Bree shivered. “Holly was murdered.”
Next to her, Matt inhaled fresh air like he’d been underwater. “And her death was carefully and purposefully set up to look like a suicide, which makes it likely it was premeditated.”
“Her killer even left a fake note.” Anger sparked hot in Bree’s chest.
“What now?” Matt asked. “Do you want to interview Owen Thorpe again now, or wait until we have more information?”
“We need a search warrant for their home.” Bree pursed her mouth. She had volunteered to give Owen the ME’s news about his wife’s death. “I’ll get Todd to fill out the paperwork. Let’s visit her sister and verify Owen’s bartender story while we wait.”
Bree didn’t want to give him any warning. Not that it would matter. If Owen had killed his wife, he’d already had days to dispose of the evidence.
Matt nodded. “Good plan. Don’t give him time to shore up his alibi.”
“Exactly.” Bree phoned her chief deputy and brought him up to speed on the autopsy results. “Get a warrant for the Thorpe residence. We need background checks on Holly and Owen Thorpe and Shannon Phelps. Also, we’ll want warrants to obtain financial statements for Holly Thorpe, Owen Thorpe, and Shannon Phelps. But first, call Holly Thorpe’s employer, Beckett Construction, and see if she was at work on Friday. If we can trace her whereabouts, it’ll help us narrow down the time of death.”
“I’m on it.” Todd ended the call. He hadn’t had much investigation experience when Bree had taken over the department. The previous—corrupt—sheriff had preferred to keep his investigations close. But Todd was proving to be a quick study.
“Do you want to take Owen to the station to stew while we search his place?” Matt asked.
“No. I don’t want to spook him into lawyering up. We’ll talk to him first, then hit him with the warrant.”
Bree and Matt dropped his Suburban at the sheriff’s station, then climbed into her SUV.
Matt used the dashboard computer to retrieve Shannon Phelps’s address. “Holly’s sister lives on Rural Route 29.” He entered the address into the GPS.
Bree headed away from town.
Fifteen minutes later, she turned into an upscale development of newer homes. Shannon lived in a gray, two-story, farmhouse-style home, complete with a front porch and hanging pots of flowers. “Nice house.”
“A lot nicer than Holly and Owen’s place,” Matt said.
Bree’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Todd. “You’re on speakerphone, Todd. Matt is also here. What did you find out?”
Todd’s voice echoed in the SUV. “I spoke with the secretary of Beckett Construction. Holly Thorpe worked a full day on Friday. She left at five o’clock. Paul Beckett, the owner, was not available.”
“Do you have his number?” Bree asked.
“I’ll text it to you,” Todd said. “I’m working on the search warrant application now. I’ll submit it electronically. So, it should come back soon.”
Bree turned off the engine. “If Holly was at work on Friday, that narrows our time of death to five o’clock Friday night to noon Saturday. Thank you, Todd. I’ll be back in the office in a couple of hours.”
She ended the call. Todd’s text came through with Paul Beckett’s phone number. Bree called him but was transferred to a voice mail. After leaving a message asking him to return her call, she climbed out of the SUV and joined Matt in the driveway. They walked up the front steps onto the porch, and Bree knocked on the dark red door. Inside, a small dog erupted into yapping.
Footsteps inside approached. The door opened to reveal a petite woman with chin-length blonde curls. She held a small fluffy dog in one arm. The animal had a massive underbite, and its bottom teeth stuck out of its mouth like a piranha’s.
“Can I”—she sniffed—“help you?” The family resemblance was strong between the sisters. Based off Holly’s driver’s license photo, Shannon carried ten or fifteen more pounds. The weight softened her face, where Holly’s had been leaner and harder. Shannon pressed a wrinkled tissue to her eyes. Her eyes were red-rimmed and painful-looking. Her whole face was swollen from crying.
“Are you Shannon Phelps?” Bree asked.
Shannon glanced from Bree to Matt, where her gaze lingered for an extra second. Bree couldn’t blame her. She introduced herself and Matt.
