Sink Trap

by Evans, Christy

  There were no notes, no diaries, nothing to give me a hint of Miss Tepper’s whereabouts.

  But there was a clue, one I didn’t want to have.

  The drawers were full, every one of them. There were no clothes missing from Martha Tepper’s dresser.

  Martha Tepper had left town without so much as a change of underwear. She had left her jewelry, including the brooch that lay in Sue’s desk drawer. She left food in the cupboard and sheets on the beds. She had left good-byes unsaid, and disappeared.

  Rick and Rachel Gladstone wanted Martha’s things left in the house. Wouldn’t they need to send at least some of them to her? Didn’t she need clothes and underwear and her everyday jewelry in her new life?

  Another thought struck me, chilling me to the bone. Whoever had made Martha disappear might be the same person responsible for all that had gone wrong on this job.

  My hands shook as I closed the drawer and moved the boxes back in front of the dresser.

  Back home, I couldn’t relax.

  I rummaged through the closet and found my gi. I hadn’t worn it in several months, but today I needed the comfort of the traditional gear.

  I slipped into the pants and wrapped the jacket around my chest, tightening the belt.

  The suit settled on my body, calming me the way a child’s favorite blanket offers security and comfort.

  I don’t know how long I practiced. The second bedroom of my rental had a heavily quilted mat on the floor, and I spent the rest of the afternoon tumbling and twisting until my mind emptied, and I regained some control.

  My muscles screamed for rest, and I dropped to the mat. My ankle throbbed, reminding me of the punishment it had taken only a couple days earlier.

  I dragged myself to the shower and then fell into bed. I was too exhausted to think, too worn out to care about anything.

  As the song says, whatever gets you through the night.

  Working with Barry the next morning was a strain. We were both stiff and sore, and neither one of us was moving very fast.

  Worse, we were working in the basement renovating the waste lines, never a pleasant task.

  And we were working on a job where accidents had become a daily occurrence, in spite of all the safety precautions we took—which were extensive. One of Barry’s rules.

  As renovation jobs go, this was better than most. We were in a basement, not a crawl space full of bugs and dirt and who-knows-what-else. We had electric lights rather than flashlights and battery work lamps, and we were dry, not crawling in mud and rain puddles.

  But we were still working on pipes that ran overhead and we spent most of the morning reaching above our heads, disconnecting lines and fitting new pipes into the system.

  My arms were rubbery with fatigue and I wondered if Barry was ever going to call a break. I needed coffee, and maybe something to eat.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten more minutes. If Barry didn’t call it, I would.

  I watched him as he sweated the stretch of copper pipe I was holding in place. Although he would never admit it, he was hurting, too. Sweat beaded his face even though the basement was chilly, and the muscles in his arm quivered with the strain of holding them straight up.

  When the join was complete, we strapped the pipe to the joist and tightened the screws. There was still one more connection, and it was in a tight corner where there wasn’t much room to work.

  “We’ve got to move that piece of drywall,” Barry said, eyeing the corner. “I don’t know why they hung drywall before we were through down here, but it’s got to go if we’re going to get that last run in place.”

  I groaned. Like digging trenches and lugging pipe, taking down the sloppily nailed piece of drywall was the job of the apprentice.

  “Tell you what,” Barry said, sweetening the pot. “You get that down, it’s lunchtime—and I’m buying.”

  “I never turn down a free meal,” I answered. “But are we talking real food or a visit to Mayor McCheese?”

  Barry gave me a shocked look. “That is real food, girl! Don’t you knock it. You show me what you got, and if I’m really impressed, we’ll do Dee’s Lunch.”

  “Deal.”

  I picked up the pry bar from my toolbox and wedged the end into the seam of the drywall. It was a tight squeeze. I looked around for something to pound it in, and spotted a stout two-by-four. Just what I needed.

  I aimed the board at the end of the pry bar, and let fly. The bar moved a fraction of an inch, pulling up the drywall and spreading the seam open.

  Focus. Remember your training. Concentrate all your energy into the blow.

  There is a rule, somewhere, that tired people shouldn’t be allowed to operate tools. Even simple ones like a pry bar and a hunk of two-by-four.

  My concentration was fine. It was my aim that went awry. Instead of hitting the pry bar, my swing bounced off the edge of it. The pry bar fell to the floor, and I instinctively jumped away from the falling metal.

  Years of training had taught me how to land, but my ankle was still tender and my steel-toed boots were not designed for graceful moves. Instead of taking a step back, I twisted around and lost my balance.

  The end of the board rammed the drywall, punching a ragged hole in the wall. I slammed into the wall following the force of the blow, and my weight pushed against the two-by-four, dragging it down. The hole grew larger, a ragged tear down the sheet.

  I jerked to a stop when the board hit a cross member of the stud wall that supported the drywall.

  My breath came in short gasps, the aftermath of my sudden fall. I was still gripping the piece of two-by-four, my hand trembling with the backlash of an adrenaline surge. I couldn’t make my fingers move to release the board.

