Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert)

by Melinda Leigh

  In the snapshot, a close-up of Holly was framed by a brilliant blue sky. She was looking over her shoulder at the camera. One eyebrow arched, her expression flirty and mock-serious, as if she and the photographer were sharing a private, sexy joke. Matt guessed that Owen had taken the picture from the almost reverent way he held the frame.

  Oh, no.

  Either Owen didn’t know his wife had been in the water for three days or he wasn’t thinking about the effects—that submersion and the beginnings of decomposition had distorted his wife’s face.

  Holly didn’t look like that anymore.

  Bree was going to have to explain it to him. Her face went grimmer. “May we sit down?”

  Owen nodded, fear clouding his eyes. Matt and Bree slid into chairs facing him.

  Bree began, “Owen, the remains were found at the edge of the river. She had been in the water for several days. Submersion and time change the physical appearance—”

  He groaned, interrupting Bree. Resting his elbows on the table, Owen dropped his head into his hands. If he was crying, it was silent. Maybe he’d reached the end of his ability to absorb the gruesome truth. The quiet ticked by, punctuated only by Owen’s deep, quivering inhalations. Finally, he lifted his head and swallowed. “Does this mean there’s a chance that Holly might still be alive?”

  Pity shone in Bree’s eyes. “That’s extremely unlikely. I’m sorry. But in order to complete a death certificate, the medical examiner will need verification. Does your wife wear any jewelry?”

  “Her wedding band.” Owen coughed, then swallowed.

  “Can you describe it?” Bree pulled out her phone.

  “It’s silver with a stripe.” He lifted his hand and showed them his own. “It matches mine.”

  Bree opened her phone and showed it to him. “Is this it?”

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Opening them, he nodded.

  Matt glanced at the picture. The rings matched.

  “Does your wife have a local dentist?” she asked.

  “No,” Owen answered. “She’s terrified of them. She hasn’t seen one since she was a kid.”

  Bree frowned. “Does she have a doctor?”

  Owen gave her a name.

  Bree made a note in her phone. “Either the medical examiner or I will keep you apprised on the official identification process. I’d like to take your wife’s hairbrush and toothbrush with us.”

  He nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He gestured toward the nearby stairwell and choked out, “Sure. Her stuff is on the left side of the sink.” His shoulders slumped, and his hands fell into his lap.

  She took a small notepad and pen from her pocket. “When was the last time you saw or spoke to your wife?”

  “Friday night around six or six thirty. I don’t know the exact time.” Owen’s tone had gone flat. “We had an argument. She walked out.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Bree asked.

  Owen shook his head.

  Bree took notes. “When did you expect her to return?”

  His shoulders lifted and fell in a jerky motion. His gaze dropped to his hands, still in his lap. “She packed a bigger bag than usual.”

  One of Bree’s eyebrows lifted. “This has happened before?”

  Owen gave them a short nod. “It’s no secret we fought. She’d left a couple of times before. She usually went to her sister’s place for a few days. But she always came back after she’d cooled off.”

  “Did you call her over the weekend?” Bree asked.

  Owen didn’t respond right away. Nor did he lift his gaze to meet Bree’s. Was he hiding something, or was he simply uncomfortable with the answer to her question—that he didn’t try to locate or find his wife, and she killed herself?

  “No,” he finally said. “I was determined not to beg this time. I did all the apologizing. Never Holly.” His jaw jutted forward, then he stared at the floor.

  “What did you do after Holly left?” Matt prompted, hoping to jar Owen out of his own head.

  “I walked down to the Grey Fox.” He looked up. “That’s a bar a few blocks from here.”

  Matt nodded. “How long did you stay there?”

  Owen glanced away again. “I don’t know. I woke up the next day on Billy’s couch—he’s the bartender. I don’t even remember what time that was.” His pale cheeks flushed. “I drank a lot of Jack Daniel’s.” He quieted, contemplative again.

  Bree jumped back in. “What did you and Holly fight about?”

