Sink Trap

by Evans, Christy

  “How do you define ‘a lot’?” Paula made quote marks in the air with tomato-smeared fingers.

  “Neighborhood of low- to mid-six-figure houses, based on what I saw.”

  Paula’s mouth formed a little O.

  Sue sucked in a deep breath. “Nice neighborhood.”

  “That’s what I thought. He has several thousand reasons to want her out of the way.”

  “What about the housekeeper?” Sue asked.

  “Janis.” I turned to Paula. “That was one of the things I wanted to ask you about. Do you know Miss Tepper’s housekeeper?”

  Paula looked thoughtful for a moment. “She was angry when Martha left, even came by the library, thinking I knew where she went.”

  “Can’t say as I blame her,” Sue said. “Losing your job and your home at the same time, without any warning.”

  “That’s not true! She did have warning.” Paula leaped to Miss Tepper’s defense. “Martha had been talking about moving for weeks, maybe months, before she left.”

  “Justified or not,” I said, “she was angry. Was she angry enough to do something before Miss Tepper left? Desperate people do desperate things, after all.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Paula’s mouth was set in a tight line. “Janis loved Martha, would do anything for her. And she thought Martha was coming back to pack and close the house. That was what she asked about when she came to the library.

  “Of course that was before Rachel Gladstone threw her out.” She grimaced.

  Sue shot me a glance, clearly remembering my suspicions of my mother. “Rachel threw her out?” she asked.

  Paula nodded her head.

  Sue leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her, anticipating a story.

  “The way I heard it from Janis, Rachel showed up in ‘that big car,’ and told her the house was going to be sold and she had to get out. Janis said she came in the afternoon and wouldn’t let her stay that night, or even pack her clothes, or get any of her things.

  “She threatened to call the police if Janis didn’t leave. The poor thing had to sleep in her car.” Her voice shook with indignation, and I was reminded of Wade’s warning about Paula’s dramatic stories.

  “It was probably the buyer’s idea.” I wasn’t ready to let my mother completely off the hook. “I bet they made Rachel evict her, instead of doing it themselves.”

  “Now that doesn’t sound like Sandra Neverall,” Sue said. “Your mother is one tough cookie when it comes to her work. She doesn’t pass the buck.”

  “What about Gregory?” I shot back. “And if it isn’t them, who is it?”

  “Well, what about the Gladstones?” Sue countered. “Rachel apparently was the one who threw Janis out.”

  Before I could say anything, the phone rang. Sue jumped up to answer it for me, with an expression that looked suspiciously like relief.

  She returned, carrying the phone at arm’s length, and handed it to me. Your mother, she mouthed.

  My heart sank. I knew, just from Sue’s expression, that I was in trouble. The only question was, how much.

  A lot, as it turned out.

  “Georgiana? Georgiana, what happened?”

  “What do you mean?” I tried to play dumb, as though I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean.” Righteous indignation radiated over the phone line. “Why is it I am the last person in the world to find out that my daughter was practically killed?”

  “Why, I’m just fine, actually. Thank you for asking. It’s just a couple little bruises. But I do appreciate your concern.”

  I couldn’t keep the sarcasm completely out of my voice, and my mother pounced. “Of course I’m concerned, Georgiana! And it isn’t just a couple bruises, according to your boss. He told Gregory you were seriously injured, and he practically accused him of causing the accident!”

  “Mother! Calm down. I’m sure Barry didn’t say that. He was concerned about the accident, sure. After all, he’s responsible for whatever happens on the job site, and it could have been a lot worse than it was.

  “But it is just a couple bruises, and I’m going back to work in the morning, so it isn’t any big deal.”

  “Well . . .” Mom sounded unconvinced. “It was very embarrassing, Georgiana. We were having dinner, and Gregory said he hoped you were going to be okay, and I had no idea what he was talking about. You should have called me!”

  I sighed. “I probably should have, Mom. It just didn’t seem like a big deal.”

  “All right,” she said. “Next time, please let me know, okay? I have to go, Gregory’s still at the dinner table, and I’m sure he’s wondering what’s taking me so long in the kitchen.”

  She giggled, a sound that sent another chill down my spine. “Okay. Mom? Would you please remind him he was going to get me Martha’s forwarding address?” It was just a little dig, but it made me feel better.

  Sue took the phone from me with a knowing grin. “You didn’t tell your mom you got hurt, huh? And she heard about it from Gregory?”

  I bristled. “Do you call your mother every time you get hurt at work?” I countered.

  “When I get hurt at work,” Sue called over her shoulder as she carried the phone to the kitchen, “it’s a scratch from an overexcited puppy. Not somebody dropping a toilet on me.”

  “Don’t exaggerate! It was just a piece of the tank, and nobody dropped it on me. It was an accident.”

  “No it wasn’t. Paula told you what Barry said.”

  I glanced at Paula, and she nodded.

  “Whatever,” I muttered. “Paula, I did have one other question, though. Do you know if Janis had a key to Miss Tepper’s house? I mean, she said she waited until ‘that woman’—I guess she meant Rachel Gladstone—went away and left the house unlocked. But is it possible she has a key, and she could get back in?”

