Lead-Pipe Cinch

by Christy Evans

  “I know.” I felt bad for even bringing it up and it showed clearly in my tone.

  “Your secrets are safe with me.” Wade raised three fingers in a scout salute and made a solemn face.

  It was a serious promise, but I had to chuckle at his clowning around. He grinned back and glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  “If you’re okay,” he said, his voice serious once again, “I really should take off. Before someone calls your mother and reports that my car was here all night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Probably too late, Councilman Montgomery. I’d be willing to bet your reputation is already in tatters. And all for nothing, I’m afraid.”

  He recoiled in mock horror. “I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you! A respected City Councilman!”

  He chuckled. “You don’t think people would approve of my spending the night with the best-looking plumber in town?”

  Considering my dowdy bathrobe and general early-morning dishevelment, it seemed like a huge compliment. “Gee, thanks, Wade,” I said with a touch of sarcasm. “Since I’m the only female plumber in town, I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  He grinned at me, then his expression grew serious again. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can stay if you need me.”

  I shook my head. “Get out of here. You have better things to do than hang around and wait on me.”

  I headed to the living room, and he followed.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Wade, I really appreciate what you did. The last couple days have been incredibly stressful, and you gave me a chance to relax for a few hours. I’m much better this morning—a night’s sleep will do that for you—and you need to get home.”

  I took his jacket off the hook near the front door. “Thank you. It was exactly what I needed.”

  Wade shrugged into his jacket. He reached over and put his hands on my shoulders. “Anytime, Georgie. Call me if you need me.” He bent down and kissed my forehead. “Okay?”

  “Sure, Wade. And thanks again.”

  He started down the front steps, then turned back. “Don’t forget the dogs are outside.”

  The dogs got their treats, and I was pouring a second cup of coffee when the answering machine picked up again. The volume was turned low, and at first I ignored it, just as I had for the last couple days.

  When I heard Stan Fischer’s booming voice, though, I picked up. He’d been part of the board that ousted me, but Stan had been the one person who offered me a chance to get out of Samurai with some shred of dignity.

  “Hi, Stan. It’s Georgiana. How are you?”

  “Georgie Girl! Good to hear your voice! Wondered what had happened to you after you left S.F. I thought you might keep in touch, but nobody ever heard from you.” His voice dropped into a somber register and he went on. “Terrible thing about Blake. Terrible. When they first called me I thought it was an accident, but now the sheriff says he was murdered. Have you heard anything about that, Georgie Girl?”

  I cringed every time he used that name, but there was nothing I could do. He thought it was cute and told me I should take it as a compliment. Why, I wasn’t sure, but I had learned there were some things that weren’t worth arguing about with Stan Fischer.

  “To tell the truth, Stan, I was going to ask you the same question. I only just heard they were calling it a murder.” There wasn’t anything I could add.

  “I’m supposed to come out there and talk to the sheriff this morning,” Stan replied, “but I’d like a chance to see you before I do. You know, get the skinny on what the place is really like, maybe figure out what Blake was doing.”

  “I’d love to see you,” I answered. I didn’t have to even think about it. There was still a soft spot for Stan Fischer in spite of all that had happened.

  “How about you let an old man buy you breakfast? Anywhere in that burg serve a decent one?”

  I laughed, remembering Stan’s definition of a decent breakfast. Although he hadn’t worked on the pipeline in decades, he retained an addiction to caffeine, salt, and grease.

  Dee’s would be perfect.

  “Breakfast sounds fine, Stan. And it would be great to see you, but who’s this old man you’re bringing along?”

  I paused to listen to his answering guffaw. “And is there any reason this should be a private meeting?” I asked. It was the phrase he had used with me, the day he offered me the chance to resign.

  “None I can think of,” he answered. “Can you?”

  There were dozens, starting with not publicizing my connection with Samurai and the late Blake Weston. Dee’s was tiny, but it was gossip central for Pine Ridge.

  Too bad. Everyone was going to know soon enough, if they didn’t already. Now that Blake’s death had been ruled a murder, it would be the single biggest topic of conversation in town.

  All I could hope for was damage control. And talking to Stan Fischer was the first step in that process.

  “Not a one,” I lied. “There’s a place here in town that’s exactly what you like.”

  We spent a few minutes planning to meet at Dee’s. I started to give him directions, but he dismissed them. “Got a GPS in the rental car,” he said. “I’ll be able to find it, no problem.”

  I figured the time it would take Stan to drive out from his hotel. Traffic shouldn’t be as bad on Saturday, but I didn’t want to be late. Still, there was time enough to take a shower and make myself presentable.

  I slid into the next-to-last booth at Dee’s twenty-five minutes later. A couple other booths were occupied, but not by anyone I knew well. I’d grabbed a mug of coffee on my way past the counter, and told Dee a friend of mind would be along in a few minutes and we’d order when he got there.

  I picked up the local weekly, abandoned by an earlier customer on the end of the counter.