  “The usual.” His tone went bitter. “Money.” A whole-body sigh heaved through him. “We’re behind on the bills. Holly’s mother is dying, and insurance covers a lot less than you’d think. We’ve been splitting the costs with Shannon—that’s Holly’s sister—but the bills are killing us.”

  “So, you don’t want to pay for her mother’s care?” Bree asked.

  “Geez, no. That’s not it. I don’t want anything to do with those decisions. She’s not my mom.” Owen lifted his hands palms out, in a back-off gesture. “I can’t even visit her. Her place smells like death. It makes me sick.” His face creased in disgust. He gave his head a small shake, as if physically clearing it of the memories. “I keep telling Holly that her sister needs to pay the biggest portion of her mom’s bills. We’re using credit cards for groceries, and Holly’s paying a thousand dollars a month for nursing services. We don’t have that kind of disposable income. Our debt is climbing every month. I’ve already spoken with a lawyer about declaring bankruptcy. I don’t see any way out from under our bills. On top of that, Holly isn’t the best at keeping to our budget. She likes to shop.” Anger colored his cheeks as he looked around his kitchen. “This place isn’t much, but it’s our home, and we’re probably going to lose it.”

  “Did Holly understand your financial situation?” Matt asked.

  “Yes. She’s a bookkeeper. She understands money.” He frowned, as if unsure. “She wasn’t being rational. I know she’s been depressed about her mom and shit, but it was like she couldn’t reconcile what she knew to be true with what she wanted to be true. And Shannon just keeps pressuring us for more money.” He covered his mouth with his fist. His shoulders shook as he fought back a sob.

  As if by silent agreement, Matt and Bree gave Owen a minute to compose himself. Then Matt switched gears to a less sensitive topic. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m the assistant branch manager of Randolph Savings and Loan,” Owen said in a tired voice. “The branch on Plymouth Street.”

  Matt asked, “Did you go to work today?”

  “No, I called in sick.” He looked ashamed. “Before you ask, I don’t make a habit of it.”

  “And where did Holly work?” Bree asked.

  “She’s a bookkeeper for Beckett Construction.” Owen’s eyes drooped. Grief was exhausting. Any adrenaline surge he’d experienced from the night’s stress had clearly drained away.

  Now that Owen had calmed, Matt circled back to the family drama. “Did you talk to Holly’s sister over the weekend?”

  “Shannon?” Owen’s brows shot up.

  “Yes,” Matt said. “You said that’s where your wife previously went when you’d had a fight.”

  “I wouldn’t call Shannon unless you put a gun to my head, although I guess I’ll have to now.” Bitterness pursed Owen’s lips. “She hates me.”

  Bree made a note. “Do you know why?”

  “Probably because Holly has bad-mouthed me to her so many times in the past,” Owen snapped.

  “How many times has Holly left you?” Bree rested her folded arms on the table and leaned forward, intruding into Owen’s physical space to apply additional pressure.

  Owen pushed his chair a few inches back from the table, trying to recapture his personal boundary. He glanced away from both of them. “I don’t know. I don’t keep count.”

  But Bree didn’t allow him to evade the question. “More than five times? More than ten?”

  “More than five,
fewer than ten.” Anger lit Owen’s eyes as he met Bree’s gaze with an insolent glare.

  Matt chimed in, forcing Owen to break off the staring contest. “Was your marriage always rocky?”

  “No.” Owen’s voice softened, as if he was remembering the good times. “In the beginning, everything was great. We’ve been married five years, but the fighting only really started after her mom got sick.”

  “Had you talked about divorce?” Bree lifted her pen.

  “No! Never.” Owen shoved a hand through his hair. “We both knew the fights weren’t really about us. This is just a temporary thing. Once her mom’s situation passed, we’d be fine again.” But his voice was weak, and he stared at his hands.

  So, once Holly’s mother died, everything would be rosy? They’d magically forget all the fights? Matt didn’t think that was true. Based on the lack of confidence in his statement, neither did Owen.

