered.

She’d been tied up, tortured, and terrified. Had she been forced to watch her son being killed?

Bree had taken over raising her niece and nephew after her sister’s murder in January. She’d been thrust into the role of parent only a short time, but she already understood that love for a child overrode all other emotions. Watching your child die would be the worst thing a parent could endure.

For Ms. Brown’s sake, Bree hoped she’d died first.

Homer continued. “It might seem unimportant, but those goats need to be milked. They’ll be mighty uncomfortable.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. I’ve helped Camilla in the past. Just like she helped me.”

Bree didn’t want any part of the scene contaminated, but animals could not be left in distress.

Plus, Homer had already been in the barn. “All right, but you’ll have to wait until a deputy arrives to supervise. Until then, please wait by your truck.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned and walked away. His vigor had evaporated, and his posture slumped as if he’d aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.

Bree used her cell phone to report the murders to dispatch. She requested deputies be summoned and that they bring portable lights. Darkness would fall in the next hour. Then she informed the medical examiner and called for a county forensics team. She did all this via cell phone instead of using her radio. Local media listened to police radio broadcasts via scanner. Bree couldn’t keep the news of the murders from the press, but she could delay their arrival and buy her investigation some time before media presence complicated the situation.

Next Bree called Matt Flynn, a criminal investigator she employed as a consultant on an as-needed basis. Budget constraints prevented her from hiring a full-time detective. Matt was a former sheriff’s department investigator and K-9 handler. He’d retired from the force after being shot in the line of duty in a friendly-fire incident several years before. A bullet to the hand interfered with his ability to fire a handgun accurately and prevented Matt from being employed as a deputy. But the injury had never stopped him from doing his job, and he was a hell of a detective.