Sink Trap (23 page)

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll wait for you. And be careful coming down the stairs, there’s a broken step about halfway down. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

Barry handed my phone back. “He’s on his way. Apparently your boyfriend said something to him, so he was expecting you to call.” He chuckled grimly. “He wasn’t expecting me to back you up, I don’t think.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” This time I did correct the designation.

“Well, not after that,” Barry said.

“Not at all,” I said hotly.

Barry shrugged. “Well, clearly he told the sheriff something. But the man’s on his way. He said not to touch anything while we’re waiting.”

Within a few minutes I could hear sirens approaching. They cut off suddenly, and several car doors slammed.

A voice called outside the front door. “Sheriff’s department.”

After a few seconds the door opened, and the tromp of booted feet echoed through the empty house overhead.

“Anybody here?” a male voice called out.

“Down here,” Barry answered. “In the basement.”

Dark boots appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. The boots belonged to a tall man with a graying buzz cut and ramrod-straight posture, dressed in a sharply creased khaki uniform with a wide Sam Brown belt creaking at his waist.

Fred Mitchell was an ex-Marine, and it showed.

“Watch out for the broken step,” Barry reminded him.

The sheriff stepped carefully over the splintered tread
and turned to call back up to the men following him. “Broken step there. Baker, check it out, would you?”

After that, everything got a little crazy.

The sheriff immediately took possession of the plastic bag, though Barry seemed reluctant to relinquish control.

A clean plastic tarp was spread on the basement floor and a deputy carefully upended the bag onto the tarp. The towel tumbled out and several pieces of metal spilled from inside the towel, tinkling against the concrete floor under the thin plastic.

I’d watched enough crime shows on TV to know that they were shell casings, little tubes of tarnished brass.

Sheriff Mitchell pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took a pen from his pocket. Using the point of the pen, he picked up the edge of the towel. As he did, I could see that there were several large, irregularly shaped spots, smeared and streaked across the surface of the towel.

It looked like someone had used it to clean up blood.

The sheriff looked up at Barry. “Show me where you found this.”

Barry showed him the hole in the wall and said a tool slipped. To my relief, he didn’t explain exactly how the tool slipped or that I was the sole culprit.

While they were talking, I heard a familiar voice at the top of the stairs, arguing with one of the deputies that he had to be allowed in the basement. Sheriff Mitchell had called him.

Wade poked his head through the door at the top of the stairs. “Fred? Would you tell your deputy it’s okay to let me come down?”

The sheriff waved at the deputy. “Let him by.”

Wade hurried down the stairs, stepping gingerly over the splintered tread where Deputy Baker—according to Fred Mitchell—was inspecting the broken wood.

When Wade reached the bottom of the stairs, he rushed over and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Mitchell glanced over. “Hi, Montgomery.” His gaze
moved over to me for a second. “Thought your boyfriend might want to know what happened,” he said before going back to his conversation with Barry.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protested.

Mitchell looked back and raised an eyebrow at Wade, but didn’t say anything.

“We can talk about that later,” Wade whispered. “What I want to know is how you are?”

“How do you
think
I am?” I shouted. “I’m right here, safe and sound—except that nobody wants to take me seriously. It’s not me you should be worried about.” I looked around at the group of men crowding the basement. “I’m not the one that’s been missing for weeks. And I’m not the one with bloody towels and shell casings hidden in my basement. Martha Tepper’s the one you should be worrying about.”

“And I am,” Sheriff Mitchell said. His voice was quiet, but the air of authority was clear. This was the guy in charge, and everyone turned to listen to him.

“As of now, I want this place secured while we test these.” He waved at the towel and the shell casings.

He turned to Barry. “No more work, at least for a couple days, okay?”

I groaned. “My mother is going to pitch a fit!”

“Your mother?” The sheriff looked at me. “What does your mother have to do with anything?”

“My mother is Sandra Neverall, of Whitlock Estates Realty. She and her”—I hesitated—“partner are the ones who commissioned the renovations on the house. They’ve been pushing to get the work done so they can resell it.”