  Owen leaned back in his chair, his posture sagging and defeated. “I guess none of that matters now. Holly’s gone. I can’t believe it.” He rubbed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I should have been more patient and understanding. But I can’t go back now, can I?” He began to cry softly.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you? A family member or friend?” Bree asked.

  Owen wiped his eyes. “My brother is on his way. He’ll be here soon.”

  “I’ll also need the contact information for Holly’s sister and employer,” Bree said.

  “Her sister’s name is Shannon Phelps.” Owen pulled out his phone and read off the numbers for Shannon and for Beckett Construction.

  Bree wrote down the information, then closed her notepad. “We’ll let you know when the medical examiner makes an official identification.”

  She slipped upstairs and returned with a round metal hairbrush and a pink toothbrush in evidence bags. She showed the bags to Owen. “Are these Holly’s?”

  Owen confirmed with a nod. Then they left him waiting for his brother, staring at the photograph of his wife and crying.

  Outside, Bree paused on the sidewalk to scroll on her phone.

  Matt glanced back at the house. “Seems cruel that he has to go through this again when Holly’s ID is verified.”

  “It does,” Bree agreed.

  “What now?” Matt asked.

  “I’m emailing Dr. Jones to let her know Owen identified his wife’s wedding band. I’ll give her the name of her family doctor as well.” She tapped on the screen, then slid her phone into her pocket. “Next we drop the brushes off at the ME’s office, go home, and get some sleep. No point in getting ahead of ourselves. We’ll talk again after the ME issues a cause of death.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bree sprinted down the country road, her breath steaming in front of her face. The coming dawn streaked across the gray horizon in shades of yellow. On her right, early-morning fog hovered over a meadow. When the sun rose, the mist would burn off. Digging her feet into the pavement, she drove herself forward until her lungs screamed. A half mile from the house, she slowed to a walk, her lungs still burning. She unzipped her light jacket and let the damp air cool her.

  Ahead, the farmhouse sat still and quiet. Light glowed in the kitchen windows. Bree’s best friend and former partner, Dana Romano, was up, so there would be coffee. Dana had retired and moved to Grey’s Hollow to help Bree raise her sixteen-year-old nephew and eight-year-old niece. Bree quickened her pace to a brisk walk. By the time she jogged up the back steps, her heart rate had returned to normal.

  Inside, she toed off her running shoes and left them on the boot tray. Then she stripped off her jacket and hung it on a peg. She turned to face the glorious smell that promised caffeine.

  “Morning.” Dana stood at the counter, working the fancy coffee machine she’d brought with her from Philly. She was a morning person. At five thirty, she was fully dressed, her short gray-streaked blonde hair was stylishly tousled, and she was already wearing bright raspberry lipstick. “Did you have a good run?”

  “Good but cold.” Bree rubbed her hands together.

  “In two more months, you’ll be bitching about the heat.” Dana dusted a large cappuccino with cocoa powder and handed it over. “It’s a double.”

  Bree wrapped her cold fingers around the mug and sipped. Her body hummed in anticipation of the caffeine like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “If I don’t get my run in early, it doesn’t happen. The day gets away from me before the sun comes up.” Plus, Bree had needed to burn off her stress from the previous night’s crime scene. She drank more cappuccino. “Thanks for this.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dana poured steamed milk into her own mug. “Wow. You’re pale.”

  “Kayla was up last night.” Thankfully, Bree had been able to get the little girl back to sleep in her own bed.

  “Ugh. I thought she was over that stage,” Dana said.

  “They made Mother’s Day cards at school yesterday.” The crack in Bree’s heart deepened.

  “Shit. Poor kid.”

  “Yeah.” Bree sighed. “A little warning from the school would have been nice. I could have prepared her.”

  Dana nodded. “She’s still moving forward in general. There are bound to be small setbacks.”

  “I know, but each one breaks my heart. I should have stopped home at bedtime last night. The change in routine set her up for a restless night.” Guilt poked Bree like a sharp stick. She was unprepared to be a parent. She felt like a pinch hitter who’d never played baseball. Even when she did her best to make the right decision, she sometimes failed miserably.

