A large antique desk occupied half the space. A leather couch and chairs formed a conversation area on the other side. Overflowing bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk. Additional volumes were stacked on the desk and floor. The decor had the potential to be stuffy, but the furnishings were just worn enough to make it a comfortable, well-used working room.
Crighton went to a sideboard and poured what appeared to be whiskey from a decanter into a tumbler. After a sip, he turned to face them, leaning on the front of the desk. His hands were shaky. “I assume you won’t accept any?”
“That’s correct.” As the daughter of a raging alcoholic, Bree wasn’t much of a drinker, and she would never imbibe on duty. “I know this is a shock, but I need to ask you a few questions.”
Crighton took another small sip of his whiskey. “Was it an accident? I told Camilla the farm was too much for her, but she refused to leave it.”
The statement felt odd. Farm accidents happened, but typically they involved heavy equipment or large animals. A dozen goats and a few chickens didn’t seem particularly dangerous to Bree, especially when two people had been killed, one of them a healthy, younger man. She supposed a single individual could have fallen, but both? Seemed unlikely. Fire was more likely in old buildings.
She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m afraid Ms. Brown and her son were shot.”
Crighton froze, his glass halfway to his lips. “Shot?”
“Yes.” Bree waited while he absorbed the news.
Crighton moved to sit on a leather couch. Bree and Matt eased into the wing chairs facing it. Bree pulled her notepad and pen from her shirt pocket.
“Was it suicide?” Crighton asked, his head tipped down.
Bree evaded the question. “Was either Camilla or Eugene suicidal?”
“I’m no psychiatrist, but they were both struggling. Eugene was struggling with the recent end of his career, and he was still bitter about his divorce, though that happened a couple of years ago.” Crighton stared at his whiskey. “Camilla hasn’t been the same since her second husband died.”
“When was that?” Leaning forward, Matt rested his clasped hands between his knees.
Crighton jerked a shoulder. “Seven, eight years ago, I think. She bounced back after her first husband’s death. He was killed in a car accident when Eugene was young. Back then, she had a son to finish raising, so that forced her to keep moving forward. But after Husband Number Two had his heart attack, she seemed to withdraw from life.” A huge sigh shuddered through him. “I suspect she was depressed. I probably should have gone to see her more often. I should have helped her.”
Bree wrote a note. She thought anyone close to their sister would refer to her late husbands by their names, not their numbers. But then, she was hardly one to judge a person for not maintaining family ties. She had let down her own siblings for years and hadn’t pursued a real relationship with her brother until after their sister had been murdered. If guilt was consuming Crighton tonight, Bree could understand.
On the other hand, Crighton would inherit the farm, so maybe he was acting.
“Families are complicated,” she empathized, hoping he’d open up more. “When did you see your sister last?”
“About a month ago, my daughters and I went to the farm for Camilla’s birthday. We took my grandchildren to see the goats.” Crighton’s eyes misted, but he willed away any tears before they escaped. He blinked, then turned drier eyes on Bree. “You didn’t answer my question about suicide.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait. Camilla could have considered suicide, but she never would have killed her son. Eugene was everything to her. Did he do it?”
Bree shook her head. “We don’t believe they died by suicide.”
Realization and shock widened Crighton’s eyes further. “They were murdered.”
Shot didn’t leave any other options.
Bree nodded. “Yes.”
He fell backward, his shoulders hitting the couch with enough force to rock it. “I can’t believe it. Who would kill an old woman running a small goat farm? Was anything stolen?”
“We didn’t see any evidence that robbery was the motive,” Bree said. “I need to ask you where you were between Sunday at eight p.m. and Monday at eight a.m.”
“I was here.” He circled a hand. “The family left around seven thirty. I read for a few hours and went to bed.”
Bree made a note. “Can anyone attest to your presence here?”