Drip Dead

by Christy Evans

  Gregory’s house was one of the largest. A three-car garage stopped short of the side fence, leaving room for a boat or RV to park next to it. Gregory had opted for the boat, a luxury craft whose hull had never even touched the water before its owner was killed.

  The front yard was a tiny patch of lawn so green it looked artificial. Since the yard had been bare dirt only a couple weeks earlier it was probably an instant lawn.

  I parked at the curb and peered at the house. The front entry was only a few yards from the street. Yellow tape crisscrossed the entry and a notice was posted on the front door. The print was too small to be read from the street, except for the large red letters that said “Warning! Do Not Enter.”

  Across the street a couple tried to hide their curiosity as they planted flowers in their own patch of bare dirt. A few doors down a teenager with a hose and bucket washed a late-model Beemer, and a block over I could hear the ring of hammers as a construction crew took advantage of the Saturday sunshine.

  I was attracting attention just sitting in the car. Attention I didn’t need. I wondered if the ’Vette might look more at home in this neighborhood, but dismissed the idea. The’Vette stood out no matter where I went.

  There was nothing to do but start the engine and pull away. If I wanted to check out Gregory’s house, this wasn’t the way to do it.

  The only other clue I had was the wine, and I didn’t know a thing about wine. There were lots of wineries in Oregon and they were supposed to be good. So why would Gregory be getting cases shipped to him from Paris?

  I could do an Internet search and I probably should. But that wouldn’t tell me about the local wine scene. For that I needed to talk to someone who lived in Pine Ridge. Someone who knew everyone in town.

  Paula.

  The library was a small clapboard building on the corner of the high school campus. Paula had started doing the preschool story hour as a volunteer when her kids were little. Eventually her volunteer career led to a job, which led to her present position as library director.

  Pine Ridge was a small town with a tiny library. But thanks to an active interlibrary system, it had access to every collection in the state, and the residents of Pine Ridge took advantage of that connection.

  When somebody in Pine Ridge wanted to know about a subject, Paula was the person they turned to. Even in the current age of online searches and Internet databases, Paula was a popular source of information.

  Technically the library was only open for a few hours on Saturday morning. But Paula Ciccone didn’t operate on technicalities, and neither did her library. She firmly believed a library should be open all the time, and unless she was out of town it was likely she would be there with the doors open. I think she would have tried to keep it open twenty-four/seven if she could convince the City Council.

  Sure enough, Paula’s car was in the lot at the side of the building and the door was open to the soft afternoon breeze.

  Paula looked up and smiled a greeting when I walked in. She was sitting at the computer behind the tall checkout counter, logging in books. The return basket was on the desk next to her terminal instead of in its usual spot on the counter.

  “Be with you in a sec, Georgie,” she called. “Just got a couple more.”

  As if to underscore her words, she lifted the last few books from the basket and pushed it across the desk.

  I wandered back into the stacks, scanning titles. After my licensing exam maybe I could read something besides textbooks and plumbing manuals. I’d have to ask Paula for some recommendations.

  I heard Paula’s chair scrape back from the desk, and the rustle of the basket being returned to its spot on the counter. A minute later Paula came up behind me.

  “Good to see you, Georgie,” she said, hugging me. Paula hugged people the way most people shook hands. She said everyone needed a hug now and then and some people even deserved them. Deserved or not, everyone got a hug from Paula Ciccone.

  “What can I do for you?”

  I winced. “That obvious, huh?”

  She laughed. “Judging from the scowl on your face, something important’s brewing. What can I do to help?”

  I reached up and smoothed my hands over my face, as though I could wipe away the worries. “You can tell me what you know about wine.”

  “Wine?” She moved a few steps back and ran her hand along a shelf, tracing the line of numbers on the book spines.

  “Here.” She pulled a thick volume off the shelf. “This ought to answer your questions.”

