Drip Dead (8 page)

“Yeah. I got a glass of water, then I put both glasses in the dishwasher. Old habits are hard to break. Then I went out the back door and started checking under the house.”

“About how long had you been at the house at that point?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really know. Maybe eight or ten minutes, I’d imagine. Certainly not much more than that. I didn’t go anywhere but the kitchen, and I didn’t do anything but get a drink and put the glasses in the dishwasher. It might even have been a couple minutes less than that.”

My neck and shoulders tensed, the muscles tightening with stress as the sheriff’s questions drew me nearer to the moment I found Gregory.

“Take it easy,” the sheriff said as though he could read my mind. “I know this is upsetting, but we’ll take it slow. Okay?”

I nodded. Sheriff Mitchell and I weren’t always best pals, but it seemed clear he was trying to be considerate and I appreciated the effort.

“Okay. You went out the back door just a few minutes after you arrived at the house. You were getting ready to go under the house. How long before you actually went into the crawl space?”

“Only a minute or two. I checked my flashlight and kind of peered under there, and then I put on my mask and went in.”

“You put on a mask?”

“Yeah. It was musty smelling. I thought there might be mold. That’s pretty normal.”

The sheriff didn’t ask any more questions, so I swallowed hard and went on. I told him everything I could remember until I got up to the hard part. I was telling the sheriff about how I’d switched my flashlight back on after noticing the pile of boxes and something else.

I stopped. Several years of martial-arts training had helped me gain some control of my temper, to find the calm inside me. I used the same techniques to help control the panic that threatened to overtake me now.

I closed my eyes for a minute and focused on breathing deep and slow, letting the tension go. It helped a little.

“That ‘something else’ was Gregory Whitlock?”

“Yes. I got close enough to see what it was and I reached out with my flashlight and kind of tapped it against his foot. He didn’t move.

“I got out of there as fast as I could and called 9-1-1. You know the rest.”

“How about a break?”

Without waiting for an answer, Sheriff Mitchell stood up. He wiggled his shoulders a little as though trying to release some tension of his own.

At that moment his suggestion made Sheriff Mitchell my best friend. I stood up myself and stretched my arms out, pulling the knots out of my back and shoulders.

The sheriff opened the door to the corridor and spoke to someone outside. I couldn’t make out his words, but a minute later a deputy appeared at the door with two cups of coffee.

The sheriff handed one cup to me and carried his around the desk. He resumed his seat, and looked pointedly at the other chair.

I took the hint.

“Just a few more questions,” the sheriff tried to reassure me. I hoped he meant it. I was way past ready to be out of there and thinking about anything but the death—the murder—of Gregory Whitlock.

I took a sip of the coffee. It had been sitting too long on the heat, the bitterness of cheap beans burned into the brew.

“You mentioned your mother and Mr. Whitlock’s wedding plans a few minutes ago. How was that going?”

Without thinking I rolled my eyes, and the sheriff chuckled.

I realized what I’d done an instant too late. “No, nothing wrong. Just Mom wanting things a certain way. And there was so much to do! She was obsessing over every detail.

“But she just wanted everything to be done right, that’s all.”

“And you didn’t agree?”

“Let’s just say Mom and I have different standards about some things.”

The sheriff switched tracks. “And how did Mr. Whitlock feel about the wedding preparations? You say you talked with the two of them about the plans. Did he express an opinion?”

I shook my head. “He pretty much stayed out of it. Mom was in charge of the wedding, and Gregory let her do whatever she wanted.”

The sheriff sat back in his chair and thought for a long time before he asked his next question. I tried not to fidget, but the chair was putting my butt to sleep.

“You’re absolutely sure?” he asked. “There was no question that they were going ahead with the marriage?”

I stared at the sheriff.

I opened my mouth to answer his insane question, but I was at a loss for words. Of all the crazy things I had heard in the last twenty-four hours, this was surely the craziest.

“Okay, I don’t know where you got that idea, but the marriage was definitely going to happen. I even witnessed the prenuptial agreement. Not that I really wanted to know all the details of their financial arrangements.” I sat back and crossed my arms over my chest. This was one thing I was certain about. “No way either one of them was backing out.”

The recorder clicked off when I stopped talking. The constant clicking as it started and stopped was making me nuts, the chair was killing my butt, and the bitter coffee was roiling around in my stomach with my hasty lunch from Franklin’s.

“Are we through?” I asked.

Sheriff Mitchell hesitated. He nodded his head. “For now. But I do need to talk to your mother. And”—he gave me a stern look, his eyebrows drawing together over his sharp nose—“you will need to wait and sign your statement after we have it printed.

“You seem to forget about coming back for that little detail.”

“Come on, Sheriff. I forgot once. Okay, maybe twice. I’ll come in and sign the statement this time. I promise.” I looked around for a clock and realized the room didn’t have one. Funny, I had never noticed that before.

“As for my mother, she’s probably at work this afternoon—”

“No, she isn’t,” the sheriff interrupted. “The office is closed until we have had time to search Mr. Whitlock’s files. No one is allowed in, and no paperwork goes out.”

Which meant Mother was probably at my house right this minute, doing Lord knows what.

I had to get back while I could still recognize the place.

It took me several more minutes to convince the sheriff to let me go.

I had to promise not to leave town without letting him know, since I hadn’t signed my statement—the guy was never going to get over that flight I took to San Francisco—and we agreed that he would come by the house later to talk to my mother rather than making her come to the station.

