Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert)

by Melinda Leigh

  “Hi,” she said.

  He’d hoped her call was personal. They were past due for a date night. Her family and job kept her busy. But he knew instantly from the tone of her greeting that the call was official business. “What happened?”

  “We found a body in the river near the bridge on Dead Horse Road.”

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. It’s a fresh case. I’m still waiting on the medical examiner.”

  “OK. I’m on my way.” Matt ended the call. He ducked back into the kennel. “I have to go to work.”

  Cady frowned. “I’m not telling Mom. She’s not happy that you’re working for the sheriff’s department again, since that’s how you were shot.”

  “I know.” But Matt had tried retirement. It hadn’t suited him. He was only thirty-five. “But this is who I am.” He called Brody.

  “You can leave Brody with me. I’ll put him inside before I go.” Cady gave him a quick hug. “I love you. Be careful.”

  “I will.” Matt went into the house and changed into his civilian-consultant uniform: khaki-colored cargoes and a black sheriff’s-logo polo shirt. Then he went out to his SUV and headed toward a dead body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bree climbed the slope back to the road. She swallowed a mouthful of evening spring air. Cold water had slowed—but not stopped—decomposition of the body. The smell, like meat just beginning to spoil, penetrated her nose and coated the back of her throat.

  Collins was standing in the open door of her cruiser, talking on the radio. She spotted Bree, signed off, and jogged over.

  “I called the medical examiner,” Bree said, breathless. “And our criminal investigator, Matt Flynn.”

  Budget restrictions prohibited hiring a full-time investigator. Matt worked as a civilian consultant to the sheriff’s department on an as-needed basis.

  A sheriff’s cruiser parked on the shoulder of the road. Chief Deputy Todd Harvey stepped out and walked on the gravel shoulder toward her. He adjusted his duty belt on his lean waist. At six feet tall, he had the long, easy stride of an outdoorsman. He stopped in front of her.

  Bree summed up the situation in a few quick sentences. Then she opened the passenger door of her SUV and took out her camera. “We’re losing daylight fast. You and Collins utilize additional deputies as they arrive to search the ground around the vehicle, between the vehicle and the bridge, and the bridge’s surface. Bag anything you find as evidence. Photograph everything.” Bree eyed the line of law enforcement vehicles. The press would be here shortly. “Set up a perimeter for media. Be careful. I saw a black bear and two cubs on the trail. I doubt they’ll be back, but be mindful.”

  She closed the door, moved to the rear of the vehicle, and opened the cargo hatch. She retrieved her bear spray, just in case. “According to the initial caller, the car has been parked at the bridge since Friday. The heavy rain over the past weekend probably washed away any footprints.” Bree doubted any evidence would have survived the storms, but they would go through the procedural motions anyway.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Todd said.

  The wind kicked up across the river, and Bree could feel the chill in the air. The temperature was dropping with the sun. She put on her jacket and shoved gloves and evidence bags into the pockets. “Direct Matt and the ME to the body.”

  Todd and Deputy Collins turned back to their vehicles. Bree headed down the slope toward the body. She took pictures from multiple angles and distances. The corpse’s left hand extended onto the rocks. The victim wore a silver wedding band with a brushed texture channel. Bree leaned closer and snapped a close-up. By the time she’d finished with her photos, the sun had dropped behind the trees. The medical examiner would also take photos of the body in situ, but Bree liked to have her own. Besides, the ME would be dependent on artificial light. Bree would take advantage of the remaining daylight. You couldn’t have too many crime scene photos.

  Footsteps caught her attention. Bree turned to see Matt and the medical examiner emerging from the woods. Broad-shouldered and six three, Matt was an impressive figure. He hefted two battery-powered floodlights on tripods. The portable lights were specifically designed for illuminating remote areas where setting up a generator wasn’t practical.

  Dr. Serena Jones was a tall African American woman with close-cropped hair. Her short, stocky male assistant half jogged to keep up with her. The ME and her assistant each carried a plastic kit.