Then Shannon’s eyes widened as she seemed to take notice of Bree’s uniform. “Oh, my God. You’re here about Holly.” Her face crumpled and fresh tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“May we come in?” Bree asked.
Shannon nodded, her face tight, as if she was unable to speak. She turned and gestured for them to follow her. They walked down a wood-floored hallway to a bright, modern kitchen decorated in shades of gray and white. Shannon set the dog on the floor and stood in the middle of the kitchen, as if she didn’t know what to do. On the island, a tea bag’s string trailed out of an empty mug.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Bree said.
Shannon’s head bobbed in a jerky nod.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Bree continued.
The dog at Shannon’s feet growled, its beady black eyes locked on Bree.
Bree’s fear of dogs was ingrained, but this one couldn’t weigh ten pounds. Ignoring it, she faced Shannon.
“I’m sorry.” Shannon slid onto a stool at the island. “He doesn’t like strangers, but he’s all bark. He won’t bite.”
The dog turned and walked, stiff-legged, toward Matt. He sniffed. Then for some inexplicable reason, his posture softened. His fluffy tail quivered, as if it was considering wagging.
Matt crouched and held out a hand. “Who’s a good boy?” As usual, he showed zero self-consciousness using his high-pitched baby voice. Also, as usual, the dog fell for it and moved in for a scratch.
“Wow. He doesn’t usually take to people.” Shannon looked at Matt with new appreciation.
“He knows I like dogs.” Matt rubbed the little pooch behind the ears. Then he straightened.
Bree gestured to the stool on the end of the island, diagonal to Shannon. He nodded, understanding that she wanted him to take the lead in the interview. Matt had clearly connected with Shannon through the dog. She would be more likely to open up to him.
Bree scanned the room. Her gaze stopped on a row of framed photos on a shelf. Most were of the dog, but Bree’s eyes stopped on a photo of Shannon and Holly as little girls. She guessed they were eight and ten. They stood shoulder to shoulder, mirror images of each other, with softballs in the hands closest to each other and bats over opposite shoulders.
Shannon wrapped her fingers around her teacup and said to Matt, “I didn’t believe Owen when he called last night. He said Holly killed herself, that she jumped off the bridge.”
“Was Holly depressed?” Matt asked. “Do you have any reason to think she committed suicide?”
“We’ve both been sad about our mom. She has cancer. Stage four. Plus . . .” Shannon’s breath trembled, and she paused to compose herself. One hand splayed on her chest. “That’s the same place our daddy died.”
Bree’s attention sharpened to a knifepoint. That could not be a coincidence.
“When did that happen?” Matt asked.
Shannon nodded, and her voice softened. “It was a car accident. Holly and I were in high school. I still remember the deputy coming to the door to tell my mother. His car came down the hill and slid off the embankment right before the guardrail starts. Mom never was the same after that.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Matt said.
“Thank you.” Shannon blinked tear-filled eyes at him.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Bree exhaled and silently cursed Deputy Oscar for telling Owen his wife had died by suicide. Owen had spread the misinformation to Shannon, and now Bree would have to correct it. “I have some news. Your sister’s death wasn’t suicide.”
Shock widened Shannon’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
>
Bree knew there was no way to soften the blow. “She was murdered.”
Shannon froze. “What? How?”
“We’re trying to establish the timeline now,” Bree said. “We’re hoping you can help.”
“But Owen said . . .” Shannon seemed confused.
Bree nodded. “It did appear as if suicide was a possibility last night, but the medical examiner issued a cause of death this afternoon.”
“I can’t believe it.” Shannon bit a thumbnail, her attention turned inward.
Bree continued. “Owen said he thought Holly was here with you over the weekend.”
Shannon’s mouth split in a bitter frown. “She usually came here when they had a big fight. I kept telling her not to go back to him, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Why did she?” Bree asked.
