Drip Dead

by Christy Evans

  She had me there, though I wasn’t about to admit it. And how did she know what I was thinking? It was a mom talent that I thought should have gone away when I was no longer a teenager, but it hadn’t.

  I pulled a jar of premade spaghetti sauce from a bag and set it by the stove. Next to it I put a package of spaghetti noodles, some pre-sliced mushrooms, and a small package of Italian sausage.

  “Spaghetti sauce from a jar?” The disapproval was clear in her voice.

  “If we want to eat tonight instead of tomorrow,” I explained as I dragged a saucepan from the cupboard, “I have to take some shortcuts.”

  I dumped the sauce in the pan and put it on to heat, then got a frying pan and threw the sausage in.

  Mom puttered around the kitchen, making unnecessary small talk about dinner and fiddling with one thing and another while I cooked and drained the sausage and added it to the bubbling sauce.

  We were carefully avoiding the one subject that was foremost on both our minds: the death of Gregory Whitlock.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “I really am sorry, Mom.”

  She looked at me. Her expression said she didn’t understand what I meant, though I was sure she did. After several seconds she abandoned the attempt, her face crumpling momentarily with grief before she regained her usual iron control.

  “You never liked him, Georgie,” she said, her voice soft with a vulnerability she never displayed in public. “You must be”—she hesitated as though searching for the right word—“relieved.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I admit, Gregory wasn’t one of my favorite people, but this isn’t the time or place for that discussion. What’s important right now is you. You loved him. I want to be here for whatever you need.”

  “I’ve been through this before, Georgiana.” Her usual commanding tone was back, the moment of weakness buried once again. “It’s not easy, but you do what has to be done.”

  I wanted to ask her how she did that, how she buried her feelings. But just then the doorbell rang.

  “Watch this for me, would you please?” I said, hurrying to the front door.

  “I walked them,” Sue said as she handed me a shopping bag and unclipped the dogs’ leashes. “And they had dinner. Don’t listen when they tell you they haven’t.”

  I chuckled. Sue was a sucker for dogs of all kinds, and my two knew that well. “They gave you the sad starving-puppy eyes, didn’t they? You are such an easy touch.”

  I glanced in the bag. Flannel pajamas with subdued stripes. Mom would approve. I gave Sue a brief nod of thanks.

  “Hello, Sue,” Mom called from the kitchen. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Neverall.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sue and I had been best friends since we were kids, and even though she could refer to Mom as Sandra when we talked about her, she couldn’t bring herself to call her anything but Mrs. Neverall to her face.

  In the kitchen, Mom had somehow assumed control in the two minutes I’d been gone. The table was set with napkins carefully folded at each place, the garlic bread was in the oven, and pasta was boiling merrily on the stove.

  How did she do that?

  We made polite small talk for several minutes while Mom finished the bread and pasta and I tossed the bagged salad into a bowl and added a drizzle of Italian dressing.

  By the time we sat down to eat, however, we had exhausted all the carefully neutral topics. We served ourselves and began to eat in an increasingly uncomfortable silence.

  I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it before I said something—anything—to break the silence. My brilliant plan to have Sue help me through the first night of Mom’s stay wasn’t working.

  This was worse than I had imagined, and it was only the beginning. I wouldn’t last a week.

  I waited, hoping Mom would relax a little, would stop pretending there was nothing unusual about her having dinner at my house, or spending the night with me. Nothing unusual about finding her fiancé dead under her house.

  Not likely. Sandra Neverall had established the rules and she would expect everyone around her to live by them.

  Well, I didn’t have to play by her rules. This was my house, my dinner table, and I wasn’t going to be shoved back into the role of the dutiful daughter trying—and failing—to please her mother.

  “Mom,” I said, in what I hoped was a casual tone, “do you know what those boxes are that Gregory had under the house?”

  “Boxes?”

  “Yeah. There were a bunch of wooden boxes. Shipping crates of some kind. I wondered if you knew what he was storing under there.”

  Mom shook her head. “He wasn’t storing anything under the house.”

  “So you didn’t know they were there?” I countered, twirling pasta around my fork with a nonchalance I didn’t feel.

  “There wasn’t anything to know, Georgiana. Gregory wasn’t storing anything under my house.”

  I chewed for a moment, considering whether to press the issue. Sue shot me a warning look, but my curiosity was aroused.

  “Under the hallway, I think.” I thought for a minute, trying to picture what I’d seen. But all that would come back was the image of a misshapen lump and a pair of unmoving penny loafers. “I know they were there. I saw them.”

  I shoved away the thought of the other things I had seen under the house. I didn’t want to think about that again. Ever.

  Mom shook her head, her expression puzzled. “No, Georgie,” she said, slipping back into my childhood nickname. “Gregory has a nice big house of his own. There isn’t any reason for him to store anything under my house.”

  It didn’t take a brain trust to see where this was going. Mom truly did not know about the crates under her house. Sandra Neverall could be the Queen of Denial when she wanted to be, but this time she was clearly sincere.

  Which meant Gregory had stashed something under there without telling her. And that meant it was something he didn’t want her to know about.

