“Walking into Bernard’s bedroom,” he answered.
She followed him into the primary bedroom. He was headed into the en suite bathroom.
Bree started with the nightstands. Books were piled everywhere. Notepads contained scribbles pertaining to the syllabi of his classes. She opened a journal. Bernard was writing a book on some medieval figure Bree had never heard of. She searched his drawers, lifted the mattress, and checked the cushions of the leather wing chair in the corner. The pockets of his clothes in the closet contained nothing but crumpled dry cleaning receipts, coins, and paper clips.
She examined a row of framed photos on the dresser. Most were snapshots of Bernard with two girls Bree assumed were his daughters. She paused at the oldest picture, taken on the deck of a sailboat. Above their heads, a tall mast wrapped in a bright blue sail framed the shot. A much younger Bernard wrapped his arm around a blonde woman. In front of them, the two girls and a little boy grinned. The whole family was tanned and smiling. In the background, sunlight glittered on a lake. The woman was probably Bernard’s deceased wife. Who was the boy? Robby? She used her phone to snap a picture of the photo.
From the bathroom, Matt whistled. “Bingo.”
Bree carried the photo to the doorway. Matt stood over an open hamper. His gloved finger hooked a pair of worn khaki pants by the belt loop. Dark red spots spattered the hem, and one knee was soaked through, as if he’d knelt in blood. She recalled the smeared blood at the crime scene.
“Blood?” she asked.
“That’s what it looks like to me. What did you find?”
Bree lifted the photograph. “I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing.” But something about the photo nagged at her.
They finished searching the primary bedroom.
“I’ll bag and tag the clothes and the hamper,” Matt said.
Bree went downstairs. She found Todd and Deputy Collins in the study. Collins was on her hands and knees checking volumes in the bookcase. Behind the desk, Todd closed a drawer.
“Progress?” Bree asked them.
“Tagged the laptop.” Todd motioned toward an old, bulky computer on the desk. “Haven’t really found anything interesting. No gun.”
Bree eyed the cluttered bookshelves. “How much longer will you need?”
“A few more hours.” Todd gestured around the room. “The house might not be big, but he’s lived here a long time. The closets and cabinets are stuffed to capacity.”
“Keep me updated. We’re going to ask Bernard to come down to the station for questioning.” Bree went outside.
Bernard paced his front yard. As Bree approached him, a compact SUV roared to the curb, and a woman in her midthirties stepped out and stormed up the walk. A well-fitted charcoal-gray pantsuit subtly enhanced her curvy body. One of the daughters? Must be the lawyer-daughter. A schoolteacher with three kids didn’t have the time to put herself together this well.
She eyed Bree’s badge with anger and suspicion. “What is going on?”
“I’m Sheriff Taggert.” Bree tapped her badge. “This is Investigator Flynn.” She waited for the woman to introduce herself, but she merely stared at them. “What is your name, ma’am?”
“Stephanie Crighton.” She tucked a strand of her sleek ash-blonde bob behind one ear. A tasteful gold stud gleamed in her lobe.
“Bernard Crighton’s daughter?” Bree asked.
“Yes.” Stephanie had the same dramatic cheekbones as her father. She waved a wild hand over the house and sheriff’s department vehicles. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You’ll have to ask your father,” Bree said.
“Dad?” Stephanie called over her shoulder. “Tell the sheriff I’m your attorney and will be representing you in this matter.”
“She’s my lawyer.” Bernard’s chin lifted in defiance.
Bree sighed. “I’m investigating the murders of Camilla Brown and Eugene Oscar.”
“And my father is a suspect?” Stephanie seemed incredulous.
“He’s a person of interest,” Bree clarified.
“That’s ridiculous.” Stephanie practically bit off the words.
Bree glanced around. A few neighbors stood on porches. “We’re attracting an audience. Let’s continue this conversation at the sheriff’s station.” She gestured toward Deputy Juarez. “My deputy will bring your father to the station.”
“Absolutely not,” Stephanie barked. “Is he under arrest?”