the dresser. “Damn.”
Matt looked inside. Lots of shiny objects. “Some of that looks valuable.”
She snapped pictures. “Let’s ask Owen about all this.”
Matt carried the shopping bag and laptop downstairs. The kitchen and family room didn’t take as long to search. When they’d finished, Bree opened the front door. “You can come back inside now.”
Owen went into the kitchen. His brother made a beeline for the stairs. He looked like a zombie, and Matt assumed he was going back to bed.
Owen stood in the middle of his kitchen, his face locked in a sullen frown. “What are you taking?”
“We’ll give you a receipt for everything we take as evidence.” Bree set the shopping bag on the table. She took out the receipt. “Where did Holly get the cash for these?”
Owen lifted a shoulder in a jerky movement. “I don’t know.”
“She bought them last week.” Bree read off the total on the receipt. “With cash.”
The color drained from Owen’s face. “I don’t know.” This time his answer sounded less cocky and more unsure.
“What about her jewelry? Do you know where it came from?”
“No.” He shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to my wife’s earrings.” Owen spotted the computer in Matt’s hands. “Hey, you can’t take my computer!” he protested.
“Yes, we can.” Bree nodded toward the folded warrant on the table. “It’s listed on the warrant.”
“Shit.” Owen rubbed a hand down his face. “What am I supposed to use?”
“We’ll get it back to you as soon as possible,” Bree said. “We’re almost done.”
Bree and Matt went through the basement quickly. She wrote a receipt for the items they were collecting and handed it to Owen.
He snatched it from her. “I’m getting an attorney. I have an alibi.”
Bree gave him a polite smile on the way out.
Matt headed for the door. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Owen looked angry enough to explode.
CHAPTER TEN
Outside, the fresh air wiped the stink of booze from Matt’s nostrils. He followed Bree to the SUV and went around to the passenger side.
She stared at him over the hood. “Maybe Holly’s source of cash killed her.”
“Money is always a good motive for murder,” he agreed.
Bree hesitated, one hand on her car door handle. “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”
They walked to the house next door. No one answered their knock. They had better luck at the unit on the other side.
A white-haired man of about sixty opened the door and gave Bree a hard stare. “You’re here about the girl next door, right? How’d she die?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Bree introduced herself and Matt. “How well do you know the Thorpes?”
“Well enough to say hi. But I know one thing about them.” He zipped his cardigan. “They fight all the time. Loudly. These walls are thin. I can’t tell you how many times I went to bed with my noise-canceling headphones on.” He shook his head.
“Did you hear them fighting last Friday night?” Matt asked.
“Yes. They screamed at each other for a good twenty minutes, then she stormed out with a suitcase.” The older man rolled his eyes. “I also saw him drunk as a skunk the next morning. I was hoping they’d get a fucking divorce this time so I could get some sleep.”
Bree pulled out her small notepad. “Do you know if Holly was close to any of the other neighbors?”
“No,” he said. “I barely saw either her or her husband. Just when they were going out or coming home.”
Bree took the neighbor’s contact information. She and Matt tried several more doors in the same building. Two additional residents answered and confirmed the first neighbor’s story: Owen and Holly kept to themselves and fought constantly.
Bree and Matt returned to her SUV.
“What next?” Matt asked from the passenger seat.
Bree blew out a hard breath. “What’s next is even worse than meeting with the victim’s husband and sister. We have to talk to Holly’s mother.” She checked in with Todd, who gave her the address for Penelope Phelps.
Mrs. Phelps lived in a senior-housing community of tiny, almost identical one-story homes. They went to the door and knocked. Nothing happened. Matt pressed the doorbell. The ringing echoed through the door. A minute later, something scraped inside the house, and the footsteps that sounded were slow and halting. What seemed like minutes passed before the door opened.
The woman in the foyer was probably about sixty, but she looked decades older. Frail and thin, she leaned heavily on a walker. Tennis balls capped the two nonwheeled feet. Petite like her daughters, Mrs. Phelps