  “Sheriff.” The ME stared at the body, assessing. “What do we know?”

  “Her car has been parked at the base of the bridge since Friday night,” Bree said.

  Matt set down the lights. The sunset turned his short red-brown hair and tight beard the color of burnished copper. His gaze caught Bree’s. Despite the gruesome situation, something inside Bree warmed as their eyes met for a few seconds. If they weren’t—once again—standing over a dead body, he would have kissed her. But standing over a dead body seemed to be their norm, and Matt was aware of how she felt about PDA. She blinked away, afraid everyone else would see how much she liked him.

  How did you greet the criminal investigator you were dating when no one else knew you were dating him?

  “Matt.” Bree cleared her throat. “Thanks for responding so quickly.”

  He nodded as he helped Dr. Jones set up the lights on the riverbank, flooding the body and area immediately around it with day-bright light. The ME’s assistant moved in with his camera. When he’d finished, Dr. Jones crouched next to the body. Water sloshed around the ankles of her rubber boots. She reached one gloved hand toward the head, lifting the wet hair off the face as Bree had done. “The water temperature is probably somewhere in the fifties. So, the body isn’t classically bloated, but she’s starting to get soupy. She’s been in the water at least a couple of days.”

  “Her husband says she left home Friday evening.” Bree wondered if she would be able to verify the timeline given by Owen Thorpe.

  Dr. Jones looked thoughtful. “I’ll be able to give you a better answer after the autopsy. Let’s turn her over.”

  Bree tugged on gloves and helped turn the body onto its back. A bloodless gash started on the forehead and extended into the victim’s hair.

  Dr. Jones pointed to abrasions on the victim’s head and hands. “Most of these injuries look postmortem, possibly from hitting rocks and other debris in the river. Not sure about the head wound. I’ll need X-rays and better light to assess it.” She sat back on her heels. “There are too many variables for me to give you any more information now. I’ll schedule the autopsy for tomorrow afternoon.” The ME issued orders for her assistant to collect temperature readings and samples of the water and soil around the body. She drew a scalpel from her bag and opened the victim’s jacket and blouse to make an incision in the abdomen. Body temperature was the most accurate when obtained via the liver.

  To give them room to work, Bree and Matt moved away from the remains.

  “What do you think?” Bree asked.

  Matt shrugged. “I’m not going to think anything until the autopsy, but circumstances do suggest suicide is a possibility. She could have hit her head on a boulder in the water.”

  An hour later, the remains were transferred to a black body bag and secured to a gurney. Matt, Bree, the morgue assistant, and Deputy Collins carried the gurney up the slope to the ME van. Two news vans were parked down the road. Crews gathered on the other side of the sawhorses. Lights flashed as they photographed and videoed the gurney being loaded.

  “Are you going to interview the husband tonight?” Dr. Jones asked Bree.

  “I am,” Bree said.

  Standing next to the van, the ME exchanged her rubber boots for athletic shoes. “In case the victim doesn’t have fingerprints on file somewhere, it would be helpful to collect her hairbrush or toothbrush from her home for a DNA comparison.” Dr. Jones stashed her rubber boots in a plastic bin and closed the side door.

  “I will.” Bree nodded.


  “Thank you.” The ME climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away.

  Two additional deputies had arrived and assisted with the ground search. As Bree expected, they hadn’t found much. She walked back to Holly’s vehicle. Collins had the trunk open.

  Bree joined her and stared down. The trunk contained a carry-on-size suitcase and an ice scraper. Bree took several photographs, then reached down and opened the suitcase with a gloved hand. A laptop computer sat on top of a pile of unfolded clothes. She snapped another picture.

  “She didn’t take the time to fold anything,” Collins said. “She just shoved her stuff in and left.”

