Sink Trap

by Evans, Christy

  It wasn’t really a question. Besides, there wasn’t much room around the toilet, and I was a lot smaller than Sean.

  I pulled on my gloves, crouched down next to the tank, and fitted a wrench to the nut under the ledge of the toilet. Sean reached inside the empty tank and immobilized the bolt. I pushed hard against the wrench handle, but the nut didn’t budge. I pushed again, without result.

  Above me, I thought I heard a self-satisfied “Um hmm” from Sean. I was proving his point that women were unfit for this work, and I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. I concentrated on the wrench and the nut, focusing my energy.

  I pushed again, beads of sweat popping out of my forehead and running toward my eyes. I kept up the pressure, my arms straining with the effort.

  Metal screeched against metal, accumulated years of corrosion grinding in the threads of the nut, but it moved slightly.

  I instantly reset the wrench, and put all my effort into it. The nut moved, easier this time. A couple more pushes, and it twisted easily off the bolt.

  As I stood up to move to the other side, I forced myself to keep a straight face when I glanced at Sean. He was doing the same, and we nodded curtly as we positioned ourselves to extract the other bolt.

  We repeated the procedure on the other side, and we soon had the tank loose from the bowl. Now we had to lift off the tank and take it outside.

  There wasn’t room for both of us, so I waved Sean aside. Tanks are heavy, a job for two people whenever possible. But it wasn’t possible, and I was determined to prove myself.

  I got a grip on the tank, bracing myself for the lift, and carefully raised the tank straight up a few inches. With the seat already off, that was all that I needed.

  The empty tank was still heavy, and I felt the strain in my back and down my legs, but I wasn’t going to admit it to Sean.

  I turned toward the door, the tank clutched against my chest. Sean backed away, clearing the way for me.

  The tank shifted in my arms, and I hugged it tighter. There was an ominous cracking noise, and the tank slipped a little more.

  I tried to shift the weight, to tighten my hold.

  It moved again, with a noise like rocks slamming against each other, and to my horror the bottom fell out.

  The heavy slab of porcelain slammed against my ankle and I stumbled, bashing my shin against the side of the bathtub.

  Sean rushed forward, grabbing the remains of the tank from me. The bottom had landed on my boot and I was instantly grateful for the steel cap in the shoe. Without it, my toes would have been crushed by the slab of porcelain.

  Adrenaline surging through my veins hollowed my stomach, and sent my heart racing. My knees suddenly refused to support me, and I sank down on the edge of the tub.

  Sean returned to the bathroom. Without speaking, he stooped and picked up the bottom of the tank.

  By the time he came back, I was on my feet, although I had to lean against the vanity.

  Sean’s face was pale; the shock of the accident had drained all his color. He stared at me for a minute, as though he didn’t know what to say.

  “Are you”—his voice was strained, almost a squeak—“okay?”

  “I, uh, I think so.” I was rather squeaky myself. I stopped to swallow. Hard.

  “Can you walk?”

  Why would he ask that? I thought for a moment, and realized what he must have seen. The tank broke, a large chunk slammed my left leg and landed on my foot, and I fell onto the edge of the bathtub.

  To find the answer to his question, I let go of the vanity and gingerly put a little weight on my injured leg.

  My ankle twinged, but it held.

  I leaned on the leg, putting more weight on it, and a sharp pain ran up my calf and thigh.

  I bit my lip to keep from whimpering, but Sean saw the flash of pain that crossed my face. He reached out, offering me his arm.

  “Come on in the dining room,” he said. “There are chairs in there, and you can sit down.”

  I tried to hide my surprise at his change of heart, but I don’t think I was very successful. “Don’t look so shocked, Neverall. I’d do the same for anyone who got hurt on the job.”

  I let Sean help me into the dining room, where I lowered myself onto a high-backed wooden chair.

  “I’m going to call Barry,” Sean said. “My phone’s in the truck. You okay for now?”

  “Fine, fine,” I muttered. To tell the truth, my ankle hurt like hell, and I knew I was going to have a nasty bruise on my foot—and a couple other places, as well.

