Page 6 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)

Bree headed for her SUV as Matt kept pace at her side. She sniffed her shirt. As expected, she smelled like death. “I need to stop at the station for a fresh uniform.” Bree had an aversion to smelling like the corpse when informing the family of a loved one’s demise.

Matt lifted an arm and sniffed his own sleeve. “Ugh. Same.”

“Follow me? We can leave your vehicle at the station.”

At his nod, she climbed into her SUV and drove the seven minutes to the sheriff’s station.

After she parked in the fenced rear lot, she walked through the back door, grateful that the recent renovation had been completed.

When she’d taken over the job nearly two years before, the station hadn’t had a locker room for women.

But then, the department hadn’t had a single female deputy either.

The former, now deceased, sheriff had been sexist as well as corrupt.

Bree had cleaned house in more ways than one.

She no longer had to change her uniform in the restroom or commandeer the men’s locker room if she needed a shower.

Bree’s administrative assistant, Marge, stood guard at the office door. Marge was in her sixties, with box-dyed brown hair, a thick cardigan, and sensible shoes. She wrinkled her nose and raised her precisely drawn eyebrows. “I’ll bring a fresh uniform to the locker room.”

Marge was nothing if not efficient. By the time Bree completed a five-minute shower, the uniform hung next to her locker.

Bree dressed, blasted her hair with the dryer for a couple of minutes, then pinned it up still damp.

As usual, she skipped makeup. She didn’t need to be pretty.

She just needed to not smell like a dead body.

When she emerged, Matt was waiting in her office. He smelled like soap, but his reddish- brown hair was short enough that it was nearly dry. A broad-shouldered six three, he was an imposing figure, and the thick, trimmed beard over Scandinavian cheekbones lent him a distinctly Viking look.

Bree stopped to update Marge on her agenda, then she and Matt headed back out to her vehicle.

While Bree drove, Matt used the dashboard computer. “Harrison Gibson is forty-six. He drives a black Corvette. He’s accumulated six points on his license with speeding tickets within the last year. His mother, Elaine Gibson, has owned the property for over forty years.”

Bree slowed the vehicle. “There it is.”

The small farmhouse sat the center of what appeared to be five or six acres of open fields.

There was more square footage in outbuildings than in the residence.

A large barn, a few sheds, and a detached garage sprawled on the land behind the house.

Everything looked to be in working farm condition: function over fancy.

A fence surrounded the barnyard and adjacent field.

Chickens pecked the ground. A few alpacas grazed among the birds.

Bree cruised down the bumpy driveway.

“There’s his vehicle.” Matt pointed to a low-slung black convertible parked in front of the garage. “He must hate this driveway.”

Next to the sports car sat an ancient pickup truck and a ten-year-old gray Ford Taurus.

“Then he’s probably home.” She glanced at the computer screen, where Harrison’s photo stared back at her. He was clean-shaven, with thinning brown hair salted with gray.

Matt made a disappointed sound. “Sometimes, it’s nice to catch them at the office, where their coworkers are on-site to confirm or deny their whereabouts.”

“We can’t change where he is right now.” Bree stepped out. There was no snow left in sight, but the day was damp and cold. The odor of animal waste hung in the air.

She waited for Matt to fasten his body armor vest and join her in the driveway. Typically, he wouldn’t wear his vest to perform a death notification, but in this case, the next of kin could also be the killer.

They walked to the front door and knocked.

A tall woman in her midsixties opened the door.

If Bree had to describe a farmer’s wife, Elaine Gibson could be the model.

Her sturdy frame was dressed in jeans, a thick wool sweater, and practical boots.

Short gray hair poked out from under a knit cap.

She tugged on a worn barn coat and joined them on the porch.

She squinted at them. “How can I help you?”

A cold, damp wind swept across the open meadow. Bree shivered. “Are you Elaine Gibson?”

“Yes.” Deep crow’s-feet framed her clear blue eyes as she assessed them. She didn’t seem impressed.

Bree started to introduce herself and Matt. “I’m Sher—”

Mrs. Gibson waved the air. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you on the news, and you’re in uniform.” Obviously was implied by her tone.

“We’re looking for Harrison,” Bree said.

Mrs. Gibson buttoned her coat. “Why?”

Bree kept her answer vague. “I really need to talk to Harrison.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Gibson cocked her head, her eyes narrowed with curiosity for a few seconds, then she poked her head inside the house and yelled, “Harrison! The sheriff is here to see you.” She turned back and searched her pockets.