  Paula shook her head. “I don’t think so. She said Rachel took her key.”

  5

  prevent collateral damage

  Duct tape placed around the jaws of your pliers will help prevent scratches on the polished surfaces of faucets and drains.

  —A Plumber’s Tip from Georgiana Neverall

  chapter 17

  Our evening ended on a somber note. Instead of offering some relief from my dark mood, the conversation had reinforced my greatest fear.

  We all had the same thought: Martha Tepper had not left Pine Ridge by choice. Something bad had happened to her, and we might never see her again.

  Paula’s pain was almost physical. When she finally allowed the realization to sink in, she doubled over as though she had taken a shot to the gut.

  “We need to tell someone,” she said, her voice thick and her eyes glistening with moisture.

  “Like who?” Sue asked.

  “Can’t we file a missing person report with the police?” Paula was desperate for action.

  “They’ll want some kind of proof.” I tried to control the bitterness. I remembered trying to convince some junior detective in San Francisco that Blake Weston and his pals were stealing from Samurai Security. He told me I needed evidence, not just suspicion, and to come back when I had it.

  “Then how about your boyfriend?” Paula said.

  Despite the serious subject, I saw Sue’s mouth twitch at the mention of Wade.

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just someone I’ve gone out with a couple times.”

  “He was your boyfriend, wasn’t he? And you’re dating again. That’s got to count for something. Besides, he’s on the City Council. Maybe he could get the sheriff to at least search the house or something.” Paula was pleading now, anxious for someone, anyone, to take up the hunt for Martha Tepper.

  Against my better judgment, I agreed to talk to Wade.

  I blame the pain pills.

  Wade, of course, didn’t take well to the suggestion he help out with our investigation. Even when I cooked dinner. Okay, so it was meatloaf, packaged salad, a
nd baked potatoes, but at least I couldn’t mess that up.

  It didn’t help.

  “You want me to do what?” he asked. “That is a bad idea in more ways than I want to think about.”

  “I didn’t think you’d go for it,” I confessed.

  I stood up and carried the stack of dirty dishes to the counter.

  “There are just so many things that don’t add up. I hoped maybe you could do something that would help put Paula’s mind to rest and answer our questions about Martha.”

  “Georgie.” Wade got up from the table and moved over next to me. He set down the empty salad bowl and took my hands in his. “I know you want to reassure Paula, and that’s a fine and generous motive. But I can’t order the sheriff’s department to open an investigation; and I can’t ask them to check into something based on your feelings.”

  His grip was gentle, and I found myself curling my fingers around his.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I don’t have any authority here. There isn’t anything I can do, even if I wanted to. It’s the sheriff’s job, and Fred Mitchell doesn’t welcome interference from anybody. Martha simply moved away. Maybe she didn’t plan it as well as she should have, but that’s all there is to it.”

  Wade kept hold of my hand, drawing me away from the sink and into the living room. He pulled me down next to him on the sofa, and turned to look in my eyes.

  “But what if she changed her mind? What if she decided not to move after all? Then Gregory Whitlock would lose the chance to develop the warehouse site, and to flip Miss Tepper’s house, and maybe even whatever money he’d already put into the project.”

  Wade shook his head. “Gregory Whitlock didn’t get to be one of the most successful businessmen in the area by being stupid. This project isn’t big enough to risk his company and his reputation.

  “There are people in this town who resent him because he’s made a lot of money. There are people who think he’s arrogant—even me, sometimes. But he knows where the line is, and while he may dance along it, he’s careful not to cross over.

  “Do you think I’d accept his support, and his campaign contributions, if there was anything shady going on?”

  “Oh.” I winced.

  “Right. You don’t like the guy because he’s sleeping—”

  “Don’t!” I put my fingers in my ears, like an eight-year-old. “La la la . . .”

  Wade reached up and pulled my fingers away from my ears. “Sleeping with your mother,” he finished his sentence, then looked around the room. “Well, look at that. I said it, and the world did not come to an end. How about that?”

  I yanked my hands away.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to think about it,” I said.

  I couldn’t tell Wade I knew Gregory’s type all too well, knew about the sincere looks and the reassuring words. Knew all about trusting someone with your business, and your heart, right up to the point where they destroyed both.

  “You don’t have to like him, Georgie. Heck, there are times I don’t like him much. But he’s smart and successful, and he seems to make your mother happy.” He shrugged. “Settle for that, for now. It could be worse. I know.”

  I looked skeptical, and Wade colored. He looked away, then looked back, as though he had come to a decision.

  “When my folks split up . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “When my dad left,” he said. The words were difficult for him, and he paused again.

  “My dad left. It wasn’t a mutual decision. There was”—he sighed—“another woman. One too young for me to date, much less my dad.

  “They left town, and Mom never talked about it. No one knows. But that little—” He bit back a word Barry probably wouldn’t have approved of. “That woman made my dad’s life miserable—for the year she stayed. Now he’s alone, and Mom won’t talk to him, so believe me, I know it can be worse.”

  “Oh, Wade! I am so sorry! I had no idea . . .”