  Sean gave me a look that said he didn’t really believe me, but when I didn’t say anything more, he shrugged and went out.

  Despite the pain in my leg and ankle, I realized I was alone in the dining room. This was my chance to investigate.

  I pulled my gloves off and scooted my chair toward the china hutch. There were still two drawers to go.

  The drawers were a bust. Nothing except china, silver, and a box of antique silver napkin rings.

  The napkin rings looked like family heirlooms, an intricate band of woven strands. On the side of each ring was a medallion engraved with an ornate capital T.

  Who leaves family heirlooms for some unknown person to pack?

  Someone without a choice.

  chapter 16

  It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  I didn’t have time to follow that path before Sean and Barry both came in the house.

  Accidents happen on job sites. It’s a fact of life, especially in the construction industry. As accidents go, this was pretty benign. But Barry looked more than worried; he looked angry.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We got the tank loose and I lifted it off the bowl. It felt, I don’t know, slippery. Kept sliding and slipping. Then, boom! The bottom fell out, crashed into my leg and landed on my foot.”

  Barry turned to Sean. “Have you looked at the tank?”

  “Not yet. I helped Georgie in here to sit down, then I went and called you.” He shrugged. “You were almost here when I called, so I just waited.”

  Well, that explained how I had time to check both those drawers; Sean was waiting outside for Barry, rather than coming back in the house with me.

  “Can you walk?” Barry asked me. “I want to go get a look at that tank, and I thought you might be curious.”

  I tried to stand. My ankle throbbed, but at least the stabbing pain was gone this time.

  I waved away Barry’s offered arm and hobbled to the front door under my own power. I’d taken worse knocks in the early days of my martial arts training, and learned to work through the pain. This wasn’t much different.

  Sean had dumped the two chunks of porcelain in the high grass of the front yard. The walls of the tank were in a single piece, sitting on its side next to the flat slab that had been the bottom of the tank.

  I limped across the grass, my left ankle warning me of worse pain to come. There was no way I could balance on my throbbing ankle to crouch or kneel to examine the pieces closely.

  Barry knelt in the tall grass and grasped the tank. He turned it over several times, looking at, and touching, the outside surface before he looked up at me.

  “There’s something greasy on the back of the tank,” he said. “Were you wearing gloves?”

  “Yep.” Gloves at all times was another Barry rule, a safety precaution I had learned to appreciate. If the porcelain had given way at another point, the sharp edge could have sliced my hands open.

  He nodded. “That explains why you didn’t feel it.” He peered closely at the backside of the tank. “Something must have spilled down the back of the tank, and no one could reach it to clean it up.”

  Sean stood next to me, looking down at the tank. “How about the bottom, though? How the he—heck”—he caught himself before he broke the cussing rule—“did that happen?”

  Barry moved over to the tank bottom, and Sean crouched next to him. The two men examined the
slab, occasionally pointing to one spot or another and exchanging grunts.

  I was beginning to feel invisible when Barry looked back up at me. “Looks like there was a crack in the bottom of the tank. When you moved it and released the compression, the crack spread around the perimeter of the tank, and it gave way.”

  “Just another example,” I deadpanned, “of why gravity is not your friend.”

  Barry chuckled mirthlessly, as he climbed to his feet.

  “I think you’re done here for today, Georgie. Go get that ankle looked at.” He stopped my protest with a gesture. “That’s an order, Neverall. On-the-job accidents are reportable, and we need to document any injury.” He glanced at his watch. “Dr. Cox should be at the Immediate Care. I’ll tell him to expect you.”

  “Okay.” He was worried about me, but he was following the rules, too. Even though I clearly wouldn’t make trouble for Barry, it was a rule that could prevent bigger problems, and we all had to abide by it.

  I limped over to the Beetle and dropped into the driver’s seat. Sean appeared in the door opening, leaning over to look in at me. “Can you handle that clutch?” he asked. “My truck’s an automatic, if you want to use it.”