Barry looked from the wall to me, and back again. “I’ll call Whitlock,” he volunteered. “Tell him there’s a delay, and we’re going to switch over to the warehouse for a couple days.”

“Let’s get you out of here,” Wade said, pulling me toward the stairs.

Sheriff Mitchell looked over at Wade. “I’ll want to talk to her,” he told him, as though I wasn’t standing right
there. “Can you bring her by my office later this afternoon?” He consulted the bulky watch on his wrist. “About three?”

Wade shot me a warning look as I started to open my mouth. “We’ll be there,” he answered before hurrying me up the stairs and out of the house.

We reached the front door before I had a chance to say anything more.

“What was that all about?” I demanded. “Couldn’t I speak for myself?”

Wade took me by the elbow and guided me toward the Beetle. He opened my door and practically shoved me into the car. “Meet me at Franklin’s and I’ll buy you lunch.”

Wade walked away before I could agree. His assumption that I’d meet him where he said to was annoying, but there was still that “boyfriend” thing. I needed to set him straight, and fast.

I arrived at Franklin’s ahead of Wade and snagged a table by the window, where I could watch for him. It gave me a tiny edge in the confrontation I was sure was coming.

When Wade slid into the booth across from me, I was ready for him. “What’s with this ‘girlfriend/boyfriend’ thing, Wade? I thought we had agreed to take it slow and see what happens.”

Wade colored and wiggled nervously in his seat. “It was the simplest way to describe you,” he said. “I didn’t want to go into the whole old-friends-who-are-dating-casually thing with Mitchell.” He shrugged. “Besides, I think we’re being exclusive, aren’t we? So, it’s not too far from the truth.”

He waved the subject away. “Anyway, we have more important things to discuss right this minute.”

The waitress chose that moment to interrupt us for our lunch order. I made a random sandwich choice, and coffee. Wade ordered a burger. Neither one of us seemed to care much about what we ate.

“So what’s more important, Wade? What was it we couldn’t talk about in front of anyone?”

Wade still looked uncomfortable, but his lips drew into a determined line and he held my gaze. “What were you doing out there, Georgie?” he asked angrily.

“What was I doing?!?” I shouted. Heads turned from the counter, and I bit my lip. I balled my hands into fists below the edge of the table and forced myself to lower my voice to a conversational level.

“What was I doing? I was doing my job, Wade. I was out there
with my boss
, working on the plumbing. I was there because that was where the work was. Why are you having difficulty with that concept?” I was having difficulty stopping myself from reaching for his throat.

Wade glanced around as though afraid someone might be watching. The people at the counter had gone back to their lunches, and the waitress was busy at the other end of the room. No one was paying any more attention to us.

“No one’s looking, Wade,” I said. “They all know it’s just Doc Neverall’s nutty daughter. You know, the one that went away to that fancy school and then decided to come back here and be a plumber.”

Bitterness rose in my throat and I washed it back down with a gulp of scalding coffee.

“I’ve heard them. This is a small town, as you remind me. Often. Everybody has an opinion, and a lot of them are quite happy to share it with you whether you want to know or not.”

Wade sighed and stared into his coffee cup. He stirred it idly, even though he had added neither cream nor sugar.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “You’re right, and I didn’t mean to be one of ‘those people.’ ”

Our sandwiches arrived, and Wade sat mute until the waitress left again. He shoved his plate to one side, ignoring the food.

“I’ll be blunt, Georgie. Just listen, okay? Sheriff is an elected position. Like it or not, Fred Mitchell has to get
himself reelected every four years if he wants to keep doing the job.”

“This is about politics?” I couldn’t decide if I was confused, or just disgusted.

“It has to be. Mitchell’s a good sheriff. He’s honest, he runs a clean department, and he gets the job done. But there is always the cloud of another election hanging over everything he does.” Wade shrugged, and pulled his plate back in front of him. “It’s just a fact of life for him.”

“So, he didn’t want to think anything bad about Miss Tepper’s leaving because . . .” I let my sentence trail off.

