Drip Dead

by Christy Evans

  I tried to envision what two hundred cases of wine would look like. “Do you think he’s got that stashed in his house?” I asked Wade. “Is his wine cellar anywhere near that big?”

  I did some quick mental math as I shut down the computer. “Even if they’re only a hundred bucks a pop, like the ones from Vendage, that’s close to a quarter million dollars. That’s a lot of money to have sitting in the wine cellar of an empty house.”

  “There’s a security system,” Wade said. “He told me about it when they started construction. We were working on the insurance coverage for the house and it made a big difference in his premiums. He paid a small fortune for it, but now I begin to understand why. It wasn’t just his investment in Veritas that was at stake.”

  A late-model BMW pulled up in front of the office. The driver climbed out and walked toward the door.

  I shoved the computer case under the desk. The modesty panel hid it from prying eyes. I’d get back to the e-mail files later.

  Wade greeted David Young warmly.

  Young was nothing like I expected. Wade was six feet tall, give or take, but Young towered over him. He had to be at least six five or six, and broad. Not fat, just big. Wide shoulders and a barrel chest were barely contained by his custom-tailored charcoal suit. For a man his size you didn’t get a fit like that off the rack.

  David Young stuck out a huge hand. “Hi, I’m David. Dave to my friends. You must be Georgiana.” He grinned. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

  I felt a blush creep up my neck and spread across my face. My mother always insisted I looked like my father’s side of the family, probably because I didn’t bother with the clothes and makeup that were her trademarks. It felt funny to have someone say I looked like her in any way.

  “I mean that as a compliment,” David said. “She’s an attractive woman.”

  I resisted the impulse to tell him he only thought that because he didn’t know her very well. He’d find out for himself soon enough.

  We settled around Wade’s desk, with Dave in the visitor’s chair and me in Karen’s borrowed secretarial chair.

  Dave didn’t waste time. “I talked to your mother,” he said. “She agreed to have me represent her, with the understanding that I would have the backing of a senior member of the firm if this goes to trial.”

  My face must have shown the dismay I felt. Wasn’t Mom’s lawyer supposed to avoid going to trial?

  “It won’t,” Dave assured me. “They can’t make this stick. I don’t know Vernon personally, but I know his type. There were a lot of them in the prosecutor’s office when I was on the other side. Young and ambitious. They wait for a case that will get them noticed so they can either move up the ladder or get an offer in the private sector.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better. “So this guy is ambitious and he sees Mom as a way to make a name for himself. That doesn’t exactly build my confidence, Dave.”

  “I understand your concern, Ms. Neverall. Believe me, it isn’t going to happen.” He handed Wade a note. “Mrs. Neverall said you would be able to access funds for her retainer.”

  Wade looked at the paper and back to Dave. “Can I write you a check?”

  Dave nodded.

  Wade wrote the check and returned the checkbook to his safe.

  Dave stuck it in his pocket without looking. “My client,” he said formally, “has instructed me to share with you whatever I feel is appropriate. That doesn’t mean I am going to tell you everything she says, or everything we talk about. Because I represent Sandra, and I do not represent either of you, the things we talk about do not fall under attorney-client privilege. You could be forced to testify in court about our conversations.”

  Dave looked from Wade to me, and back again. “You both understand that?”

  We nodded.

  “Just keep that in mind if I tell you I can’t tell you something.”

  Was I good with that? I wasn’t sure. There probably were things I didn’t want to know.

  I got the answer to that quicker than I could have imagined.

  There were definitely things I didn’t want to know. Like exactly how Gregory died.

  “He was stabbed,” Dave told us. “With a knife the police believe came from Sandra’s kitchen. I don’t have all the details as yet, but apparently he was stabbed in the house and shoved through the access hatch into the crawl space.” He nodded to me. “Where you found him.”

  “Access hatch?” My voice sounded far away. It echoed in my head like a bad cell phone connection.

  “In the hallway,” Dave replied. “That’s as much as I was able to get immediately. I’ll know more after the preliminary hearing.”

  “Is that the one tomorrow?” I asked. “Do we know what time?”

  I realized I was going to have to call Barry and arrange for time off. He’d give me whatever I needed, but I hated to lose the hours if I didn’t have to.

  Dave told me I didn’t need to be at the hearing. I battled with some serious guilt for a few minutes, but he convinced me there wasn’t anything I could do and I wouldn’t get to talk to Mom.

  I tried to pay attention as Dave explained how the legal process would play out over the next few days and weeks. He told us the police had finished their search of Gregory’s house and office, but Mom’s house was still restricted. Even if she could get bail, she couldn’t go home yet.

  That last fact caught my attention. “Do you think she’ll be allowed to post bail?”

  Dave shook his head. “I expect Vernon to oppose bail, and without knowing who the judge is . . .”

  It was one of those good news/bad news situations.

  The good news was I didn’t have Mom taking over my house. The bad news was she had to stay in jail.

  And the worse news was I had to somehow fix that.