  “I’m fine,” I answered. “But thanks for asking.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “Barry says let him know what the doc says.” He patted the roof of the Beetle. “Later.”

  I waited until he stepped away from the car before putting my hand on the gearshift and pushing down to disengage the clutch. The Beetle’s automatic stick shift meant I didn’t need a clutch pedal at all, but that would be my little secret.

  On a weekday afternoon, the Immediate Care waiting room was nearly empty when I hobbled in. At the counter, the receptionist handed me a stack of forms and asked if I had a referral from my employer.

  “No, we were on a job site. Do you need that?”

  “It’s Hickey & Hickey, right? I can call Angie and have her fax it over.” She reached for the stack of papers and took out several pages. “Angie should be able to take care of most of these for you, too.”

  There were advantages to a small town.

  She motioned for me to come around the counter, and showed me to a treatment room in the back. “You can fill out the paperwork here,” she said, “so you can get off the foot and stay off it. Dr. Cox should be just a couple minutes.”

  Dr. Cox had taken over my father’s practice a few months after Dad’s death, moving it from the outdated office on Main Street into larger quarters and increasing the staff. I didn’t know him well, but my mother had given me all the pertinent details. At least, by her standards.

  Dr. Cox was a veteran of the Centers for Disease Control, better known as the CDC, but had tired of the climate in Atlanta and the travel, she said. He was looking for a small-town practice, and she was searching for a buyer for Dad’s practice. Best of all, she said when the deal was made, Dr. Cox was single.

  Before I returned to Pine Ridge, though, he acquired a wife and a new baby, thwarting my mother’s matchmak ing plans and saving us both a lot of potential embarrassment.

  The nurse came in and helped me out of my boots and jeans. She propped my foot up, and offered me a sheet. “The doctor will be with you in just a few minutes,” she said, closing the door.

  A few minutes were more like fifteen.

  “What happened to you, Georgiana?” Dr. Cox asked. He flipped through the notes the nurse had left on the door, then glanced back up at me.

  “You dropped a toilet on your ankle?” There was a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “Just part of the tank,” I answered, then explained how the accident had happened. “Nothing broken, but I’m going to have some exciting bruises, and Barry—Mr. Hickey—insisted on an exam because I was injured on the job.”

  Thirty minutes later I was back in the car, my ankle wrapped, a few painkillers in my pocket, and instructions to ice the ankle and keep it elevated. The bruises would heal by themselves, though I anticipated some interesting colors in the next few days.

  Dr. Cox, like Sean, had asked about the clutch in the Beetle, and I had shared my secret. Hey, doctor-patient confidentiality covered that information, didn’t it?

  Daisy and Buddha greeted me at the door, both waiting expectantly next to the hook with the leashes.

  “Not today, guys. Sorry.”

  I limped through the house and opened the back door for them. The yard wasn’t as good as a walk, but they raced outside and started sniffing the bushes.

  While the dogs were exploring the backyard, checking to see if any new smells had appeared since their last visit, I hobbled back into the kitchen.

  My message light blinked, and I mashed the button before lowering myself into the office chair in front of what I laughingly referred to as my desk. It was really just a tiny spot of counter with the cabinet doors removed, but it served its purpose.

  There was a message from my mother, with a question about the work on the Tepper house. I’d call her later, and tell her to ask Barry.

  Paula had called to check on our plans for tonight. Barry had told her about my accident, she said, and maybe we ought to cancel if I wasn’t up to it.

  I glanced at my watch, then picked up the phone and dialed the library. Paula answered on the second ring.

  “I could use the distraction,” I told her. “I am stuck in the house with my foot up and an ice pack on it. I’m going to call Sue to help with the dogs, and I’m ordering pizza. You good with pepperoni?”

  Sue was my next call. When I told her what had happened, she gasped. “Don’t you think that’s kind of suspicious?” she asked. “As soon as you start looking around, a toilet falls apart and practically breaks your leg? That’s just not the kind of coincidence I believe in.”