  Barry was next to me, although I had no memory of him moving. He put an arm around my waist and I leaned into him.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to work today,” he said. “Using the pry bar and a hunk of wood”—he gently unwound my fingers from around the two-by-four—“was a pretty crazy choice. And I was too beat to stop you.”

  “I told you, Bear,” I whispered, my voice too shaky to produce any volume, “this job is jinxed.”

  “I don’t believe in jinxes and neither do you.” He looked around the basement, as though he might find an explanation of the last few days. “But something is weird about this job, and I wish I knew what it was.”

  “I’m telling you,” I said. “It’s a jinx. Either that, or someone doesn’t want us here.

  “Do you think Miss Tepper has a ghost?”

  Barry smiled thinly but the expression didn’t reach his eyes, which remained dark and brooding.

  He bent down to examine the damage to the wall. “We’ll have to take care of this,” he said.

  I crouched down next to him, steadying myself with one hand on the wall. I peered into the hole, leaning close to see in the dark.

  Maybe I was looking for answers, too.

  What I wasn’t looking for was the wad of black plastic stuffed inside the stud wall.

  I’d read plenty of stories of people finding lost valuables and ancient treasures hidden in attics and basements.

  How cool would it be to find something valuable? With the way our luck had been running, it was more likely to be old newspaper clippings, or unpaid bills, or a misplaced trash bag.

  For a moment I let my imagination run free. It could be anything! Technically it would belong to Gregory Whitlock, or the Gladstones via Martha Tepper’s power of attorney, however the papers read on the house. But it would still be exciting to be the person who found it, whatever it was.

  “Barry, look at this!”

  I reached carefully through the hole and grasped the edge of the plastic. I started pulling gently, working the plastic through the ragged hole in the drywall.

  “Talk about sloppy.” I tugged, and the plastic began to emerge from the hole. It was black, and heavyweight, like an industrial trash bag. “Looks like the contractors missed a bag
of trash.”

  Barry shook his head in disgust. Some of the local building contractors were as meticulous as he was, but some were, well, not. It looked like the guys who did this job were in the “not” column.

  “I wonder if they were trying to get rid of some asbestos?”

  Asbestos abatement was a major issue in older buildings. The rules for removal and disposal were detailed, and the process was expensive and time-consuming. Contractors had been known to find creative means of disposing of the material, in order to avoid regulations and inspections they found intrusive.

  Barry took the bag into the middle of the basement, directly under the overhead light fixture, and worked the knot in the top of the bag loose.

  I leaned against the wall, waiting for him to inspect our discovery and trying to catch my breath. I was curious about the bag, but I was feeling a little unsteady, so I watched from a distance as Barry opened the top of the bag and peered in.

  He stood immobilized for several seconds, staring at the contents.

  “Georgie, you have your cell phone?”

  I patted my overalls, then pulled the phone from an inside pocket. “Right here.”

  “Call the sheriff.”

  “Why? Sheriff Mitchell doesn’t have anything to do with asbestos. That’s the DEQ, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not asbestos, Georgie. Call the sheriff. Now.”

  chapter 19

  Sometimes, you have to act first and ask questions later.

  I called the sheriff.

  While I listened to the ringing at the other end of the line, I walked over to Barry.

  He was still staring into the bag, and I tugged the top open enough to get a peek inside.

  What I saw hollowed my stomach, and my knees went a little wobbly again. I looked up at Barry, and the shock on my face probably mirrored the look on his.

  I reached into the bag, and Barry instantly batted my hand away. “Don’t touch anything!” he hissed.

  I yanked my hand back.

  In the bottom of the bag was what looked like a very dirty towel. It had once been white, or perhaps pale pink. Now it was covered with large brownish-red splotches.

  Spilled paint, I told myself. Or rust. But there was no brown or red paint anywhere in the house, and the churning in my stomach told me what my brain refused to admit.

  Blood. Lots of it.

  “Sheriff Mitchell here.”

  I had forgotten the phone clutched in my hand. When Sheriff Mitchell spoke, I jumped, my heart racing, and nearly dropped my phone.

  The reception in the basement wasn’t good, but I was too distracted to move.

  Instead, I shouted into the phone. “We need you here, Sheriff. We found something!”

  Sheriff Mitchell was clearly more accustomed to frantic phone calls than I was to finding bloody towels.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I’ll need to ask a couple questions, all right?”

  I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me over the phone. “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “First of all, where is here? And second, who is we?”

  “The Tepper place. The house, not the warehouse. And this is Georgiana Neverall.”

  “Georgiana? Wade Montgomery’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t bother to correct him about the girlfriend part.

  “Wade told me you were concerned about Martha. He said I might hear from you.

  “So, you say you found something?”

  There was a trace of something in his voice, skepticism maybe? What had Wade told him?

  “It looks like a bloody towel.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound very concerned. “And you said ‘we’ found it, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I snapped.

  Why wasn’t this man taking me seriously?

  “Who’s there with you, Miss Neverall?”

  “My boss, Barry Hickey. We’re working on the plumbing. Talk to him, if you don’t believe me.”

  I thrust the phone at Barry. “Here, you talk to him.”

