“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.”