Wade picked up the thought. “Because any kind of major crime is bad for his campaign. Don’t misunderstand,” he went on. “If there’s evidence of anything, he’ll be all over it. The only thing worse than a serious crime, from his point of view, is an unsolved crime.

“When I told him you were my girlfriend, Georgie, I was telling him he should take you seriously. If you came to him with something, I was vouching for you.”

He smiled.

“Besides, I was kind of hoping maybe we were moving in that direction. At least a little.”

Wade took a bite out of his burger and waited for my reaction.

I filed his comment away to examine later.

Right now, though, I had to concentrate on the more pressing problem: the thing we had found hidden in Martha Tepper’s basement.

“Okay. I’ll cut the sheriff some slack. He’s not a bad guy. Blah, blah, blah. And apparently you were just trying to help.” I nodded quickly. “I get it. So what should I do?”

Wade swallowed and I picked up my sandwich. It was my turn to wait, and I took a bite. Egg salad. Somehow, I’d ordered an egg salad sandwich.

I hate egg salad.

“You have to go talk to the sheriff ”—he glanced at his watch—“in about an hour. Tell him everything you know,
and then stand back and let him do what he was elected to do. I promise you he’s good, and he’ll get to the bottom of this.”

He picked up his burger and gave me a hard look. “Do you think you can do that?”

I thought about what he’d asked as I forced myself to chew and swallow the gooey, disgusting sandwich.

“I can,” I said softly. “Within reason. I’m not going to tell him anything that’s going to get me in trouble.”

Wade struggled to keep a straight face, and I knew he was thinking about the night he had caught Sue and me outside Martha Tepper’s house.

“Yeah,” I said. “Self-incrimination is so not my style.”

“Good idea,” Wade said. He took another bite of burger, apparently having exhausted his supply of advice.

I shrugged and went back to my lunch. The fries were good, and I found myself taking another bite of the sandwich. It was still egg salad, but for food I hated, it wasn’t too repulsive.

We ate quickly and I managed to finish half the sandwich. I kept looking at my watch as I wolfed down the fries and drained the refill of my coffee cup.

“Dogs?” Wade asked, when I glanced at my wrist for the fourth or fifth time.

“Yeah. I really need to let them out before I go talk to Sheriff Mitchell. No telling when I’ll get back.”

Wade nodded and signaled the waitress over. “Just put this on my tab, would you, Mary?”

“Sure.”

After she left, Wade tossed a few singles on the table for a tip and stood up. “I’ll meet you at your place,” he said. “You let the dogs out and then I’ll drive you over to the sheriff’s office.”

I stood, and led the way out the door. Once we were alone, I turned to face Wade.

“I can get there by myself,” I said. “I’m sure you have things you need to do.”

Wade studied me for a minute, and I thought I might have hurt his pride. Still, I felt like this was something I should take care of myself.

Besides, if he took me to the sheriff’s office, it would cement that boyfriend/girlfriend thing in everyone’s mind, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want that label. Not yet.

“You sure?”

I shook my head. “I promise I’ll go like a good little girl, Wade. Believe me, I can follow orders when I have to.”

Wade agreed, reluctantly, to let me go alone. He made me promise to call him afterward. I just didn’t say how soon afterward.

Which was probably a good idea.

The dogs were happy to see me, but Daisy quickly realized that they were getting only a few minutes in the backyard, and she gave me a look that clearly said I was committing Airedale neglect.

She was right, too. Since I’d become involved with the mystery of Martha Tepper’s disappearance, I hadn’t been giving them the attention they deserved.

“I swear,” I told them as I brought the dogs in and gave them green treats, “as soon as my visit to the sheriff is done, I am through with this. Then I’ll take you on long walks and we’ll go see Sue for a shampoo.”

I tickled Buddha behind his ears and hugged Daisy. “It’s all over. I promise.”

The sheriff’s office was in a low, brick-and-glass, 1960s-modern building two blocks from Main Street. As a kid I’d been confused when someone referred to it as the “new” sheriff’s office—it had always been there. But as an adult I realized it was decades newer than Main Street.