  Bree closed the suitcase and walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. Crouching, she moved the wallet aside to get a better look inside the purse. The contents were typical: lipstick, hand sanitizer, nail file, mints. Bree spotted an envelope at the bottom and pulled it out. The flap was tucked in rather than sealed. She gently opened the flap and slid out a folded piece of paper. Scrawled on the paper were the words I can’t anymore. It’s too hard.

  “A suicide note?” Collins asked.

  “Maybe.” About 30 percent of people who died by suicide left a note. Bree took a picture of the note, then returned it to the envelope. “Bag and tag it.” Then she gave instructions for Holly Thorpe’s car to be towed to the municipal impound facility, where it would be held as evidence until Bree released it. She turned to Matt. “I’m headed to see Owen Thorpe. Want to come?”

  “I do,” Matt said. “I can leave my truck at your place.”

  They dropped his Suburban in front of her farm. Bree cast a longing glance at the glow of lights in the kitchen windows.

  Matt climbed into the passenger seat of her SUV. “You don’t want to run in and say good night to the kids?”

  Bree checked the time. After nine o’clock. “Kayla will be in bed. I don’t want to wake her. She’s finally back to sleeping through the night. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize her routine.” Her eight-year-old niece had suffered terrible nightmares for the first few months after her mother’s death.

  Bree entered Holly Thorpe’s address into her GPS. Then she pulled out of the driveway and onto the dark country road. She felt Matt’s scrutiny on her profile in the dark.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “You just seem . . . tense.”

  Bree tilted her head. “Just thinking about the case.”

  “You’re not feeling any awkwardness working together now that we have a romantic relationship?”

  Along with solving several cases together, she and Matt had been on a few dates over the past two months. “I don’t feel awkward with you at all. In fact, I think we make a good investigative team. But with my deputies and Dr. Jones . . .” Bree searched for the words. “I feel like people suspect something and are watching us.”

  And judging her.

  “Or you’re just hyperaware of how our relationship will be perceived by others,” Matt said.

  “Or that.” She laughed. “I’ve only been sheriff for a few months.” Bree had been appointed to the empty position after she’d solved her own sister’s murder.

  “This is a small town. People are going to gossip.”

  “I don’t like being the topic of their rumors.” Bree halted at a stop sign, then made a left turn.

  “First of all, I don’t think anyone knows. This might just be in your head. Secondly, there isn’t much you can do about it, except break it off with me. I really hope you don’t want to do that.”

  She could feel his gaze on her profile, as if he was waiting for her reaction. She rubbed at a twinge in her chest. She didn’t like the thought of not seeing him. He was the first man she’d ever felt a real connection with. On their last date, he’d taken her dancing, the old-fashioned kind. They’d been the only couple on the dance floor not in their seventies. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I don’t think keeping our relationship a secret is a good idea.” He frowned. “It implies we’re doing something wrong when we’re not.”

  “It’s not that I want us to have a secret relationship.”

  “Then why do we have to drive to the next county every time we go out?”

  “I don’t want people to stare at us. We’re entitled to some privacy.” Bree turned onto a tree-lined back road. She switched on her high beams to counter the utter darkness of the woods. “People already stare at me when I’m alone, like I’m some kind of novelty.”

  “I know you were born here, but you haven’t lived in Grey’s Hollow since you were a kid. So, you’re a newcomer from the big city. You’ve made quite an impression on the town. People are curious.”

  Bree’s takedown of her sister’s murderer and her first case as sheriff had garnered her a rush of publicity. The local press had delved into her family history, and people were morbidly curious about her parents’ murder-suicide. At age eight, Bree had hidden with her younger brother and sister under the back porch as it happened above them. As much as she personally hated the attention, she would have to run a campaign when her term ran out, and the good press she’d earned would help with her current budget negotiations.

  “Look, my family has been under the local microscope for decades. I guard my privacy.” Bree bit back a rush of bitterness. People wanted to know all the dirty details of her family’s suffering. Didn’t they realize the Taggerts were real people, who had suffered real loss? This wasn’t a reality TV show.