  I was breathing hard, as though I had run several miles. Panic, fear, and anger battled for control of my emotions.

  Barry took the phone but he kept a tight grip on the bag.

  “Sheriff.” Barry spoke quickly. “There’s a situation here, and I think it needs your attention, pronto.

  “We found a bag hidden inside a wall. There appears to be a bloody towel or rag stuffed in the bottom of it.”

  He listened for a minute. “No, it isn’t paint and it definitely isn’t accidental. It was stuffed between the studs in the basement, behind a piece of fresh drywall.”

  He waited another few seconds.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll wait for you. And be careful coming down the stairs, there’s a broken step about halfway down. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

  Barry handed my phone back. “He’s on his way. Apparently your boyfriend said something to him, so he was expecting you to call.” He chuckled grimly. “He wasn’t expecting me to back you up, I don’t think.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” This time I did correct the designation.

  “Well, not after that,” Barry said.

  “Not at all,” I said hotly.

  Barry shrugged. “Well, clearly he told the sheriff something. But the man’s on his way. He said not to touch anything while we’re waiting.”

  Within a few minutes I could hear sirens approaching. They cut off suddenly, and several car doors slammed.

  A voice called outside the front door. “Sheriff’s department.”

  After a few seconds the door opened, and the tromp of booted feet echoed through the empty house overhead.

  “Anybody here?” a male voice called out.

  “Down here,” Barry answered. “In the basement.”

  Dark boots appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. The boots belonged to a tall man with a graying buzz cut and ramrod-straight posture, dressed in a sharply creased khaki uniform with a wide Sam Brown belt creaking at his waist.

  Fred Mitchell was an ex-Marine, and it showed.

  “Watch out for the broken step,” Barry reminded him.

  The sheriff stepped carefully over the splintered tread and turned to call back up to the men following him. “Broken step there. Baker, check it out, would you?”

  After that, everything got a little crazy.

  The sheriff immediately took possession of the plastic bag, though Barry seemed reluctant to relinquish control.

  A clean plastic tarp was spread on the basement floor and a deputy carefully upended the bag onto the tarp. The towel tumbled out and several pieces of metal spilled from inside the towel, tinkling against the concrete floor under the thin plastic.

  I’d watched enough crime shows on TV to know that they were shell casings, little tubes of tarnished brass.

  Sheriff Mitchell pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took a pen from his pocket. Using the point of the pen, he picked up the edge of the towel. As he did, I could see that there were several large, irregularly shaped spots, smeared and streaked across the surface of the towel.

  It looked like someone had used it to clean up blood.

  The sheriff looked up at Barry. “Show me where you found this.”

  Barry showed him the hole in the wall and said a tool slipped. To my relief, he didn’t explain exactly how the tool slipped or that I was the sole culprit.

  While they were talking, I heard a familiar voice at the top of the stairs, arguing with one of the deputies that he had to be allowed in the basement. Sheriff Mitchell had called him.

  Wade poked his head through the door at the top of the stairs. “Fred? Would you tell your deputy it’s okay to let me come down?”

  The sheriff waved at the deputy. “Let him by.”

  Wade hurried down the stairs, stepping gingerly over the splintered tread where Deputy Baker—according to Fred Mitchell—was inspecting the broken wood.

  Whe
n Wade reached the bottom of the stairs, he rushed over and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  Mitchell glanced over. “Hi, Montgomery.” His gaze moved over to me for a second. “Thought your boyfriend might want to know what happened,” he said before going back to his conversation with Barry.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I protested.

  Mitchell looked back and raised an eyebrow at Wade, but didn’t say anything.

  “We can talk about that later,” Wade whispered. “What I want to know is how you are?”

  “How do you think I am?” I shouted. “I’m right here, safe and sound—except that nobody wants to take me seriously. It’s not me you should be worried about.” I looked around at the group of men crowding the basement. “I’m not the one that’s been missing for weeks. And I’m not the one with bloody towels and shell casings hidden in my basement. Martha Tepper’s the one you should be worrying about.”

  “And I am,” Sheriff Mitchell said. His voice was quiet, but the air of authority was clear. This was the guy in charge, and everyone turned to listen to him.

  “As of now, I want this place secured while we test these.” He waved at the towel and the shell casings.

  He turned to Barry. “No more work, at least for a couple days, okay?”

  I groaned. “My mother is going to pitch a fit!”

  “Your mother?” The sheriff looked at me. “What does your mother have to do with anything?”

  “My mother is Sandra Neverall, of Whitlock Estates Realty. She and her”—I hesitated—“partner are the ones who commissioned the renovations on the house. They’ve been pushing to get the work done so they can resell it.”

  Barry looked from the wall to me, and back again. “I’ll call Whitlock,” he volunteered. “Tell him there’s a delay, and we’re going to switch over to the warehouse for a couple days.”

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Wade said, pulling me toward the stairs.

  Sheriff Mitchell looked over at Wade. “I’ll want to talk to her,” he told him, as though I wasn’t standing right there. “Can you bring her by my office later this afternoon?” He consulted the bulky watch on his wrist. “About three?”