  Clamps and a rubber blanket should stop most leaks for several months. Keep some clamps sized to fit your pipes and a sheet of rubber on hand for emergencies. If you don’t have a clamp, you can still fix a small leak temporarily in an emergency by plugging it with a pencil point. Sharpen a pencil, push it into the leak, and break the point off in place. But it’s important to get the problem fixed the correct way as soon as it is practical.

  —A Plumber’s Tip from Georgiana Neverall

  chapter 21

  Although “contortionist” is not included in the job description for a plumber, it’s a useful skill. Crawl spaces are often tight and filled with ducts, pipes, joists, and footings. The cabinets under most sinks are cramped, with doors that don’t open fully or frames that restrict access.

  Answering a cell phone while under a sink calls for the flexibility of a gymnast. It also helps if you’re the size of an underweight twelve-year-old. Neither one describes me.

  By the time I got out from under the island sink in Astrid McComb’s new kitchen the call had gone to voice mail. I waited, staring out the window at the sunlit woods surrounding the castle, for the caller to leave a message. It had to be Dave with the results of Mom’s preliminary hearing.

  It wasn’t.

  “Ms. Neverall, this is William Robinson calling. You wanted to know about the Veritas group. I heard from a wine merchant I know about some interesting vintages being auctioned tonight. Wolfe-Bowers Auction House in Portland is mounting the sale. Perhaps they will be able to offer you some information.”

  The message ended, and I wondered why he had taken the time to call. He’d certainly left me with the impression he wanted nothing to do with our investigation.

  On the other hand, maybe he hoped I would cause trouble for Veritas, since he had clearly disliked them.

  Either way, I needed to find out about the auction. Quickly.

  I called Wade’s office and asked him if he had plans for the evening.

  “There’s a City Council meeting starting at six,” he said. “I’m afraid it might run late.”

  He was apologetic, but he had run for Councilman and he took the responsibility
very seriously. He couldn’t skip the meeting, even for me.

  I respected his dedication and sense of responsibility. Really, I did.

  I just wished it didn’t have to interfere with my investigation of Veritas.

  Sue volunteered to find out about the sale at Wolfe-Bowers, much to my relief. She could surf the Web and make phone calls between customers at Doggy Day Spa—I had to get back under the sink.

  But Sue had plans with Fred for the evening, and even though she offered to cancel them and go with me I told her no.

  Our friendship got in the way of our romantic relationships a little too often as it was and I’d already given Sue enough grief over Fred.

  My next call was to Paula. I caught her at the library and explained the situation. She couldn’t care less about the wine itself, but the outing appealed to her—as did the investigation.

  “Sounds like fun, Georgie! Megan’s working on a school project with her dad tonight. They can just call Garibaldi’s for pizza like they always do when I’m not home for dinner.” She laughed. “They don’t think I know, but I do.”

  I promised to pick her up, and crawled back under the sink. I still had a job to do.

  I finished the sink in the island and went in search of the cabinet crew. They were supposed to have the granite countertop and bowl installed and ready for me to connect.

  They didn’t and they told me it wouldn’t be ready until morning. Neither would the fixtures in the master bathroom. For now, the plumbing work was at a standstill.

  Barry didn’t have another assignment for me when I called him, but he said he’d talked to Paula about our plans for the evening.

  “Thanks for asking her, Georgie. She loves stuff like this.”

  “And you don’t.” It wasn’t a question. Barry was a small-town, blue-collar kind of guy. His idea of an upscale wine was one that came with a cork instead of a screw top, and he’d still rather have a beer than either one.

  “I’m heading home then, Bear.” It was a nickname that fit him, though I didn’t use it very often. After all, he was my boss, even though sometimes he felt like the older brother I never had.

  Especially when I was planning a girls’ night out with his wife.

  I was willing to bet Paula hadn’t told him the real reason we were going to the auction, either. He tended to be a rather old-fashioned and protective when it came to his wife—and to his female employees.

  Even the ones with martial-arts training.

  I still hadn’t heard from Dave Young, and it was beginning to worry me. What if something went wrong with Mom’s hearing?

  I pulled the Beetle to the curb in front of Wade’s office. Maybe he had heard something.

  No such luck.

  “Dave said he’d call, Georgie, and he will. He’s a very reliable guy.”

  “How can you be sure?” I was whining and I knew it. Like Daisy, I didn’t do “stay” very well, and the waiting was driving me nuts.

  “I’ve known him a lot of years, and we’ve worked on several community projects together. Believe me, when Dave Young says he’ll do something, he does it.” Wade glanced from me to his cluttered desktop and back. His meaning was clear. He had work to do.

  “Karen’s at the doctor’s this afternoon,” he said. “If you want to wait here, you can use her desk.”

  It was a better idea than sitting at home, stewing.

  I dragged the laptop into the office and set to work on the Veritas files. I still hadn’t had time to decipher Gregory’s e-mail. The longer it went unread, the more convinced I became that I would find all the answers there.

  When Dave’s call finally came, it was anticlimactic. Mom had been arraigned, bail was set at a million dollars, and she was taken back to her cell.

  Dave had been in a meeting with the Deputy Prosecutor, looking for a way to get the bail reduced. Vernon had been adamant; he thought Sandra Neverall committed a murder and he wanted her kept in jail. He was angry that the judge had considered bail at all.