  “You can’t be with her 24/7,” Dana said. “It’s not possible for anyone to never be away from their kids.”

  “I know.” But Bree didn’t have to like it. She turned toward the doorway. “I’m going to shower.”

  “Put on some lipstick!” Dana called after her. “You look like a corpse.”

  Bree carried her cup with her upstairs and finished her cappuccino in the shower. After blasting her hair with the dryer for a few minutes, she dressed in dark-brown tactical cargoes and a uniform shirt. She removed her gun from the biometric safe in the nightstand and slid it into the holster on her hip. She secured her backup piece in an ankle holster.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and put on her socks.

  “Aunt Bree,” a small voice said.

  Bree looked up. Kayla stood in the doorway. The little girl was teary-eyed. A chubby white-and-black pointer mix stood at her side. The dog’s worried eyes shifted back and forth from Bree to the child’s face. Still in her pajamas, Kayla dragged her stuffed pig by one leg. A memory slammed into Bree’s mind: her sister, Erin, age four, clutching her stuffed bunny as they listened to their parents fight. A short while later, their father had shot their mother, then turned the gun on himself while the children hid. Bree blinked away the image. She couldn’t let the past drag her backward when she was needed in the present.

  She focused on the little girl. “You’re up early.”

  “I had another nightmare.” Kayla rubbed an eye. “I dreamed you were gone.”

  “Oh, baby. Come here.” Bree stood and padded across the room. She hugged the little girl close and patted Ladybug’s head. Usually, the dog was attached to Bree, something Bree had almost gotten used to, but Ladybug always seemed to know when Kayla needed her more.

  Kayla’s body trembled for a few seconds, then she sighed and stilled. “I don’t want to go to school.”

  Bree would get another chastising call from the vice principal. Kayla had missed more than three weeks of school over the winter. The little girl needed time to process her grief, but she was improving. It had been only four months since she’d suffered a tragedy that would have brought an adult to their knees, let alone a child.

  The hell with the vice principal. Bree would deal with him. She would continue to make the best decisions for Kayla, not the school district.

  “OK.” Bree crossed the hall and knocked on Luke’s door. “Time to get
up.”

  He answered with a groan.

  “Luke is grumpy in the morning.” Kayla rubbed her eye again.

  “So am I.” Bree led her niece downstairs.

  Dana looked up from her coffee mug and checked the time on the wall clock. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I had a nightmare.” Kayla’s lip quivered.

  “It’s OK.” Bree wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “Let’s get you some juice.”

  “Eggs, toast, bacon?” Dana believed food could solve most problems.

  “Toast, please.” Kayla’s voice was sad as she slid into a chair at the kitchen table. She curled one arm around her pig and held it against her cheek.

  Dana popped bread into the toaster and poured the beaten eggs into a pan.

  Bree heard thumps on the floor overhead. A few minutes later, footsteps thundered on the stairs. Her nephew, Luke, hurried into the room dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.

  He poured himself a glass of milk. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Bree said.

  Dana slid a plate in front of him, and he shoveled its contents into his mouth. He seemed to burn calories faster than he could consume them, and his milk habit had increased to three gallons a week. He’d grown two inches since January. At this rate, he’d need new jeans every three months.

  “I’ll be late tonight,” he said between bites.

  “Baseball practice?” Bree asked.

  “Uh-huh.” After pushing his empty plate away, Luke grabbed a jacket and headed for the door. “I’ll feed the horses.”

  Luke was still sad, but he seemed to have adjusted to their new normal. For the past week, though, he’d been abnormally quiet. Bree stepped into her boots and followed him outside. She walked into the barn, where the smell of horses, grain, and hay greeted her. She paused to scratch Pumpkin’s forehead. The Haflinger was pony size, though Kayla had informed Bree he was technically a horse. True to his breed, he was a willing, friendly, and sturdy animal.

  Luke was not as talkative as Kayla. Rather than pry his feelings out of him, Bree found directness and honesty the best approach with the teenager.