  I took the book from her and held it against my chest. “This should help,” I said. “But I need to know who in town really knows his wine.”

  “Not me,” she said. “Barry and I are mostly beer drinkers.”

  Paula moved toward the little kitchen at the back of the library. “Coffee?” she called over her shoulder. “I need to think about this.”

  I accepted the cup she poured me and followed her back up to her desk. “Hang on a sec while I check,” she said, tapping the keyboard. I leafed through the book she’d given me while I waited, trying to contain my impatience.

  I was rewarded with a muttered “There you are,” and a satisfied grin from Paula. She looked up from her computer and grinned. “I don’t know much about wine, but I know someone who does.

  “He’s actually kind of a wine snob, to tell the truth. He started checking out books on wine a few years ago, and he’s had me get several on interlibrary loan.” She rolled her eyes. “He can hardly talk about anything else, and he always has to give me a detailed report of his latest find. But everybody needs a hobby, I guess.”

  “Can I talk to him? Do you know where he is?”

  “Let me call him first and be sure he’s okay with me giving you his name and number. I know”—she shook her head—“it’s not like I’m giving you his medical records or something, but I’d still feel funny if he didn’t want anybody to know his private business.”

  Paula gave me a puzzled look. “Why is this so important all of a sudden? I never knew you to care much about wine. What gives? Is your mother driving you so crazy you need to drink? I’d have thought hard liquor would be more to the point.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s about Gregory. Those boxes under the house were cases of wine, and I need to find out why they were there.”

  “Are you sure you want to get into this?” Paula shook her head. “The sheriff won’t like it, Georgie. Just let him do his job. He’ll get to the bottom of whatever it is.”

  “Look, I’m not interfering. But I have every right to know what happened to Gregory, if only for my mom’s sake. If I can figure out who did this, she can move back home. I can’t take her living with me. I can’t. I really can’t.”

  “Of course you can. You lived with her for years while you were growing up. Meanwhile, Fred Mitchell is quite capable of solving this thing. Why can’t you let him?”

  “Because, Paula. I have a stake in this. I didn’t like the guy, but he was almost”—I nearly choked on the word—“my stepfather.”

  She looked skeptical.

  “And the sooner this gets resolved, the sooner my mother can go back to her own house.” I pleaded with her. “Please, Paula. It’s been two days and I am already losing my mind.”

  Paula’s mouth twitched. I knew I’d gotten to her.

  She nodded. “Okay. But I still have to call him first.”

  It didn’t sound to me like the guy was very private about his hobby if he was bending Paula’s ear in the middle of the library. But that was Paula, considerate of everyone.

  I agreed to her terms.

  Mom wasn’t home when I pulled into the driveway. I hoped it was a good sign that she was busy closing a deal. It would be a much-needed boost for her, and for Whitlock Estates.

  The laptop was where I had left it, tempting me to try again. But my mother could be home any minute and I didn’t want a repeat of this morning’s panic. I would have to wait.

  Instead I
dragged out my books and notes and tried to study.

  Mom still wasn’t home when I left for dinner.

  chapter 15

  When I got to Tiny’s, a few couples were already using the postage-stamp-sized dance floor and the Saturday-night crowd was warming up for a long night.

  Tiny’s was that kind of joint. The clientele was locals and everyone knew everyone else, and on weekends most of the population of Pine Ridge showed up sometime during the night.

  The over-twenty-one population anyway.

  When I was a kid Tiny’s was a forbidden place, full of secrets. Now I knew better; it was nothing more exotic than a local tavern with fried food and draft beer.

  Wade saw me come in. He smiled warmly, waving me over to the table he’d staked out in the back, away from the jukebox. Two frosty mugs waited on the table.

  I smiled back and made my way through the crowd, pausing occasionally to say hello to people I knew. I was part of this town now, and I liked it.

  I had been part of Pine Ridge before, but then I had been Doc Neverall’s daughter. Now I was an adult with my own identity and my own relationships.

