Drip Dead (6 page)

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-shirt, 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.

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

A couple quick phone calls and I had company. Sue was ready for a break and Paula Ciccone, Barry’s wife and the Pine Ridge librarian, agreed to meet us at Franklin’s.

My aging Beetle looked right at home in the parking lot of the Googie-style coffee shop. The expansive front windows and cantilevered concrete roof that typified the style testified to the origin of the building in the early 1960s, when Pine Ridge was a dinner stop on the way home from a day of skiing on Mount Hood.

Inside, Franklin’s hadn’t changed much in the decades since. The booths lined against the front window were dark vinyl, the walls were covered with fake stone made of concrete, and the stainless-steel kitchen was clearly visible from the swivel stools that lined the counter.

Sue and I settled into a booth where we could watch for Paula. We didn’t need to look at the menu. It hadn’t changed since we were kids. Good iced tea and the best club sandwich I’d ever had.

Paula arrived a couple minutes later, out of breath.

“The tenth-graders took longer than I expected,” she panted, sliding in next to me. “Too busy sizing up date choices to focus on their book choices.” She sighed. “As if I didn’t get enough of that at home.”