  “No one does.” He shrugged. “My point is, at least your mom is happy. Be thankful for that.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “You’re right. I’m probably not being fair to Gregory. But can we not talk about my mother, please?”

  Wade nodded. “Deal. If we can not talk about Martha Tepper, too.”

  I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”

  I stood up. “There are leftovers to put away,” I said. “Give me a couple minutes?”

  Wade shook his head and stood up, too. “I’ll help.”

  We worked together until the table was clear and the leftovers tucked safely in the refrigerator.

  My mother would be proud of me.

  When I pulled up in front of the Tepper house the next morning, I was dismayed to see a moving van parked at the curb and planks laid across the tall grass of the front yard.

  Three burly men trundled handcarts across the boards, loaded with Miss Tepper’s furniture. I watched with a sinking heart as they loaded her highboy waterfall dresser into the van, followed by the matching night tables. The pieces were antiques, and I could only guess at their value. But the men pushing them didn’t seem to care, shoving them carelessly into the truck.

  Inside, the situation was much worse. Several men in various shapes and sizes haphazardly tossed the contents of cupboards and drawers into cardboard cartons. In each room, one man wielded a black felt-tip marker, scrawling “bedroom,” or “living room,” or “kitchen” on the box before adding it to a shaky pile in the living room, ready to be carted to the truck.

  The men smelled of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, and I remembered Rachel Gladstone telling my mother they had hired a crew from the Second Chances shelter.

  I watched from a corner of the living room for several minutes, as they moved furniture and filled boxes. Although they weren’t gentle with Martha’s things, they all worked hard. The house would be empty soon.

  Judging by the raised voices in the kitchen, not everyone was happy about it.

  When I peeked around the corner, I wasn’t surprised to find my mother in the middle of the disagreement. In the years since my father’s death, she had become increasingly confident and self-assured. She had also become a lot more vocal about her opinions.

  Rick Gladstone was getting the full force of Sandra the Real Estate Agent’s opinions, and he was clearly not enjoying the process.

  “You want me to sell this house, don’t you? I mean, that is why you hired Whitlock Estates, right? You said Martha Tepper told you to ‘spruce it up’ and sell it, and that’s what you told us to do. So let us do our job.”

  “But the expense,” Rick said. His silky voice was gone for the moment, and he just sounded whiny. “This is going to cost us a fortune in labor and storage fees. And now you tell me you don’t want the furniture moved back in when the renovations are complete?”

  Sandra shook her head firmly. “Damn straight.”

  I slid back into the hallway, out of sight of the kitchen, and bit my lip. I couldn’t remember ever hearing my mother curse, not once. But this was Sandra the Real Estate Agent, not my mother.

  I peeked back around the corner. In her ever-present stilettos, my mother was nearly as tall as Gladstone, and her stiff posture made her appear taller. The two of them stood only a few feet apart, though Mom had clearly established a no-man’s-land between them.

  Rick Gladstone, however, wasn’t backing down. “Ms. Neverall.” He leaned toward her and controlled the whine, dropping his voice to the silky tone I had heard before. “Sandy—”

  For a split second, I really thought Mom might actually deck him. She looked that angry.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. Her voice was low and cold. “No one calls me that, even my late husband. God rest his soul.”

  “But I thought, that is . . .” Rick Gladstone tried to cover his confusion with an engaging grin, but it didn’t melt Sandra Neverall. I could have told him that. “Isn’t that what Greg calls you?”

  “What Mr. Whi
tlock calls me and what you call me are two very different things, Mr. Gladstone. Gregory”—she stressed the name, clearly implying that no one called him Greg any more than they called her Sandy—“is an old and dear friend, and I tolerate it from him. Anything more is none of your business.”

  Rick Gladstone finally caught a clue, and backed away a step. “I meant no offense, Ms. Neverall. Please accept my apology. I just thought, since we’re working together, we might be friends.”

  He offered the grin again and Sandra thawed about two degrees, from Ice Queen to chilly. It wasn’t a vast improvement.

  “But seriously,” he pressed on. “We could put the furniture back in the house. Make it look like someone actually lives here. More homey.”

  “We most certainly cannot. I know you want to save the cost of the storage, but frankly, I can’t get top dollar for this place with the outdated furniture crowded into these rooms. The place is small to begin with, and with oversized old furniture stuffed into every room . . .” She shook her head. “It would never sell.”

  She glanced toward the dining room. “It must be family heirlooms. I can’t imagine why she didn’t take any of it with her.”

  Rick hesitated, and I thought for a minute he wasn’t going to respond. Finally he said, “She’s staying in temporary quarters. No sense in moving everything twice.”

  He stopped as though he realized he’d almost opened the door on the argument again.

  “Well.” He shrugged. “I suppose we can store it for a while.”

  “Trust me, Mr. Gladstone. This is my job. It’s what I do, and I’m good at it. I can get top dollar for this place, but only if you let me do things my way.”

  Gladstone’s expression was glum, but he managed to control his disappointment and forced a tight smile. “Of course, Ms. Neverall. You are the expert, after all.”