  “Oh, come on! You’re starting to sound like one of those old detective shows. It was an accident, and I’m fine. Besides, there was no guarantee I was going to lift that tank.”

  “Unless Sean was in on it,” Sue said ominously. The roller coaster made a sudden dip, and she continued, “I’m on my way. And maybe Paula and I together can convince you this means something.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I called Barry and filled him in on Dr. Cox’s report. “I should be back tomorrow, Bear. The ankle’s wrapped, and he says it’s just bruised.”

  I listened patiently as Barry told me to take my time, don’t rush it, blah blah blah. Fortunately for me, he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes like a moody teenager.

  I don’t do “rest” well, and my patience was shot. I was counting on Sue and Paula to lighten my mood.

  What was I thinking?

  Paula was right on time, arriving just a couple minutes before the pizza delivery while Sue was giving the dogs their post-walk treats.

  Paula didn’t waste any time. Before I even had my first piece of pizza, she said, “Now do you believe me that Martha didn’t leave town voluntarily?”

  “I know no such thing, Paula.”

  “She does too,” Sue chimed in. “She just doesn’t want to admit it. I don’t either, for that matter, but this . . .” She waved at my taped-up ankle, resting on a pillow next to the pizza. “This makes me wonder.”

  I lowered my foot to the floor, out of her line of sight, and reached for a piece of pizza. Sue glared at me. “I could have handed that to you,” she said accusingly. “Now get that foot back up.”

  “Yes, Mom.” I leaned back and put my foot back up.

  “Seriously.” Paula went back to her one-track conversation. “Why else would that tank break just when you picked it up?”

  “Uh, because it was cracked?” I sighed with exasperation. “Really, guys. It was an accident. Stuff happens, especially in old houses.”

  “It wasn’t,” Paula said quietly.

  Sue and I both stared at her. How in the world could she say such a thing? She held my gaze for a silent moment, then continued. “I heard Barry talking to Gregory on the phone. He
said it looked like there was a fresh crack in the side of the tank, and he told Gregory he couldn’t imagine any way that happened accidentally.

  “From what I heard, it sounded like Gregory didn’t believe him.” Her voice rose in indignation. “Barry would never lie about something like that!”

  A chill ran down my back. Barry had told the one person I completely distrusted about my accident.

  “Why did it have to be Gregory?”

  I didn’t realize I had voiced the thought until Sue answered. “Duh! He owns the house, or at least he will as soon as the paperwork gets done. He’s responsible if someone gets hurt on the job site.”

  That argument had some merit, but I still thought Gregory was a prime suspect. “You may be wrong there, Sue. It’s a job site; the contractor is responsible for the safety of his employees. It’s Barry’s responsibility, not Gregory’s.”

  Paula nodded. “That’s what Barry kept saying. That he would be the one in trouble for on-the-job injuries. He was upset about Georgie, and he wanted to be sure no one else got hurt.” She looked at my ankle and back at me. “Do you really think Gregory might have something to do with this?”

  “She hates him,” Sue said around a mouthful of pizza. “Hates the idea that her mother is sl—”

  A well-aimed sofa pillow interrupted her. I’d always had a pretty good arm, if I say so myself.

  “Well, it’s true.” Sue had the good sense to duck this time, and the other pillow sailed harmlessly past her.

  “Now that you’re out of ammunition,” Paula said to me, “can you answer my question? I’m serious, Georgie. Do you really think Gregory Whitlock could have anything to do with your accident, and with Martha’s disappearance?”

  “If not him,” I asked, “then who else? I mean, he has the most to gain, doesn’t he? If Martha disappears, he can pretty much do anything he wants to that property. She can’t stop him from whatever plans he has.”

  “Except that he could do that anyway, as soon as the sale goes through,” Sue said.

  “Unless she changed her mind once she found out what he was planning,” I replied. “He’s going to develop that tract out by the warehouse, and maybe she didn’t like the idea. I know he’s planning to flip the house, and he expects to make a lot of money off it. Maybe she didn’t like that plan, either.”