  “I understand why you guard your privacy.” Matt inhaled and blew out a hard breath. “But I’d rather walk down Main Street holding hands and say the hell with anyone who doesn’t like it.”

  They emerged from the woods. Bree turned onto a rural highway. As they approached the small town of Grey’s Hollow, they passed a strip mall, the train station, and other signs of civilization.

  “My office pays you,” Bree said. “There are people who would call our relationship a conflict of interest and accuse me of funneling money to my boyfriend.”

  “In all fairness, you don’t pay me enough to qualify as ‘funneling’ funds. I’m not doing this for the money.” Matt had been shot in a questionable friendly-fire incident. He’d gotten a substantial settlement. He didn’t need to work.

  “I know.” Suddenly too warm, Bree loosened the top button of her collar. The discussion with Matt was more stressful than finding a dead body. What did that say about her? She lowered her window an inch, letting a stream of cool fresh air into the vehicle. She wanted to be judged by her job performance, not her boyfriend. But Matt was right. They had every right to a relationship. She had a right to a private life, and hiding their involvement would only lead to problems. She was going to have to suck it up and deal with the intrusion into her personal life. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me. It’s you I’m worried about. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I don’t need this part-time, poorly paying investigator’s job. Wouldn’t you rather the news about our relationship come from you, instead of someone else?”

  “Yes.” Bree loosened her too-tight grip on the steering wheel. “But I’m in the middle of trying to sweet-talk more money out of the county. Let me get through my budget negotiations with the board of commissioners, then I’ll figure it out.”

  Matt reached across the console and took her hand in his big, warm one. “OK. But at that point, we’ll figure it out together.” He squeezed her hand, then released it.

  A few minutes later, the GPS announced their destination was five hundred feet ahead. Bree turned into a small complex of town house–style condos. Yellow with white trim, the units were two stories each. Bree parked in front of the Thorpes’ condo, next to Deputy Oscar’s vehicle.

  The relationship conversation with Matt had been out of her comfort zone, but it had taken her mind off the impending interview.

  This was not an official death notification. The
medical examiner had not formally identified the remains as Holly Thorpe. But her husband would know the truth, even if Bree had to couch the message with legalese. She shoved open her vehicle door. It was time to confirm a husband’s worst fear: his wife was dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt followed Bree into the condo. The place smelled like stale grease and whiskey.

  Deputy Oscar had opened the front door. With a heft of his duty belt, he gestured down the hall. “He’s in the kitchen. I’ve made coffee, but now he’s just a more awake drunk.”

  A man sat at a small table, sobbing into his folded arms.

  The second Bree and Matt entered the room, Mr. Thorpe jerked upright. He wore ripped jeans and an old university sweatshirt. Both were wrinkled and stained, as if they’d been slept in for days—maybe the entire weekend. His bloodshot eyes locked on Bree without blinking.

  “Mr. Thorpe . . . ,” she began.

  “Call me Owen, please.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Deputy Oscar said my wife jumped off the bridge, and you found her body in the river.”

  Bree stiffened. “We’re not sure what happened.” She tried for a measured tone, but her frustration was palpable. “The medical examiner hasn’t issued a cause of death. All I can tell you is that your wife’s car was parked near the bridge, and we found a body we believe to be Holly nearby in the river.”

  The glance she cast at her deputy was sharp enough to have sliced him in two. Oscar had clearly been in contact with deputies at the scene, and he’d relayed their assumptions to Owen. But assumptions were not facts. Death was hard enough on families without receiving conflicting information, and suicide was particularly difficult to accept.

  Matt scrutinized Oscar. The deputy looked away, his mouth tight. He knew he’d fucked up.

  “You can go back to your patrol duties now, Deputy Oscar.” Bree’s tone was dismissive, and the deputy slunk out of the kitchen.

  “What do you mean ‘believe to be Holly’?” Owen looked confused. He reached behind him for a framed snapshot. He held the picture in both hands and turned it toward them. “Is it her or not?”