Authors: Christy Evans
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Large Type Books, #Mystery Fiction, #Murder, #Crime, #Investigation, #Murder - Investigation, #Oregon, #Plumbers
Sink Trap (20 page)
“Georgie.” Wade got up from the table and moved over next to me. He set down the empty salad bowl and took my hands in his. “I know you want to reassure Paula, and that’s a fine and generous motive. But I can’t order the sheriff’s department to open an investigation; and I can’t ask them to check into something based on your feelings.”
His grip was gentle, and I found myself curling my fingers around his.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I don’t have any authority here. There isn’t anything I
can
do, even if I wanted to. It’s the sheriff’s job, and Fred Mitchell doesn’t welcome interference from anybody. Martha simply moved away. Maybe she didn’t plan it as well as she should have, but that’s all there is to it.”
can
do, even if I wanted to. It’s the sheriff’s job, and Fred Mitchell doesn’t welcome interference from anybody. Martha simply moved away. Maybe she didn’t plan it as well as she should have, but that’s all there is to it.”
Wade kept hold of my hand, drawing me away from the sink and into the living room. He pulled me down next to him on the sofa, and turned to look in my eyes.
“But what if she changed her mind? What if she decided not to move after all? Then Gregory Whitlock would lose the chance to develop the warehouse site, and to flip Miss Tepper’s house, and maybe even whatever money he’d already put into the project.”
Wade shook his head. “Gregory Whitlock didn’t get to be one of the most successful businessmen in the area by being stupid. This project isn’t big enough to risk his company and his reputation.
“There are people in this town who resent him because he’s made a lot of money. There are people who think he’s arrogant—even me, sometimes. But he knows where the line is, and while he may dance along it, he’s careful not to cross over.
“Do you think I’d accept his support, and his campaign contributions, if there was anything shady going on?”
“Oh.” I winced.
“Right. You don’t like the guy because he’s sleeping—”
“Don’t!” I put my fingers in my ears, like an eight-year-old. “La la la . . .”
Wade reached up and pulled my fingers away from my ears. “Sleeping with your mother,” he finished his sentence, then looked around the room. “Well, look at that. I said it, and the world did not come to an end. How about that?”
I yanked my hands away.
“I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to think about it,” I said.
I couldn’t tell Wade I knew Gregory’s type all too well, knew about the sincere looks and the reassuring words. Knew all about trusting someone with your business, and your heart, right up to the point where they destroyed both.
“You don’t have to like him, Georgie. Heck, there are times I don’t like him much. But he’s smart and successful, and he seems to make your mother happy.” He shrugged. “Settle for that, for now. It could be worse. I know.”
I looked skeptical, and Wade colored. He looked away, then looked back, as though he had come to a decision.
“When my folks split up . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “When my dad left,” he said. The words were difficult for him, and he paused again.
“My dad left. It wasn’t a mutual decision. There was”—he sighed—“another woman. One too young for me to date, much less my dad.
“They left town, and Mom never talked about it. No one knows. But that little—” He bit back a word Barry probably wouldn’t have approved of. “That woman made my dad’s life miserable—for the year she stayed. Now he’s alone, and Mom won’t talk to him, so believe me, I know it can be worse.”
“Oh, Wade! I am so sorry! I had no idea . . .”
“No one does.” He shrugged. “My point is, at least your mom is happy. Be thankful for that.”
It was my turn to sigh. “You’re right. I’m probably not being fair to Gregory. But can we not talk about my mother, please?”
Wade nodded. “Deal. If we can not talk about Martha Tepper, too.”
I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”
I stood up. “There are leftovers to put away,” I said. “Give me a couple minutes?”
Wade shook his head and stood up, too. “I’ll help.”
We worked together until the table was clear and the leftovers tucked safely in the refrigerator.
My mother would be proud of me.
When I pulled up in front of the Tepper house the next morning, I was dismayed to see a moving van parked at the curb and planks laid across the tall grass of the front yard.
Three burly men trundled handcarts across the boards, loaded with Miss Tepper’s furniture. I watched with a sinking heart as they loaded her highboy waterfall dresser into the van, followed by the matching night tables. The pieces were antiques, and I could only guess at their value. But the men pushing them didn’t seem to care, shoving them carelessly into the truck.
