First things first: I posted an article yesterday evening on the September 11th tragedy; if you haven’t read it, please click here.

Now on with the show:

 

It’s a strange story.

Nancy Crampton-Brophy is a writer. Self-published. The 68-year-old has penned at least five romance novels — the kind that are highly likely to feature ripped abs on the online “cover.” She describes them thusly:

“My stories are about pretty men and strong women, about families that don’t always work and about the joy of finding love and the difficulty of making it stay.”

The Washington Post notes, “The lead male characters were almost always Navy SEALs.”

According to her description, Nancy had a happy life:

“I live in the beautiful, green, and very wet, Northwest, married to a Chef whose mantra is: life is a science project. As a result there are chickens and turkeys in my backyard, a fabulous vegetable garden which also grows tobacco for an insecticide and a hot meal on the table every night.”

Also:

“I can’t tell you when I fell in love with my husband, but I relate the moment I decided to marry him. … Like all marriages, we’ve had our ups and downs, more good times than bad.”

That sounds nice.

But niceness got nailed: in the early morning of June 2nd, Crampton-Brophy’s life partner — 68-year-old chef and Oregon Culinary Institute instructor Daniel Brophy — was found fatally shot at OCI.

Nancy posted the news to her Facebook page:

“I have sad news to relate. My husband and best friend, Chef Dan Brophy was killed yesterday morning. For those of you who are close to me and feel this deserved a phone call, you are right, but I’m struggling to make sense of everything right now. … While I appreciate all of your loving responses, I am overwhelmed. Please save phone calls for a few days until I can function.”

However, something was — quite possibly — afoot. On the site See Jane Publish, in 2011, Crampston-Brophy posted an odd analysis titled “How t o Murder Your Husband by Nancy Brophy.”

Hmmm…

Her introduction:

“As a romantic suspense writer, I spend a lot of time thinking about murder and, consequently, about police procedure. After all, if the murder is supposed to set me free, I certainly don’t want to spend any time in jail. And let me say clearly for the record, I don’t like jumpsuits and orange isn’t my color.”

She listed possible motives for lover-murder: financial; lying, cheating bastard; fell in love with someone else; abuser; it’s your profession.

Her mentioned methods:

Guns – loud, messy, require some skill. If it takes 10 shots for the sucker to die, either you have terrible aim or he’s on drugs.

Knives – really personal and close up. Blood everywhere. Eww.
Garrote – how much upper body strength does it require to strangle a person?

Random heavy piece of equipment – usually this involves hitting someone hard with the baseball bat or the pipe wrench you just happen to have in your hand.

Poison – considered a woman’s weapon. Arsenic is easy to obtain, worse, easy to trace. It takes a month or two to kill someone. Plus, they are sick the entire time. Who wants to hang out with a sick husband? Knowledge of pharmaceuticals would be handy. Availability would be even better. A word of caution, watch out for poisons found in nature. They are not a sure thing. Too little? Too much? Your mother always told you to marry a doctor. Now you know why.

Hiring a hit man – Do you know a hit man? Neither do I. And an amazing number of hit men rat you out to the police. Or blackmail you later.

Hiring a lover – Never a good idea. The husband dies, and the wife gets the money. The lover doesn’t always win in this scenario. Sometimes he, too, finds himself facing a loaded gun.

She added:

“I don’t want to worry about blood and brains splattered on my walls. And really, I’m not good at remembering lies. But the thing I know about murder is that every one of us have it in him/her when pushed far enough.”

Apparently, her readership includes the Portland Police Department: she was arrested last week and charged with the murder of her spouse of 27 years.

I guess they were a family that “[didn’t] always work.”

In describing the moment she knew she wanted a ’til-death-do-us-part romp with Dan the Man, she painted a romantic picture:

“I was in the bath. It was a big tub. I expected him to join me and when he was delayed, I called out, ‘Are you coming?’

“His answer convinced me he was Mr. Right. ‘Yes, but I’m making hors d’oeuvres.’ Can you imagine spending the rest of your life without a man like that?”

Courtesy of law enforcement, here’s a close-up photo of the big-tub-bathing writer of erotic amore:

Nancy’s bio begins with a simple sentence:

“Writers are liars.”

 

Thank you for reading! What do you think of this story? Please sound off in the Comments section below.

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And please visit my piece on September 11th:

September 11th: Remembering Not Only Tragedy, but Something Greater