“We have procedure to follow.” Bree couldn’t just break into a house.
The front door was solid wood, with no glass panes and a dead bolt. Gaining entry here would require a battering ram.
As if reading her mind, Homer said, “No one uses the front door.”
“Let’s try the back.” Bree descended the steps and started around the house, standing on her toes and peering in windows as she walked, but all the curtains were drawn. The most she could see were narrow slashes of dim rooms where the drapes didn’t quite meet.
Homer strode at her side. They rounded the back corner of the house and turned to look at it. A rear porch spanned the back, mirroring the one in front.
“She never closes her curtains either.” Homer propped his hands on his hips. “Leastways not the downstairs ones. The weather’s been nice this week. The windows should be open. Mine are.”
So were Bree’s. She went up the back-porch steps and knocked. No one answered.
“I’m going to check the barn.” She jogged down the wooden steps, a growing sense of urgency quickening her pace.
Homer kept up with her as she crossed the weedy backyard and passed an open chicken coop. The big birds squawked and scattered. The goats ran in circles, bleating and stomping, as Bree passed their pen.
She went to the heavy double doors and rolled one side open. The interior was less barn and more commercial milking operation and was better kept than the rest of the property. Milking machines were elevated on a raised platform. She peered through a doorway into another room that contained large stainless-steel tables and refrigerators. The equipment might be a little dinged up, but everything was immaculately clean.
“Hello?” Bree called. “Ms. Brown? This is Sheriff Taggert.”
The goats bleated louder, as if trying to get her attention.
Bree turned away from the empty barn and inclined her head toward the goats. “Are they normally this agitated?”
“No, ma’am. I suspect they’re hungry.” He rubbed his white-stubbled chin. “Might be overdue for milking as well.”
Bree scanned the pen. The muddy ground was heavily trampled. The pasture was mostly dirt, the grass having been chewed to the ground. “What does Ms. Brown do with the goats?”
“She sells goat cheese at the farmers market, along with free-range chicken eggs. There’s a restaurant in town that buys her cheese as well. That’s all the business she has left. It’s a shame. This farm used to be a lot bigger.”
Farmers cared for their livestock before themselves. Their animals were their livelihood.
“I could toss them some hay for now,” Homer offered.
“Thank you. That would be helpful.” And keep him occupied while Bree entered the home. Who knew what she would find?
“Yes, ma’am.” He moved through the open barn door and toward some hay bales stacked on a raised pallet.
Bree turned toward the house. She retraced her steps to the back porch and examined the door. Unlike the front door, glass panes were set into the top half and she could see into the kitchen, which was empty. There was no dead bolt, just a simple doorknob lock that would take thirty seconds to breach.
Country living.
She shook her head, thinking of the state-of-the-art alarm system at her own farm. But then, Ms. Brown probably hadn’t received the threats that Bree had.
She used her cell phone to update dispatch. “There’s no response at the door and no sign of the homeowner. The livestock hasn’t been fed. I’m concerned the homeowner could be ill or injured. I’m going in.”
Not wanting to break a window or bust in the door unless it was absolutely necessary—the sheriff’s department didn’t need a lawsuit in the event Ms. Brown was fine and simply indisposed—Bree pulled a small tool kit from her pocket and deftly picked the lock. The lock was so old, she probably could have opened it with a credit card. She pushed the door open and the smell of rotting flesh hit her like a fist.
Decomposition.
Bree’s gut twisted. Ms. Brown wasn’t napping, nor was she in need of assistance.
No. That smell meant something—probably Ms. Brown—was dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Bree took a step back to regroup. Whatever was decomposing had probably been dead at least a day or so. Her stomach tangled, and she was grateful it was empty. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she pushed the door wide open. Inside, the buzz of insects tightened the queasy knot in her belly.
The flies always found a way in.
With a last gulp of fresh air, Bree stepped into the house. The kitchen was dated but tidy, with wooden countertops worn smooth with decades of scrubbing. Her gaze swept over the room. A rectangular table sat in the middle. One end was set with two plates, two glasses, and two sets of utensils, catercorner to each other. Four chairs were tucked under the table. Empty spaces marked where two more would fit. An iconic CorningWare casserole dish sat on the stovetop. On the counter, a clear dome covered a cake on a pedestal. Flies buzzed around the glass lids, trying to get at the food. Bree moved through the kitchen, trying to block out the sound.