  But what could he have wanted to hide from her?

  And why not keep the crates at his own house?

  But saying that to my mother wasn’t a good idea.

  We finished eating in silence.

  chapter 6

  Daisy stuck her cold nose against my face, demanding I wake up. I swatted her away and tried to roll over. The alarm hadn’t gone off. I didn’t need to get up yet.

  But instead of the expanse of my queen-size bed, I found my face shoved against the back of the sofa. Something twisted around my waist, defying my efforts to get comfortable, and the sharp aroma of fresh coffee assaulted my sleep-addled brain.

  There shouldn’t be coffee when I wasn’t awake yet. And why had I fallen asleep in my clothes on the couch?

  I propped myself up on one elbow, staring blearily around the living room. Something was very wrong here.

  The sound of the shower running in the bathroom brought the events of the previous day flooding back.

  I was sleeping on the sofa deliberately, wearing brand-new pajamas courtesy of Sue.

  And my mother was in my shower.

  I groaned and flopped back down on the sofa, bumping my head against the arm. Hard.

  I groaned again.

  This was never going to work.

  Daisy and Buddha stood at the edge of the sofa, looking at me. Their expressions said quite clearly that something wasn’t right. They didn’t know how to react to someone in their house while I was asleep.

  True, Wade had stayed one night following Blake Weston’s death, but our relationship hadn’t reached the bedroom stage, much less the sleepover stage. He had stayed on the sofa. And Wade was already a part of Daisy and Buddha’s pack. My mother wasn’t.

  I stumbled into the kitchen, where the coffee had finished dripping, and filled a heavy pottery mug from the carafe. Ignoring the pressure in my bladder, I wandered into my workout room and swapped Sue’s pajamas for underwear, a plain white T-shir
t, and a pair of no-name jeans. A clean pair of coveralls were already in the Beetle with my toolbox and my boots.

  The shower stopped.

  I waited several minutes, thinking Mom would come out of the bathroom at any moment. I let the dogs outside and watched them while I sipped the cooling mug of coffee. The warmth was comforting, and the caffeine was beginning to kick in.

  I hoped Mom would finish up in the bathroom soon. My rental house had exactly one bathroom. I was regretting that fact bitterly right now.

  After the dogs came in and had their breakfast, I was beginning to think my mother had taken up permanent residence in there.

  Finally I heard the door open, and I hurried toward the hall, anxious to take care of my morning routine. My short brown hair was still uncombed, and I needed to wash my face.

  Steam billowed into the hall, smelling of perfumed soap, expensive body lotion, and shampoo. Mom emerged from the cloud of steam wrapped in a heavy terry-cloth robe, the kind upscale hotels will sell to guests at a couple hundred bucks a pop.

  I scooted past her in the narrow hallway and shut the bathroom door. I was too desperate to make polite conversation.

  If anything, the steam was thicker in the tiny room, the smell of the soap and lotion nearly overwhelming in the enclosed space. I quickly did my business and emerged a few minutes later—along with the remnants of the steam cloud—my hair combed and my teeth brushed, carrying the empty coffee mug and as ready as I was going to be to face the day.

  Mom was waiting in the hallway, still in her bathrobe, a cup of coffee in her hand. Her hair was damp and she wore no makeup.

  “Is this the only bathroom?” she asked, annoyance creeping into her voice. When I nodded, she shook her head. “I guess I’m used to having my own. Gregory’s house has three, after all. We’ll have to work out a better schedule for the mornings.”

  My house, my bathroom—I’m practically dancing in the hallway waiting for her to get through, and she thought we needed a better schedule for the morning?

  This was never going to work.

  Mom was heading for the bathroom door again, and I was sure it would be another long visit, this time involving blow dryers, makeup, and several more mysterious beauty products.

  I didn’t miss having to do all that. All Barry expected of his crew was to be clean and neat. I’d had my days of high-maintenance hair and wardrobe in San Francisco, and I had happily left it all behind.

  “I’ve gotta go to work, Mom. There’s a spare key on the hook by the back door that you can take. Just make sure you lock up when you leave.” I waved my empty mug in her direction. “Thanks for making coffee. Call me if you need me.”

  I dropped the dirty mug in the sink on my way out.

  I was still working at the McComb castle, as I had been on and off for over a year. Chad and Astrid McComb were prime examples of the Northwest species known as Microsoft millionaires. Young and brilliant, they had devoted many years to the high-tech firm that called the Northwest home. Their reward for immersing themselves in their careers 24/7 was stock options and profit participation that allowed them to retire in their forties and do almost anything they wanted.

  They wanted a castle, and they had the money to make it a reality. The death of Blake Weston in their under-construction moat had tarnished the dream for a while. But now that the moat was finished and the structure was nearing completion, they were eagerly looking forward to moving in.

  Sean Jacobs, the crew chief, had given me the job of installing the kitchen fixtures. I considered it a major compliment. It had taken two years of working harder than any man on the crew, but I had gained Sean’s respect. For a guy with ex-wife issues, he’d come a long way.