  All Mom’s properties together wouldn’t cover a million dollars, and a bond would cost ten percent of that amount. If she was going to get out of jail, we had to come up with one hundred thousand dollars.

  Or we had to find the real killer.

  chapter 22

  I left Wade’s office and headed home. I had to pick up Paula in an hour for the trip into Portland, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  There was no way to get my mother out of jail, even temporarily, without catching the real murderer.

  I felt a serious pity party coming on. To combat it, I put the dogs on their leashes and allowed the three of us a thirty-minute walk. The sun was still warm, and there were many new smells to check out since we hadn’t been for a walk in several days.

  Daisy and Buddha would have happily kept going for several hours, sniffing each tree and burrowing into each bush seeking out the messages left by other dogs. I, on the other hand, had a date to keep.

  By the time we turned for home my spirits had lifted a little. I was going out for the evening with a good friend. A wine auction might not have been my first choice of entertainment, but it was something new and different, and it promised the opportunity for lots of people-watching.

  And it might bring me one step closer to Gregory’s killer and Mom’s freedom.

  I showered and faced the dilemma of what to wear. Years earlier I’d had a closet full of designer and business wear and expensive shoes. Now I dug in the back of Mom’s closet—it had been mine just a few days ago—and found a classic little black dress. I tossed a brocade jacket on top to fend off the evening chill and found my black pumps.

  Lacking pockets, I tossed the bare necessities into a small shoulder bag. I was ready to go.

  As I locked the door behind me, I looked at the keys. Keys to my house, to Mom’s house, Beetle keys, a padlock key for my toolbox, and the Corvette key.

  Why not? It was a night out.

  I opened the garage door and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. I backed into the street, goosed the accelerator, and eased out the clutch, feeling the power of nearly four hundred horses at my disposal.

  I smiled for the first time in days as I drove the couple miles to Barry and Paula’s house. Somehow I always felt like the queen of the world when I was behind the wheel of my beloved vintage Corvette.

  Paula must have been waiting by the door. She came hurrying down the walk as soon as I pulled up. Barry stood in the doorway and waved to us as we pulled away.

  “Wow!” Paula fastened her seat belt. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring the ’Vette! This just gets better by the minute.”

  On the drive in I filled Paula in on my plans for the evening.

  She’d never been to a wine auction, either, but she’d spent the afternoon reading up on the subject. She even, she reported proudly, had searched Google for wine auction information.

  When I first came back to Pine Ridge, Paula had barely been able to turn on her computer to log books in and out at the library. Now, with the occasional help of her secret consultant—namely me—she kept the two public terminals connected and humming along, and she was learning to use the electronic tools at her disposal.

  After Blake Weston’s murder, a lot more people were aware of my computer skills and I found myself fielding calls for help with increasing frequency. Sometimes it was a friend or a coworker, and I tried to do what I could to bail them out.

  In a town the size of Pine Ridge there was no such thing as a complete stranger, but there were lots of people who were acquaintances, not friends. And lately I’d been getting calls from some of those people, too. My reputation was beginning to spread and I didn’t know what to do about it. It was a problem I had to address. Soon.

  But right now, I had bigger fish to fry.

  We pulled up in front of the simple and elegant brick building and climbed out. I swallowed hard and handed my keys to the valet. Knowing I wouldn’t have to park on the street
was comforting. Letting someone else drive my toy was nerve-wracking.

  Inside the door a registration table stood along one wall. Behind it a young man with spiky hair greeted most of the buyers by name. The bidders carried their own catalogs, already well thumbed and dog-eared. They signed a register, took a paddle with a number, and moved into the main room.

  We inched along, moving closer to Mr. Spiky Hair.

  As we got to the front of the line, Paula stepped in front of me and gave Spiky Hair a dazzling smile. “Need to register,” she said, “decided to come at the last minute.”

  She signed the register and gave the guy a flash of her driver’s license. She took the paddle and the catalog he offered her, and returned him another smile.

  I stepped forward, but Paula took me by the arm and pulled me away. “We’re together,” she said as she dragged me toward the door.

  “No need to have your name in the register,” she whispered.

  Paula had seen too many spy movies.

  The large room hummed with muted conversations as the bidders conferred with one another and consulted their catalogs. I caught a glimpse of a couple catalogs marked with multiple colors and indecipherable codes. These people took this very seriously.

  I looked around the room, taking in the crowd. They were a mix of ages and sizes with one thing in common: money. Some of it was understated, some of it was flaunted, but it was definitely there.

  Good thing I’d brought the ’Vette. At least we had some camouflage.

  At the front of the room I spotted Phil Wilson. He had less hair and more pounds than in his TV ads, but there was no mistaking the voice that had boomed out on every commercial break. While most people talked in low voices sort of like they were in church, Wilson’s volume control was set just a little shy of deafening.

  He commented to his companion, a woman young enough to be his daughter and anorexic enough to be a model, on several lots that he thought he should bid on. Mostly he seemed concerned with the prices, dismissing anything without a high reserve. If the seller didn’t think it was worth a minimum, how good could it be?