“She said she loved him.” Shannon sighed. “They have—had—a volatile relationship. They were either lovey-dovey or fighting. There was no in-between with them.” She looked away. “Last night I was so shocked I wasn’t thinking straight, but all day I’ve felt like the news had to be wrong. Now Owen’s voice keeps running through my head. He was too calm last night.”
Bree gave her a few seconds to elaborate, but she didn’t. “What do you think that means?”
Shannon lifted her gaze. Anger shone from her moist eyes. “That maybe he killed her.”
“Do you have any reason to believe he killed her?” Bree asked.
Shannon lifted a shoulder. “Not on purpose, but maybe by accident. When they fought, they fought. They didn’t have quiet, reasonable arguments. They had knock-down-drag-outs.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I once heard Owen say that he wouldn’t ever let her leave him. I’m not saying he’s cold-blooded or anything, just that he has a bad temper. But then, so did Holly.”
Matt leaned on his elbows. “Was Owen ever abusive toward your sister?”
Shannon flattened her lips in a thoughtful expression. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have surprised me, especially—” She stopped speaking suddenly.
“Especially what?” Bree asked.
“Nothing.” Shannon’s gaze dropped.
Was she holding back information?
“You don’t know of any specific incident?” Bree asked. “Your sister never told you he hit her?”
“No.” Shannon shook her head.
Frustrated, Bree switched gears. “When was the last time you talked to Holly?”
“She came here on Thursday night,” Shannon said.
“What did you talk about?” Bree asked.
“We argued about Mom’s care.” Shannon closed her eyes.
“Was she particularly upset?” Bree shifted her position on the stool.
The dog growled at her, and Shannon stroked its ears. “We’re both upset every time we talk about Mom.”
“Who won this argument?” Matt asked.
“Neither of us. There is no win. Holly left still mad at me. She wants to transition Mom to hospice, and I don’t.” Shannon’s face flushed. “Mom isn’t ready to die.” Despite her strong words, she didn’t sound convinced.
Bree asked, “What does your mother want to do?”
“Mom’s been fighting really hard. More treatments could give her another six months. Maybe more.” Shannon didn’t truly answer the question. “She needs in-home nursing. She used up all the days allotted by her insurance. Plus, there are copays, equipment, and medicine that isn’t covered. Holly and I have been splitting the bills. Last month, the total was just over five thousand dollars.”
“And Holly paid half of that?” Bree remembered Owen claiming they’d paid $1,000.
“Yes, but not before she complained forever about it.” Shannon slapped a hand on the counter. The sudden noise startled the dog. “I’m sorry, Chicken.” She kissed the dog on the head and set it on the floor. It ran to a small bed in the corner. Lying down, the dog rested its head on the bolster and stared at Bree as if it was planning her demise.
Shannon continued. “This fight between Holly and Owen was all his fault. I know it. He’s been complaining about the cost, like money is more important than our mother’s life. Though I guess he has what he wants now. He’s off the hook for any more bills. There’s no way he’ll keep paying now that Holly is gone.” Shannon sighed, bitterness souring her face.
“Where were you on Friday evening?” Bree glanced around the kitchen. Shannon’s big house was substantially nicer than Holly and Owen’s condo. Bree’s gaze returned to Shannon.
“I was here, working late.” Shannon got up and filled her mug with water at the tap. “I usually visit my mom in the evening, but I’ve had a cold. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Her immune system is compromised. I can’t risk giving her germs. Even a mild cold could kill her. Usually, if I can’t visit, Holly does. It’s going to be really hard to manage Mom by myself.”
“What do you do for a living?” Bree asked.
Shannon put her mug in the microwave and pressed a button. “I run online marketing campaigns. Tea?” she asked automatically.
“No, thank you.” Matt shook his head. “Do you have any proof you were working Friday night?”
“I don’t know.” Shannon’s face creased. She looked toward the ceiling. “I waved to my neighbor as I brought in my mail and trash can around six o’clock or so, and I did paperwork most of the evening. I messaged back and forth with a client.” She pursed her lips. “I have a security system that keeps track of when I turn it on and off.”
“Which neighbor?” Bree opened a note on her phone.
