Drip Dead

by Christy Evans

  —A Plumber’s Tip from Georgiana Neverall

  chapter 16

  Sue slid into a seat across the table from me. “Wade said you’d be here so I thought I’d crash the party.” She grinned and snagged a fry from my basket. “Oooh, still hot. Is my timing good or what?”

  She munched happily and grinned at me. “So what’s new in Sandra world?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Nothing’s new. It’s all the same stuff.” I sighed. “I just wish I could have my house back.”

  Sue flagged down a waitress and ordered her own beer. She turned back to me with a knowing grin. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know this,” she said, “but you just might get your wish.”

  “Really? You mean it?”

  I practically shouted, and Sue quickly shushed me. I glanced around, but the Tiny’s crowd was getting noisier with each passing minute. No one had noticed.

  “I was just in Fred’s office,” she continued. “I stopped to see if he wanted to come with me.”

  Annoyance flashed through me. Fred Mitchell was the reason I was in this predicament to begin with. Having dinner with him wasn’t on my list of fun things to do with a Saturday night.

  “He said he was busy and he couldn’t, but maybe he’d try to catch up with me a little later, so you don’t have to be like that. Anyway, he’s not trying to make you miserable.”

  “Well, he’s doing a heckuva job for a guy who’s not even trying,” I muttered.

  “Oh, stop whining,” Sue teased.

  “You’d whine, too, if you had Sandra Neverall in your house.” I crossed my arms over my chest and lowered my chin. I knew I looked like a pouty child, and it was how I felt. The adult Georgiana knew Fred was just doing his job and even felt sorry for him, but the kid Georgie still resented her mother’s forced intrusion.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! When I was leaving he got a phone call. I was outside the office and I could hear him talking. I don’t know who was on the phone, but I heard him ask if it meant he could release the crime scene.

  “The crime scene in question is your mom’s house, Georgie. If he can release the crime scene, then you get your wish to have your house back.”

  “That is probably the best news I’ve had all week.”

  “Promise me you’ll act surprised? I’m sure I’m not supposed to know, and I’m really sure I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

  I nodded, grinning widely.

  The waitress appeared with Sue’s beer, and I was so happy with the news she’d brought me I paid for the beer and left a hefty tip.

  I was going to get my life back!

  Be careful what you wish for.

  We were celebrating my impending release with another round of beers—on me—when my cell phone rang. The phone was in my jacket pocket and I couldn’t actually hear it over the noise of the crowd and the jukebox, but I felt it buzzing against my back.

  The number wasn’t familiar, though it was local, and the two most likely people to call me were sitting within a few feet. Still, I hadn’t heard from my mom since early morning. Maybe she had a phone problem and was calling from a landline.

  I flipped open the phone.

  “Georgiana? Georgiana, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I rolled my eyes. Wade grinned, and Sue chuckled softly. “You called my cell phone, who did you think it would be?”

  “I need you. Right now. You have to come down here.” There was genuine anger in her voice, an emotion she seldom indulged.

  “Where is here, Mom? And what do you need?”

  “I need you to get me out of here!”

  “Where?” Even taking into account what had happened to Gregory, my patience with her demands was growing thin. Whatever she was mad about, it wasn’t my fault and I wasn’t going to let her take it out on me. “If you really need my help, Mother, you need to tell me what you need and where you are. And you need to ask nicely.”

  I felt an instant of triumph at being able to turn one of her lectures back on her.

  There was a moment of silence. Sandra Neverall didn’t apologize easily, but I could be patient.

  When she finally spoke the anger had turned into an icy fury more intense than I had ever heard. And I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

  “I’m at the sheriff’s office, Georgiana. These sons-of-bitches just arrested me. They think I killed Gregory.”

  chapter 17

  I heard a man in the background tell Mom her time was up, and the connection ended abruptly. I was left listening to dead air.

  “Georgie?” Wade put his arm around me. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is your mother all right?”

  I shook my head and buried my face in Wade’s shoulder.

  It couldn’t be true.

  I pulled away and glared at Sue. “Is this your idea of a joke? Telling me my mom could go home, and then this! It’s not funny!”

  Sue stared, her eyes wide. “What?”

  “Do you think this is a funny joke for you and your boyfriend to cook up? Come in here with your big secret and let me think everything was going to get better? Huh?”

  “What are you talking about? That was your mom, right? What has Fred got to do with it?” Sue was bewildered by my abrupt mood change, and she looked like she was about to cry. “What happened?”

  Wade gripped my shoulder and pulled me around to face him. “Georgie.” His voice was low and hard. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I glanced at Sue and back at Wade, instantly ashamed of the wild accusations I’d thrown around. Sue was my best friend.

  I shook my head and buried my face in Wade’s shoulder again. I was afraid I was going to cry. I hated to cry, especially in front of people.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said to Wade’s shoulder. “I’ll explain when we get outside.”

  I felt Wade move his head and look in Sue’s direction. I didn’t dare look or I would lose it.

  “Okay,” Wade said softly.