  A report on a zoning dispute filled the front page, spilling over onto page four. It was a sign of things to come. Another project like McComb’s would never get approval.

  I read the end of the article and glanced at a couple others. Typical small-town reporting: a local high school girl had been selected as an exchange student and was raising money to fund her trip; the grammar school would be closed on Thursday and Friday for parent conferences; a picture of Janis Breckweth handing an oversized check to Carl from Homes for Hope. Martha Tepper’s estate had been settled, and the check represented her bequest to the building fund.

  I flipped back to page one and scanned the rest of the week’s front-page stories. Blake’s death was a small box at the bottom of the page. He was identified as an out-of-town consultant for new residents Chad and Astrid McComb, and the article said the investigation into his death was ongoing.

  Nothing I didn’t already know.

  The new residents line did amuse me. Chad and Astrid had been working on the moat project for many months, and had pumped a lot of money into the local economy. They were well liked, and they treated everyone with respect. But until they had survived a couple winters in the relative isolation of a small town at the foot of a large mountain, they would remain “new” residents. Too many people before them had fled back to the city; they had to prove themselves to the locals.

  I looked up from the paper in time to see Stan Fischer come through the front door of Dee’s. He wore an expensive raincoat and hat I was sure cost more than I made in a week, and yet he looked completely at home in the tiny diner.

  I guessed wife number four—or was it five? I’d lost count a few years back, and there could have been more since I left—had tried to make him over, but the oil field roughneck still lived just below the spiffed-up exterior.

  It was reassuring to know that some things never change.

  Stan spotted me, and a wide smile spread across his broad face. As he walked back to where I sat, I stood up and greeted him with a hug.

  “Stan! It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too, Georgie. You, too.”

  We took a moment to scan the chalk
board behind the counter that held today’s menu and then stepped to the counter to give Dee our orders. Stan wanted the works: eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, and a side of pancakes.

  When we sat back down, he frowned slightly. “A sad business, this thing with Blake,” he said. “It’s really good to see you again, but I’d hoped it would be under better circumstances.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry about Blake. He was really good at what he did. I’m sure it’s a huge loss for you.”

  “For all of us,” Stan replied. He sipped his coffee before adding a large amount of cream, and several packets of sugar.

  “I was excited when he told me he’d found you, Georgie. And so was he. Said he was going to have a talk with you.”

  “About what? I saw him a couple times, but it seemed like all he wanted to do was make snide comments.”

  “He was a little defensive, I guess. Thought you wouldn’t want to talk to him after what he did. But I urged him to speak to you, to give you a chance to, I don’t know, maybe put the past behind you.”

  “I’ve put the past behind me, Stan, in case you hadn’t noticed. I moved almost a thousand miles away,” I exaggerated, “and I started a new career. Something that has nothing to do with computers, or security.”

  “And how’s that workin’ for you?”

  “Just fine.”

  Stan gave me a look that said he didn’t believe a word I said. He chewed his eggs and toast, and washed it down with a big gulp of sweet coffee before he prodded me.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I walked away, Stan. That’s what mattered. I jumped. I wasn’t pushed. And it didn’t take Blake Weston to make me know I made the right decision.”

  I was being defensive, but Stan was poking at scar tissue, and I wanted him to leave it alone.

  “Georgie”—he put down his fork and reached across to pat my hand—“do you mean to tell me you and Blake did not have a conversation about you coming back to Samurai?”

  All I could do was stare. There was no way Blake would have asked me to come back to Samurai, and there was absolutely no way I would have agreed.

  The whole idea was ridiculous.

  “What do you mean, come back to Samurai?”

  chapter 19

  “Just what I said. Blake said he was thinking we ought to ask you to come back to Samurai.”

  I took a bite of waffle. It tasted like sawdust, and I couldn’t swallow.

  “You know the industry, Georgie. Like sharks. Move or die. We have to keep moving, keep innovating, to stay competitive.”

  He picked up his fork and shoved a pile of hash browns into his mouth. When he finished chewing, he took another big gulp of coffee. “Blake said, and this is a direct quote, ‘No matter what happened with me and Georgiana, she was the most innovative thinker we had. We were foolish to let her go.’ ”

  I picked up my coffee and took a drink, forcing the clump of waffle down my throat. Blake had wanted me to come back? Blake? The man who had tried to provoke me into a fight in front of the entire crew at McComb’s? The guy who sneered at me in Tiny’s, when Chad told him I was working with the plumbing crew?

  That Blake?

  It made no sense.

  “He didn’t mean that.”

  “He most certainly did. Told me so himself when he called from up here, the night before he died. Said he was going to talk to you, that Samurai needed you, and he had to put the best interests of the company ahead of his personal concerns.”

  Stan shook his head. “I tried to tell you, office romances never work out.”

  Yes, Stan had tried to tell us exactly that when he arrived, but since Blake and I were already partners—personally and professionally—we had chosen not to heed his advice.