  I still didn’t know exactly where Wade fit in that identity. He had been my high school sweetheart for a few months—before the infamous “complicity” episode—and we’d been dating since I returned to Pine Ridge. But we were still taking it slow and trying to find our way.

  There was something between us. How much of a thing? I wasn’t sure, though I suspected it was becoming a big thing. Still, I wasn’t sure Wade deserved my poor track record when it came to romance.

  Blake Weston’s death still weighed on my mind. I had been willing to believe the worst of him. I had been wrong and Blake died before I could give him the apology he deserved.

  Worse, if I hadn’t believed the lies Stan Fischer, my old mentor at Samurai, told me, maybe Blake wouldn’t have been killed.

  For now, though, Wade Montgomery and I were spending some time together and trying to figure out if a lady plumber and an accountant/City Councilman were a good match.

  I was beginning to hope they were.

  I made it to the table and greeted Wade with a hug. “Thanks,” I said. I slid into the seat next to him and shrugged out of my Windbreaker, draping it carelessly over the back of the chair.

  It would be a good night for crowd watching, and with our backs to the wall we had a view of the room and the front door.

  I picked up the mug and took a long drink. The cold beer slid down my throat. The chill spread through my stomach and I realized I hadn’t eaten since the donuts that morning.

  “Did you order?” I asked.

  “Of course! Chicken and fries, right?”

  I nodded. Tiny’s had the best chicken fingers I’d ever tasted, and I’d been looking forward to them ever since Wade suggested them.

  The jukebox was cranked up but we were far enough away to talk without shouting. I decided no one could hear our conversation.

  “Wade, can I ask you something?”

  His face clouded up. “Ask all you want. But you know there are questions I won’t answer.”

  I nodded. Wade was famous around town for his discretion. He was the accountant for many of the individuals and businesses in Pine Ridge and he was proud that he had earned their trust. He wouldn’t do anything to endanger his reputation.

  “Fair enough. You know I witnessed Mom and Gregory’s prenup, so I know a lot—way more than I wanted to know, to tell the truth—about their finances. Mom insisted that I needed to read everything before they signed it. She said since I was an only child I should know what was what.”

  “I agreed with her.”

  I shot Wade a hard look. “You knew?”

  He shrugged. “She asked me to explain a couple things before she showed them to you. Just to clarify some terms. Wanted to be sure she understood exactly what she was showing you.

  “I told her I thought it was a good idea for her to be straight with you about her finances. I didn’t point out that she should have done that with you years ago when your dad died. I think she knew that and was trying to avoid making the same mistake this time.”

  Wade colored and covered his face with one hand as though he couldn’t believe the blunder he’d made. “That’s not what I meant. Not that this was the same situation, though I guess it is now.”

  I reached over and pulled his hand away. “I know what you meant. Don’t worry about it. This is way different.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Anyway”—I plunged ahead—“there was this thing on the list of investments called Veritas Partnership. It was something of Gregory’s, one of the few things he wasn’t putting in joint ownership.”

  Wade nodded.

  “That struck me as kind of strange. They were pooling most of their assets, except Mom was keeping the house and Gregory was keeping this Veritas thing, whatever it was.”

  Wade cocked his head to one side and glanced around the room. He took a sip of his beer, looked back at me, and shrugged.

  “People choose to maintain separate property for a lot of reasons, Georgie. Why did your mom keep the house separate? Did she say?”

  “Because I’m buying it. She said something about her not wanting anyone else to be involved in a transaction between the two of us. Said that part was nobody else’s business.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing! Gregory didn’t have any family. Mom told me he was an only child and his parents died several years ago. His ex-wife remarried some big exec and they live in Japan or Hong Kong or something, and he never had any kids. So that has nothing to do with it.”

  What my mother had actually said was “We’re Gregory’s family now,” which had completely creeped me out. It was even creepier now that Gregory had been murdered.