  Without looking at either of them I grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair and pushed through the crowd to the door. I didn’t look back until I was in the parking lot leaning against the roof of the Beetle.

  Sue stopped a few feet away and Wade stood between us like the referee at a prize fight.

  “You better tell us what that was all about, Georgie,” Wade said.

  I laid my arms across the Beetle’s roof and rested my forehead against them. The metal was cold against my arms. It felt good.

  I worked to control my breathing. Slow deep breaths, in and out, practicing the martial arts techniques that allowed me to control my temper.

  Most of the time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You have to know I didn’t mean any of those things.” I took another deep breath. “Me and my damned temper.”

  “Swearing, Georgie? Is it that bad?” To my immense relief, I heard a faint whisper of amusement in Sue’s voice. Because of Barry, I didn’t swear on the job, so I stopped swearing off the job, too.

  “Yeah, Sue. It is. It really is.”

  I pushed myself away from the car and turned to face my two best friends. They had stood by me when I’d been a suspect in Blake’s murder; they would stick by me now.

  “Fred is involved, Sue. I’m sorry for what I said, but he is involved.” I drew another deep breath and slowly let it out. “He just arrested my mom for Gregory’s murder.”

  The stricken look on Sue’s face was enough proof for me. She hadn’t known anything about Sheriff Mitchell’s plan to arrest my mother.

  Wade wrapped me in his arms and held me tight, offering the comfort of his embrace. I felt Sue move closer and her arms wrapped around me.

  How could I have doubted her even for a second?

  “I am such a jerk,” I said.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Sue answered.

  “So what are we going to do?” That was Wade, always practical.

  I wished I had a good answer.


  “I guess the first thing I need to do is go to the sheriff’s office and find out what’s going on.”

  I dug in my pocket for my car keys, but Wade reached for them and stuffed them in his jacket. “I’ll take you. We can come back for your car later, or Sue and I can come get it. You’re not driving right now.”

  I didn’t argue.

  I walked into the sheriff’s office with Wade and Sue on either side of me. It felt like there should have been Western-movie-showdown music in the background as we pushed through the front doors and moved across the lobby.

  The deputy at the desk spotted us and picked up the phone. Before I could give him my name, Fred Mitchell emerged from the back.

  “Come in, please,” he said, opening the door into the offices.

  He didn’t say anything about my companions and they stuck with me. If he didn’t want them along he was going to have to throw them out. He showed us to a private office instead of the bare interview room where I’d been the day before, and waved us into a row of side chairs facing the desk.

  Sheriff Mitchell took his place behind the desk. He looked even more tired and worn—if that was possible—than the last time I’d seen him. He didn’t meet my gaze.

  Silence grew until it filled the room. No one wanted to speak first.

  I bit back my anger and tried to calm my breathing. I couldn’t afford to unleash my temper on the man who was holding my mother in a jail cell.

  “I’m sure I know why you’re all here,” the sheriff said. “My deputy apparently allowed your mother unauthorized access to a telephone. That’s unfortunate, but”—he shrugged, his shoulders barely moving as though he was too tired to expend the energy—“things happen.”

  “The prosecutor’s office has filed charges against Sandra Neverall in the death of Gregory Whitlock,” he went on. “She’ll be arraigned on Monday morning. In the meantime, she will be held here in Pine Ridge, so long as there are no other prisoners.”

  I remembered when the sheriff had arrested the Gladstones; Rachel had been jailed in Portland because Pine Ridge didn’t have facilities for both male and female prisoners.

  There was something in the sheriff’s speech that sounded rehearsed. I was sure he’d said similar things many times, though I doubted he mentioned murder very often. I replayed his statement in my head, examining his words.

  It was what he hadn’t said that caught my attention. He said the prosecutor had filed charges, not that his office had arrested Mom.

  “She’ll need a lawyer, Miss Neverall. I would suggest you might be in a better position than she is to look for a good one.”

  “Can I see her?” I asked. It was the first thing I trusted myself to say.

  “I’ll arrange it,” he answered. “Most places have rules and regulations about visitors and such. But since she’s the only prisoner I don’t see why not.”

  He stood up and walked around the desk. “If you want to wait here, I’ll see what I can do.”

  The minute he was out of the office I turned to Wade. “Do you know a good lawyer? The only ones I’ve heard of around here were the Gladstones. And since they’re in prison for killing Martha Tepper and trying to kill me . . .”

  “No trial lawyers,” he answered. “Most of the guys I work with specialize in trusts and estates, that sort of thing. But I’m sure I can get you some names.”

  “What can I do, Georgie?” Sue asked.

  I turned to look at her. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I need to do besides find her a lawyer as fast as possible.” I wanted to ask her about what Fred Mitchell has said, but I didn’t want to talk about it in his office.

  I knew how much he liked his little recorder.

  The sheriff returned quickly and motioned for me to follow him. He led me to an area where I had never been before: the jail cells.

  The Pine Ridge sheriff’s station was a modern facility. The cells were more like rooms, except the doors had heavy locks and the glass in the windows was reinforced with steel wires.