Inside, the situation was much worse. Several men in various shapes and sizes haphazardly tossed the contents of cupboards and drawers into cardboard cartons. In each room, one man wielded a black felt-tip marker, scrawling “bedroom,” or “living room,” or “kitchen” on the box before adding it to a shaky pile in the living room, ready to be carted to the truck.
The men smelled of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, and I remembered Rachel Gladstone telling my mother they had hired a crew from the Second Chances shelter.
I watched from a corner of the living room for several minutes, as they moved furniture and filled boxes. Although they weren’t gentle with Martha’s things, they all worked hard. The house would be empty soon.
Judging by the raised voices in the kitchen, not everyone was happy about it.
When I peeked around the corner, I wasn’t surprised to find my mother in the middle of the disagreement. In the years since my father’s death, she had become increasingly confident and self-assured. She had also become a lot more vocal about her opinions.
Rick Gladstone was getting the full force of Sandra the Real Estate Agent’s opinions, and he was clearly not enjoying the process.
“You want me to sell this house, don’t you? I mean, that
is
why you hired Whitlock Estates, right? You said Martha Tepper told you to ‘spruce it up’ and sell it, and that’s what you told us to do. So let us do our job.”
is
why you hired Whitlock Estates, right? You said Martha Tepper told you to ‘spruce it up’ and sell it, and that’s what you told us to do. So let us do our job.”
“But the expense,” Rick said. His silky voice was gone for the moment, and he just sounded whiny. “This is going to cost us a fortune in labor and storage fees. And now you tell me you don’t want the furniture moved back in when the renovations are complete?”
Sandra shook her head firmly. “Damn straight.”
I slid back into the hallway, out of sight of the kitchen, and bit my lip. I couldn’t remember ever hearing my mother curse, not once. But this was Sandra the Real Estate Agent, not my mother.
I peeked back around the corner. In her ever-present stilettos, my mother was nearly as tall as Gladstone, and her stiff posture made her appear taller. The two of them stood only a few feet apart, though Mom had clearly established a no-man’s-land between them.
Rick Gladstone, however, wasn’t backing down. “Ms. Neverall.” He leaned toward her and controlled the whine, dropping his voice to the silky tone I had heard before. “Sandy—”
For a split second, I really thought Mom might actually deck him. She looked that angry.
“Don’t call me that,” she said. Her voice was low and cold. “No one calls me that, even my late husband. God rest his soul.”
“But I thought, that is . . .” Rick Gladstone tried to cover his confusion with an engaging grin, but it didn’t melt Sandra Neverall. I could have told him that. “Isn’t that what Greg calls you?”
“What Mr. Whitlock calls me and what you call me are two very different things, Mr. Gladstone.
Gregory
”—she stressed the name, clearly implying that no one called him
Greg any more than they called her Sandy—“is an old and dear friend, and I tolerate it from him. Anything more is none of your business.”
Gregory
”—she stressed the name, clearly implying that no one called him
Greg any more than they called her Sandy—“is an old and dear friend, and I tolerate it from him. Anything more is none of your business.”
Rick Gladstone finally caught a clue, and backed away a step. “I meant no offense, Ms. Neverall. Please accept my apology. I just thought, since we’re working together, we might be friends.”
He offered the grin again and Sandra thawed about two degrees, from Ice Queen to chilly. It wasn’t a vast improvement.
“But seriously,” he pressed on. “We could put the furniture back in the house. Make it look like someone actually lives here. More homey.”
“We most certainly cannot. I know you want to save the cost of the storage, but frankly, I can’t get top dollar for this place with the outdated furniture crowded into these rooms. The place is small to begin with, and with oversized old furniture stuffed into every room . . .” She shook her head. “It would never sell.”
She glanced toward the dining room. “It must be family heirlooms. I can’t imagine why she didn’t take
any
of it with her.”
any
of it with her.”
Rick hesitated, and I thought for a minute he wasn’t going to respond. Finally he said, “She’s staying in temporary quarters. No sense in moving everything twice.”
He stopped as though he realized he’d almost opened the door on the argument again.
“Well.” He shrugged. “I suppose we can store it for a while.”