“Across the street.” Shannon pointed toward the front of her house. She sighed. “Frankly, I don’t go out much. I don’t have many friends. I prefer to be alone.”
Bree noted the location of the neighbor’s house. “Do you work for a company?”
“No.” The microwave beeped, and Shannon took out her mug. “I work for myself. I have an office in the house.”
“I’ll need the contact information for the client,” Bree said.
Shannon looked alarmed. “I’d rather not involve my client. I can’t afford to lose business right now. With Holly gone, I’ll have to pay all Mom’s bills now.”
“Thank you.” Bree let it go for now. If she discovered information that implicated Shannon, she would revisit the client info. Until then, she couldn’t force the woman to comply.
Matt gestured around the kitchen. “This is a nice house. Your business must be successful.”
“I do all right.” Shannon dunked a tea bag in her mug. “But just as importantly, I’m good with finances. I save. I invest. I’m frugal.” Her chin lifted in a stubborn tilt. “You’re implying that I have more money than my sister, and I should have just paid for more of Mom’s care.”
Bree said nothing, but that was exactly what she’d been thinking. She let the silence drag on for a few, uncomfortable seconds, knowing Shannon would likely want to fill it.
Shannon huffed. “Why should I have to foot the bill when my sister and her husband spend all their money? They have two salaries and can’t manage to save a nickel.” She sipped her tea, her face tight. “In December, they took a cruise. Six months before that, they flew to Vegas. Then they fought over the money Owen lost playing blackjack. Holly slept in my guest room for three days after that fight.” She set down her mug. “All our lives, I’ve been the responsible one. As a reward, I’ve had to shoulder more of the responsibilities. That’s not fair.”
“No,” Bree agreed. “Were you angry at her?”
Shannon didn’t answer, but her eyes gleamed. Self-righteousness?
Matt said, “If my sister blew all her money on fun, then wanted to cut off my mom’s nursing care, I’d be pissed.”
Shannon’s bitter glare agreed.
“How bad was your fight?” Bree asked.
“All sisters argue,” Shannon said, but her tone was somber. “Especially in circumstances like ours.” She shuddered. “But there’s no way to take
back the angry words I said to her. She’s gone, and I have to live with the fact that the last thing she heard from me was how selfish, cruel, and irresponsible I thought she was.”
“Please call me if you remember anything else that might be useful to our investigation.” Bree left a business card on the table. The dog exploded into fresh barking as she and Matt walked toward the front door. As they left, Shannon watched them from her window, her face locked in a mask of thoughtful pain.
They walked across the street and knocked on the door. The neighbor answered and verified that when she’d returned home from work on Friday evening around six o’clock, she’d seen Shannon outside. Bree and Matt returned to the SUV.
Matt climbed into the passenger seat and closed his door. “Owen’s looking better and better.”
“Most murdered women are killed by their significant others.” Bree started the engine, turned the vehicle around, and drove away from the house. “But Shannon also had motivation. Holly wanted to pull the plug on their mom. I can’t imagine a more emotional subject for an argument.”
“So, this was a crime of passion?”
Bree tapped a thumb on the steering wheel. “Blunt force trauma can be passionate. Strangulation feels passionate. Even a gunshot or knife attack can be fueled by emotions. But a blood choke feels more . . .”
“Calculated?”
“Yes,” Bree said. “Even poorly executed, a blood choke takes knowledge and technique. If the ME is right, then the killer was behind her, with his arm around her throat. A real confrontation would be face-to-face. This feels sneaky.”
“Dr. Jones said the technique wasn’t great,” Matt said. “But I wonder if our killer has studied martial arts.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Financially, Shannon is hurt by her sister’s death,” Matt pointed out.
“Yes, she is.” Bree shifted the vehicle into gear. “But I also had the feeling she was holding something back.”
“I caught that too. It was something to do with Owen and Holly’s fights.”
Bree checked her phone. “The search warrant for Holly’s residence is in.”
Drown Her Sorrows (Bree Taggert) Page 6