  I struggled to hold back a laugh, knowing the source of his wisdom. It seemed that several of the former Mrs. Fischers had come from exactly that origin. Of course he didn’t believe in romance in the workplace. It had worked so well for him, after all.

  “Well, he may have talked to you, Stan, but the man didn’t say a thing to me about Samurai. In fact, all he said was that he was here on a job for McComb. I don’t think he even mentioned Samurai directly. To tell the truth, I wondered if he was still working for you.”

  “He was—one of our best. And this McComb deal was important enough to deserve our best. A chance to expand, maybe even open a Northwest office. Something we’ve talked about for a long time.”

  I remembered the heady days when the customer demand was growing faster than the business. We were running full speed just to keep up. We had dreamed of expanding beyond the Bay Area. The Northwest was the natural first step, but we hadn’t moved in that direction before I left.

  “My problem now is, I don’t have anyone I can put into Blake’s spot here. We’re stretched thin when it comes to the really talented people. Just like we always were.”

  He signaled Dee with his coffee mug, and she shuffled over with a refill. “How was your breakfast?” she asked as she poured.

  “Before I answer that, will you answer a question for me?”

  Dee furrowed her brow and gave him a stern look.

  “One question?” Stan wheedled. He was a flirt, though he wasn’t very good at it. When you have his kind of money, you don’t have to be.

  Dee waited stoically, the coffee pot in her hand.

  “I think I’m in love. Are you married?”

  I had never in my life seen Dee blush. A rosy color crept over her cheeks and down her neck. She didn’t answer Stan, just waved dismissively, and walked away.

  “This is the best meal I’ve had in years,” he said. He looked down at his plate where a faint trace of egg yolk tinted the white surface a pale yellow, then back up at me. “And I don’t want to hear a word about calories or cholesterol or any of the rest of it.” He snorted. “The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Fischer thought she needed to reform my eating habits.”

  I wondered if this was the same Mrs. Fischer I had met. She had been a waitress before she retired to spend Stan’s money. She’d probably get a tidy settlement, as the others had, before he went looking for his next victim, er, spouse.

  Stan had that look in his eye—the one that said he was hatching a scheme that was going to make a lot of work for everyone involved. That usually meant a lot of work for him, too. And a tidy profit.

  It was a look that sent a shiver of anticipation through me. When Stan got that look, anything could happen.

  “If Blake had asked, about coming back to Samurai, what would you have said?”

  I stared in disbelief. “You are kidding, right? You know what I would have said. Not just no, but . . .”

  Stan chuckled. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, Stan. I was through with Blake, through with Samurai, through with the whole industry.

  “Blake could have stood by me against the board, and we might have been able to convince them we were right. But he saw which way the political winds were blowing and he made his choice.”

  “Then what if I asked you?”

  “You wouldn’t,” I answered without hesitation. “You still have to work with the board, and they wanted me out. I don’t think Blake would have done it, either.”

  “Then would you consider acting as a consultant for me? Just this one job. The board won’t even have to know. I’ll tell them I hired a local hotshot who was able to step in.” He took a last sip of coffee. “That much would be the truth.”

  “You mean the McComb job?”

  “Exactly! Blake was the best we had, but you were better, and we both know it. The hourly rate should be attractive, you don’t have to leave home, and you are already familiar with the site. Everybody wins.”

  For one insane instant I considered the offer. I could use the money, and as long as the board didn’t have to know who the “local hotshot” was I might be able to get away with it.

  Except that this was a specialized field. Innovation had moved at lightning
speed when I was up-to-date on the latest developments. There was no way I could hope to do the job Blake had been sent here to do.

  “I’m flattered, Stan. I really am. But it just wouldn’t work. I’m out of the loop—haven’t kept up with the field in a couple years. Everything I know is out of date, and there isn’t time for me to catch up—even if I wanted to.

  “You know that.”

  Stan smiled a little sadly. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I expected you to say. But you can’t blame a guy for trying, especially when I’d really like to have you back on the team.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks.” He had his wallet out, and dropped a handful of bills on the table. “And thanks for the breakfast.”

  “Thanks for the recommendation. Exactly what I wanted.”

  We stood up and Stan followed me to the sidewalk. There was no question which car was his. The Lincoln Town Car stood out on a street full of pickups.

  Stan looked at the neighboring trucks. “You get rid of the car, too?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Keep it garaged. A convertible doesn’t make a lot of sense in the rainy season.” I didn’t bother to explain that rainy season included most of the year.

  “Good. You deserved that car.” He clicked a remote and the Lincoln flashed its lights. Another click and the engine purred to life.

  “Where’s the sheriff’s office?” Stan asked. “I have to stop and talk to him before I go see the McCombs. I wish I knew what I was going to tell them.”

  I pointed to the corner. “Two blocks to the right.”

  He opened the car door, climbed in and opened the passenger’s window. He leaned across the seat. “Thanks, Georgie. I hope we can get together again before I have to go home. This shouldn’t take too long, but the board wants me to report back to them as soon as possible.”

  “That’d be great.