  I arrived at the job site before the rest of the crew. I’d always relished those few minutes of peace and quiet before the workday started. When I was running Samurai Security it was my most productive time of day; no interruptions, no phone calls, no meetings and appointments. I accomplished more in the two hours before my employees arrived than I did in the other twelve.

  Now I leaned against the fender of the Beetle, sipping a latte from the drive-through and watching the forest around the castle come to life.

  Chad and Astrid were building their castle outside the urban growth boundaries. It was the only way they could get permits for turrets and a moat, and even then they had spent almost as much on legal wrangling as they had on construction. But as a result, they were in the middle of several square miles of undeveloped foothills covered with tall evergreens and oak trees.

  The sun was bright, and a warm breeze carried the tang of pine needles. Birdsong drifted through the clear morning air, and I watched a couple squirrels chase each other up a tree. I sighed contentedly, savoring the moments of isolation and peace.

  Within minutes all of that dissolved into the noise and bustle of a busy construction site. Pickups growled up the hill carrying workmen, tools, and supplies, their tires crunching in the gravel parking pad at the top.

  Sean’s truck pulled up next to me. Parking on the castle side of the moat was limited and reserved for heavy loads like fixtures and building materials that were trucked across the main bridge. The crews parked outside and walked across a small footbridge.

  “Ready to finish that kitchen?” Sean called over the top of the Beetle.

  I nodded and grabbed my toolbox. Time to get to work.

  Early in my plumbing career I had realized that plumbers spent a lot of time under sinks or under houses. The kitchen assignment meant I was working under the sink. It was much nicer than crawling under a house.

  Especially a house with a body under it.

  I shoved aside thoughts of Gregory and focused on the job at hand.

  The dishwasher was in place, ready for me to hook up, along with the garbage disposal, and there were three different sinks to connect. I had plenty to keep me occupied.

  I started with the hot water supply valve and hose. With the valve in place and the hose tightened onto the valve fitting, I threaded the supply and drain hoses through the opening in the cabinet wall next to the sink.

  I had just crawled under the sink and worked myself into position to reach the hoses and connect them when I heard a heavy tread moving across the empty kitchen.

  Occasionally the electrical or drywall crews had to interrupt my work as they made changes, and I expected to see a pair of workmen’s boots.

  Instead I saw a pair of spit-polished black oxfords. No one on a construction site wore a pair of shoes like that—they belonged with a uniform, and I instantly realized who they belonged to. It was my plumber super-power: I recognized people by their shoes.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” I called from under the sink, without bothering to look any closer. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  I saw the shoes flex and heard the creak of leather as Fred Mitchell crouched down and peered under the sink. “You could come in and make your statement, Miss Neverall.”

  There was a chuckle in his voice that belied the overly formal address, and although he didn’t crack a smile there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Oh, sh-oot.” I bit back the expletive that had nearly escaped. One of Barry’s rules was no foul language on the job. He was probably the only man in the construction trade on the planet that didn’t swear a blue streak, but he said it was disrespectful of the clients, so his employees didn’t swear on the job. Even when the clients weren’t around.

  I slid out from under the sink and effortlessly pulled myself into a sitting posture. Amazing what two years of crawling under sinks could do for your abs. “Sorry, Sheriff. I got distracted trying to get my mother settled and I just completely forgot.”

  I glanced at the cheap plastic watch on my wrist—never wear a good watch when you’re working on pipes, a lesson I’d learned the hard way—and calculated how long the current job would take. “If I work through lunch I should be through about one thirty,” I offered. “How about if I come by
your office before I go home?”

  “That will be fine.” The sheriff paused, and a look of genuine concern crossed his face. “How is your mother, Georgie? That must have been quite a shock . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving a question hanging in the air.

  I couldn’t think of a way to really explain that she was being her usual tightly controlled self and I had no real idea how she was beneath the calm façade. “She just found out her fiancé is dead, she’s been thrown out of her own house, and her office has to be a complete mess with Gregory’s death.” The word still stuck in my throat, but I was getting used to it. “How do you think she is?”

  My tone was sharper than I intended. Clearly the situation was getting to me. I could only imagine how it felt to my mother.

  “Sorry,” I added. “It’s a strain,” I said more calmly. “She hasn’t talked about it, but I know it’s affecting her.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I’m going to have to talk to her soon,” he said.

  “I know.” It was my turn to shrug. I waved a hand toward the sink. “Well, I better get back to this, if I’m going to come by the office this afternoon.” I turned to crawl back under the sink. “Unless there was something else?”

  The sheriff looked as though he wanted to say more, but he just shook his head. His Sam Brown belt creaked as he straightened up. “Go back to work. I’ll see you at the office about one thirty.”

  He hesitated for a few seconds longer before he turned and strode out of the kitchen. I heard him exchange a greeting with one of the painters as he passed through the dining room.

  It had been an odd visit. He acted as though he wanted to ask more questions, yet he had really only reminded me to come by the office and make my statement.

  I shook my head and went back to work.

  I was sure I’d find out soon enough what was on his mind.

  chapter 7

  I finished early and decided I needed lunch before I faced the sheriff.