I wasn’t looking forward to his visit, but at least he would be the one to tell Mom that Gregory’s death was being treated as a homicide. She could answer his questions about her wedding plans, if he didn’t believe me.

Whatever it took to get me out of the sheriff’s station.

Driving away I was torn between going home to rescue my house and my dogs from Mom and stopping to talk to Sue. I was still debating when I passed Doggy Day Spa.

There was an empty parking space at the curb in front and I decided it was a sign I should stop. I wasn’t avoiding my mother. Really.

Sue was with a customer when I walked in the store. I waved at her and went through the shop to the office in the back. I could run a computer security scan while I waited for her.

I sat down in front of her computer and started through the familiar routine.

I was still trying to figure out how I felt about walking away from high tech. Blake Weston’s death had drawn me back into that world, and for a few crazy days I had seriously considered the offer to return to Samurai Security.

In the end I’d said no.

It wasn’t because I didn’t like the work. In fact I was enjoying my secret job as a computer consultant and I could have a lot more work if more people knew about my skills and experience.

Which I wasn’t sure I wanted. I liked that I only worked for a few close friends, like Sue and Paula and Barry. My computer skills had been a bonus for Barry when he hired me, and I liked making his office computer jump through hoops he didn’t know existed.

But the constant pressure and the long hours? No time for a personal life? Devoting every waking hour to the company?

That was the part I didn’t miss.

I also didn’t miss the rigid schedule of hair and nail appointments to maintain the perfect image of success. I didn’t miss being so work-obsessed I had to hire a dog-walker because I didn’t have time for Daisy and Buddha. I didn’t miss turning every meal into a business meeting and every business meeting into a substitute for real friendships.

Still, I had to admit I missed the money. Living on my wages as an apprentice plumber was a far cry from an income that let me drive a vintage Corvette on the few days I actually had time to drive anywhere.

Now I drove the Beetle my dad had given me when I graduated from high school and I walked my own dogs. I hadn’t had a manicure in years, and I trimmed my own hair. I still had the ’Vette though. A woman has to have at least one luxury.

I heard the bell over the front door ring, and a moment later Sue appeared in the door of the office. She ignored the computer screen and pulled a bottle of water from the tiny refrigerator.

“Afraid to go home?” she asked.

“Just stopped to let you know how it went.” I side-stepped answering her question.

“And?”

I drew in a deep breath. “Have you heard anything about Gregory and my mom? Anything about problems over the wedding?”

Sue pulled a chair over and sat down. She reached for my hand where it rested on the computer mouse. Her fingers were damp and cold from the water bottle, but the touch was reassuring. “You know I would have told you if I heard anything important,” she said. I could hear the
but
in her tone.

“What did you hear that
wasn’t
important?”

She sat back and took a long draw on her water bottle. “Nothing, really.” She shrugged. “You know how rumors fly in a small town.”

“Yeaah.” I drew the word out, not sure I wanted to hear the rest.

“Well, I heard they had an argument the other day. In Dee’s. Not like a big battle or anything, but it was clear they were disagreeing about something.” She shook her head. “You know how it is. I didn’t even remember hearing about it until you asked just now.”

I groaned. “So that was what he was talking about.” I slammed my fist on the desk, making the mouse jump. The cursor skittered across the computer screen, interrupting my scan.

I instantly regretted the flash of temper.

I slowly and deliberately restarted the scan, then moved away from the computer.

Sue watched me without moving. She’d seen me lose it when we were in high school and she still didn’t completely trust the new and improved Georgiana Neverall.

“Your boyfriend asked me if there was a problem about the wedding. I had dinner with them a couple days ago. They were getting along just fine.” I shook my head, remembering the too-cute antics of my mother fussing over Gregory, and him loving every minute of it. I gave myself a shake to dislodge the image. “So if they had an argument they were definitely over it by the time I saw them.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I don’t know where the rumor started, but somebody said they overheard them arguing about wedding expenses.”

I glanced at the computer to check on the progress of the scan. A couple more minutes.

“Fred’s only doing his job, Georgie. He has to ask. You know that.”

“I suppose.” I didn’t concede the point with much grace.

Sue looked miserable. I had to admit she was in a tough spot, torn between the man she was dating and her best friend, and I wasn’t making it any easier.

“Sorry,” I said. I held my right hand up and raised three fingers in a pledge. “I promise not to let issues with boyfriends come between me and my best friend.”

Sue laughed. “And vice versa.”

I laughed, too. It was an old joke.

“You didn’t have to break up with Wade, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” I insisted. “He shouldn’t have covered for that two-timing jerk you were dating. I totally had to.”

“Well,” she said, standing up and heading back into the shop, “you didn’t need to wait twenty years to make up.”

“More like fifteen,” I said, following her. It probably was closer to twenty than fifteen, but I didn’t want to think about how long ago it really was. “And most of that time I wasn’t even living here, so it shouldn’t count.”

“Whatever.” Sue dismissed my argument with a wave of her hand. “Seriously, though.” She turned around and faced me. “Has anyone told your mother about Gregory?”

She gave me “the look.”

“You mean that Fred thinks he was murdered?” The word felt funny on my tongue, but I was getting used to it. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

“I got the distinct impression the sheriff wants to tell her himself. I may be chicken, but I’m happy to let him.”