  “Maybe not. But there could be a lot of other reasons.” He shrugged elaborately and held his hands out to his sides. “Maybe it was something your mother didn’t want to be part of, or maybe they disagreed on how to handle whatever investment Veritas held. Or maybe it wasn’t Gregory’s decision at all. Did you ever think of that?”

  Wade’s expression was deliberately neutral. He didn’t say anything more, just sat back and waited while I thought about what he’d said.

  “So you’re telling me Gregory didn’t have control of Veritas, and he couldn’t make my mother a part of it.”

  Wade widened his eyes in a parody of innocence. “Me?” He put a hand against his chest. “Did I say that? I don’t think so. I was just speculating about the reasons any random person might choose to keep a piece of property separate in a prenuptial agreement.

  “I never said that was the reason a specific person, like Gregory Whitlock, made that choice.”

  His denial was so phony it was laughable. But it was a denial. If anyone ever asked, I could truthfully say that Wade had told me nothing about Gregory Whitlock’s financial affairs. Or about Veritas.

  I wanted to laugh, but I went along. “Why, you’re quite right, Mr. CPA Montgomery. You didn’t mention Mr. Whitlock even once. The only person you mentioned by name was my mother.” I nodded in his direction and raised my glass. “To your discretion.”

  Our food arrived, the chicken radiating near-volcanic heat. The heady aroma of hot grease and salt assaulted my senses. My mouth watered. I fanned a couple fries and popped them in my mouth.

  I instantly regretted it.

  A quick gulp of beer cooled my mouth.

  “Hungry?” Wade asked, arching one eyebrow.

  He knew that annoyed me because I couldn’t do it. As a teenager I’d stood in front of the mirror for hours trying to make just one brow arch without success. Both brows shot up making me look like a startled owl. It was a lost cause.

  I pushed the food a few inches away, as though that would lessen the temptation. I spread a napkin on the table and picked up one fry at a time with my fingertips, dropping them onto the napkin individually so they could cool to a
safe eating temperature.

  While I waited I went back to my questions. “Okay, you didn’t tell me anything. I get that. But I’m guessing that Veritas was more than just Gregory. And I’m guessing my mother wasn’t one of the others. But just what is Veritas? If there are other investors, it must still be going.”

  Wade nodded for me to go on.

  “And what kind of a name is that anyway? Veritas!” I held up a hand to forestall a reply. “I don’t expect you to answer that one. It was a rhetorical question. I know it’s Latin for truth, but how pretentious is that? The only thing I can figure is the old saying ‘En vino veritas,’—‘In wine, truth.’ It seems like the kind of name Gregory would give a wine company.”

  The fries had cooled enough to handle and I popped a couple in my mouth. I knew my mother was right and I couldn’t continue to eat like this forever without ballooning into something resembling the Goodyear blimp, but Tiny’s fries were worth every nutritional hit I took.

  Wade took a bite of chicken before he replied. “I suppose someone might make that connection.”

  “It would be interesting to know who else was involved with Veritas. They might know something important.”

  Wade shook his head. “I’d be curious to know, too.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “I didn’t work for Veritas,” he said around a mouthful of chicken.

  Another question was forming when I saw Sue come through the front door and look around. She spotted us in the back, waved, and headed our direction.

  Question time was over.

  If your showerhead is running slow, or the water flow is erratic, try cleaning the showerhead with vinegar to remove the mineral buildup that is the likely culprit. Remove the showerhead and soak it in a bowl of vinegar overnight, then rinse it in warm water, check to see the blockage is removed, and reinstall it. If you can’t remove the showerhead, try treating it in place. Fill a sturdy plastic bag with vinegar and fasten the filled bag over the showerhead with a rubber band or two, making sure that the vinegar is soaking the bottom of the showerhead. Leave it on overnight, remove it the next morning, and run the shower to clean the vinegar from the showerhead. The flow should be markedly improved.