“Trust me, Mr. Gladstone. This is my job. It’s what I do, and I’m good at it. I can get top dollar for this place, but only if you let me do things my way.”
Gladstone’s expression was glum, but he managed to control his disappointment and forced a tight smile. “Of course, Ms. Neverall. You are the expert, after all.”
Sandra nodded and smiled at him, the kind of indulgent smile that one might give recalcitrant children when they admit the error of their ways.
It was an expression I had seen often.
“Thank you, Mr. Gladstone,” she said sweetly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me? I’m sure you want to get back to supervising the packing, anyway.”
She turned away, then turned back. “By the way, do you have that forwarding address for Miss Tepper? I would love to send her some flowers to brighten up her ‘tempo rary quarters.’ ”
Gladstone patted the pockets of his jacket, and peered in the breast pocket of his shirt. He held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s here somewhere. I’ll call you with it when I get back to the office.”
I ducked back and sped down the hall to the bathroom. I didn’t want my mother to know I had heard her exchange with Gladstone. Besides, I wasn’t sure what the disagreement really meant, and I wanted time to think about it before I talked to her.
She found me, of course, her heels tapping through the house. The sound was muffled by the low hum of conversation among the movers, but I heard her approaching and quickly ducked under the bathroom sink.
I didn’t have anything to actually do under the sink, but it was the safest place to hide. I could always pretend I was working, and she wouldn’t know any better.
“Georgiana?” Her voice carried down the hall. “Where are you, dear? I saw your car outside . . .”
The tapping stopped, and I could see her latest acquisition at the door to the bathroom. Not Jimmy Choos, thank heavens, but close. A three-figure price tag instead of four. Even Sandra had her limits.
“Hi, Mom,” I called from under the sink. I rattled a wrench and faked a little grunt of effort. “What’s up?”
I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I opted for nothing. It seemed the safest thing to do.
“Just checking on the progress here,” she answered. “I had expected the house to be empty before now.” She sighed. “But at least it’s getting done. Now maybe we can get this place ready to sell.”
“Well, that’s good.” I hesitated, but there was something I needed to ask her. “By the way, when you stopped by the other night, what was it you wanted?”
There was an awkward pause, and I wondered if she was going to answer my question. I saw her heels shuffle slightly, as though she was nervous.
“I just . . .” She coughed lightly. “Must be the smoke,” she said. “Never could tolerate smoke.”
I made a noncommittal hum that she could take for agreement, or sympathy, or whatever she chose, and waited for her to continue.
“It wasn’t anything, really. Gregory was working late, and I was sort of at loose ends. I thought you might want to grab a bite to eat.
“But you had a date!” She sounded far too pleased at the prospect, but I let her keep her illusions. They were mostly harmless, after all.
What was more stunning was the idea of my mother actually asking me to have dinner with her. I was shocked.
“I’m sorry I was busy,” I said from my hiding place. “That might have been fun.”
To my surprise, I found that I really meant it. I had always wanted a good relationship with my mother, but I had never measured up, and she had never understood me.
Perhaps I never really understood her, either.
“Maybe another time?” I suggested.
“That would be good.” Her heels scuffed the doorsill, as though she wasn’t sure whether to stay or go.
She decided to go. “I’ve got work piled up at the office,” she said, turning back to the hall. “I’ll call you about dinner. Maybe one night next week.”
“Sure. Just not Tuesday, okay?”
“Right, your class.” Her stilettos disappeared from view, and I heard them tap-tap-tap down the hall.
I was just scooting out from under the sink when Barry walked in. He glanced down at me, and a knowing grin spread across his face.
“Your mother was here, right?”
I felt the color rise in my face as I stood up. “That obvious, huh?”
“Only to me,” he reassured me. “Because I know you don’t have a thing to do under there.” He laughed. “At least my daughter doesn’t hide from me.”
“She’s twelve, Bear. Give it time.”
He shook his head. “We’ll see.”
He hefted his toolbox. “Let’s go, Neverall. They finally got the basement clear, so we can start working down there, if your ankle is up to the stairs.”
In answer, I picked up my toolbox from where I had dragged it under the sink with me and followed him down the hall and into the kitchen, to the basement door.
“Mind if I ask you a question before we get started?”
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