“I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute. He’s on a business call.

I have to feed the animals and put the chickens inside before it gets dark.

I haven’t lost as many to predators since I got the alpacas, but it pays to be careful.

I’m a small operation. I can’t afford to lose good laying hens. ”

Curious, Bree had to ask. “How do alpacas help with predators?”

“They’ll stomp a fox or coyote to death. Those cute puffballs are wicked protectors,” Elaine said.

Bree eyed the placid-looking beast blinking at her from the other side of the wire fence. Between the poof on its head and its long neck, the animal looked like a walking Q-tip. “I would not have thought that.” They looked so innocent and chill.

“The wool makes great sweaters and socks too,” Mrs. Gibson said.

“How many chickens do you have?” Matt asked.

“About a hundred.” She paused at the pasture gate.

“I suppose it’s helpful to have your son around to help with the work,” he said.

Mrs. Gibson shrugged. “I’ve been running this farm by myself for a couple of decades.

I enjoy my son’s company, and he’s always willing to pitch in when I need him, but his heart isn’t in farming.

Plus, I never mind hard work. Farmers don’t need to go to a gym.

” She bent her arm, as if making a muscle under the bulky coat.

“So true,” Matt said.

Mrs. Gibson tugged on her gloves.

“How long has he been living here?” Bree asked.

“Since last March?” Mrs. Gibson rubbed her chin. “No, maybe it was April. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Was Harrison home yesterday?” Bree tried to sound casual.

“Why do you ask?” Mrs. Gibson propped a fist on her hip, clearly onto Bree’s attempt to grill her about her son’s whereabouts.

When Bree didn’t respond immediately, Elaine asked, “Why are you here?”

“Just to ask him a few questions.”

Suspicion narrowed Elaine’s eyes. “Again, you’ll have to ask Harrison.

I was busy in the barn all day and not paying attention to where he was.

” Without waiting for a response, she walked away, passing through the gate toward the barn.

The chickens and alpacas flocked to her.

As Mrs. Gibson opened the rolling barn door, three cats emerged and serpentined around her ankles.

Just like at Bree’s farm, all the animals knew the dinnertime routine.

Matt leaned close to Bree’s ear and spoke in a low voice. “Well, she was suspicious and vague.”

Did her son have something to hide?

The door to the house opened, and a man about six feet tall faced them, Bluetooth earbuds in place, a puzzled expression creasing his brow.

Bree recognized him from his driver’s license photo, except the gray had disappeared from his hair, as Jeff Burke had surmised.

Harrison wore expensive-looking black joggers and a long-sleeve gray T-shirt snug enough to showcase decent biceps.

His clothes were not typical farmer attire. They were athleisure.

Despite a small paunch, Harrison seemed to be fairly fit. Standing next to Matt, though, he looked average. Most men did in comparison.

Bree opened her mouth to introduce them, but Harrison held up a douchebag finger, then pointed to one earbud and mouthed, “I’m on a call.

” Focused on his conversation, he gestured for them to enter and turned back into the house.

Bree exchanged a get a load of this guy look with Matt as they stepped through the doorway onto worn parquet floors.

The house smelled musty, and everything in sight looked like an antique.

A set of french doors stood open to the dining room, where Harrison had set up an office on the fancy old table. “Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.”

Most people were alarmed to have a sheriff knock on their door—alarmed enough to stop what they were doing to find out the reason for the visit.

But Harrison was determined to finish his business first. “Let me research those numbers and get back to you this afternoon.” He signed off, then turned to face Bree and Matt. Harrison wore a salesman expression, hopeful and slightly aggressive but also assessing. “You must have the wrong address.”

“Are you Harrison Gibson?” she asked.

His brown eyes grew wary. “Yes.”

She introduced herself and Matt. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Kelly?” Harrison’s pleasant mask slipped for a second, and his eyes shone with irritation before he composed himself again. “I met her at her attorney’s office a few weeks ago.”

“Do you see her often?” Matt asked.

Harrison shrugged. “Once in a while. We’re still working out the details with the divorce.”

“Who is her attorney?” Bree asked.

“Kurt Martin in Scarlet Falls.” Harrison’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this about? Did Kelly say I did something?” His tone turned defensive.

Bree ignored his question. “Has she accused you of things in the past?”