  The furnishings left a lot to be desired, however. A sturdy metal bunk was bolted to the wall, its legs embedded in the concrete floor. There was a stainless-steel plumbing unit on another wall with a sink and toilet. Everything appeared unbreakable.

  Mom sat on the bunk, her hands in her lap. She had on the clothes she’d worn to work that morning, all except her shoes. I guess letting a prisoner keep her stilettos was a bad idea, but somehow Mom’s feet in a pair of too-big white crew socks brought tears to my eyes.

  Or maybe it was the sting of the harsh disinfectant that pervaded the building.

  I stood in the doorway. I didn’t know where to look or where to put my hands. I settled for sticking them in my pockets.

  “How are you doing, Mom?” Stupid question! She was in jail charged with the murder of her fiancé. How did I think she was doing?

  “Get me out of here, Georgiana. I can’t possibly stay in this place. It’s ridiculous.”

  Mom was back to issuing commands and expecting them to be followed.

  As much as I hated to admit it, she made me proud.

  chapter 18

  “I’ll do what I can, Mom. But the first thing we need is a lawyer. Is there anyone you would like me to call?”

  She never got a chance to answer.

  Sheriff Mitchell came down the corridor and took me by the arm. He walked me quickly back toward the front of the building, and I heard the cell door close behind us.

  “Your mother’s arraignment will be Monday morning,” he said. His voice echoed loudly in the empty corridor, with no sign of the fatigue I’d seen earlier. “We don’t have any women’s jumpsuits in our stores, so you may bring her some clean clothes if you wish. No belts, no laced shoes. My advice would be to bring jeans, T-shirts, warm socks—”

  He stopped suddenly as the door at the end of the corridor opened. In the doorway stood a young man in an off-the-rack charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a paisley silk tie. I guessed his age at about thirty, though his pale hair—only slightly longer than the sheriff’s military buzz—made him look younger.

  “Vernon.” The sheriff nodded curtly. He wasn’t surprised to see him, whoever he was.

  The younger man continued toward us, oblivious to the chill in the sheriff’s attitude. “Evening, Sheriff. Is she here?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Douglas Vernon, Deputy Prosecutor.” He extended his hand to me. “And you are?”

  “Just leaving,” the sheriff said, his voice tight. He shoved me ahead of him and marched me through the open door.

  Before I could speak, he turned and went back through the heavy security door, slamming it firmly behind him.

  The deputy at the front desk pointed me toward the interview room where I’d been before. I shrugged and went that direction.

  Sue was waiting.

  “Time to go.” She took my arm and pulled me toward the front door.

  I looked around for Wade. “He’s in the car,” Sue whispered, dragging me as fast as we could without running.

  We ran to Wade’s car and Sue dove in the backseat. Wade pulled out into the empty street while I was still fastening my seat belt.

  “Am I a fugitive or something?”

  Wade’s laugh wasn’t amused. “Now we know why your mom was arrested on a Saturday evening. Douglas Vernon.” He looked over at me, then back at the road. “Did he see you?”

  “Yeah. The sheriff grabbed me out of Mom’s”—I swallowed hard—“cell and marched me down the hall about the time Vernon came in. He introduced himself, but the sheriff hustled me out of there before I could tell him who I was. Which was kind of weird and uncomfortable. I got the impression the sheriff doesn’t like the guy very much.”

  “What was the first thing I ever told you about Fred Mitchell, Georgie? Do you remember?”

  I forced my thoughts away from the image of my mother in a jail cell and tried to remember my conversation with Wade the
first time I had encountered Fred Mitchell.

  “That he doesn’t like people interfering with his work? Something like that.” It was coming back to me now. I’d wanted Wade to talk to the sheriff about Martha Tepper’s disappearance. “But I was right about that, Wade.”

  Wade nodded. “He didn’t exactly welcome your involvement, did he? Now imagine how happy he’d be about that if you were someone he couldn’t brush off or ignore.”

  A light bulb went off in my head. “Like the Deputy Prosecutor?”

  “Yeah. Like the Deputy Prosecutor.”

  I got the picture and it wasn’t a pretty one.

  Besides being a suspect in a murder, my mother was caught in the middle of a testosterone battle.

  “We need to figure out what to do next,” I said. “You guys want to come back to my place?”

  When I unlocked my front door I was met by the unmistakable scent of Joy. In just two days Mom had managed to imprint her signature fragrance on my house and my life. For one insane moment I expected her to come sailing out of the bathroom on a cloud of Joy-scented steam.

  Instead I was mugged by a pair of Airedales looking for a doggy bag of dinner scraps. How they knew I had gone out for dinner was unclear, but they obviously did.

  Daisy and Buddha were disappointed on the leftovers front, but Sue’s arrival with a pocketful of treats more than made up for it. Sue was a sucker for every dog she met, and doubly so for the ones she knew well.

  Daisy fluttered and flirted like her fictional namesake, while Buddha waited patiently for his share of the treats. I am convinced animals live up—or down—to their names. It’s one reason I’ll never have a dog named Muffy.