Authors: Christy Evans
Lead-Pipe Cinch (11 page)
On the way home, I turned on the radio in the Beetle, in time to catch the local newscast. Pine Ridge was too small to have their own station, but one of the Portland stations carried local news at noon.
I wasn’t listening carefully as I pulled into my driveway, but the name
Pine Ridge
caught my attention. I waited with the engine idling while I listened to the rest of the item.
Pine Ridge
caught my attention. I waited with the engine idling while I listened to the rest of the item.
Although the short piece was carefully worded and gave no details, it was clearly about Blake. His identity was being withheld pending notification of next of kin.
According to the report, the investigation into the death was “ongoing,” and the cause of death had not been released by the sheriff.
Now that was weird. Why wasn’t the sheriff saying Blake had drowned? There didn’t seem to be any reason not to.
I shut off the engine and shoved the keys in my pocket. I was nearly to the front door when a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up at the foot of the driveway.
Deputy Carruthers unfolded his lanky frame from behind the wheel and intercepted me before I could unlock the door.
“Miss Neverall, could you come with me, please? The sheriff would like to talk to you.”
I hesitated with my key inches from the lock. “Can it wait? I can drive myself after I let the dogs out. It will only be a few minutes.”
Carruthers shifted his weight. His posture became more imposing, his presence sterner. “The sheriff said right away. Can the dogs wait?” The tone of his question told me the answer he expected.
I didn’t disappoint him. I had a hunch it wouldn’t have done me much good to argue anyway. “I’m sure they’ll manage for a little longer.”
“Good.”
Carruthers led me back to the cruiser. He hesitated when we reached the car. Then he shrugged slightly, as though he had reached a decision, and opened the front door of the cruiser.
I took it as a good sign.
We drove to the sheriff’s station in silence. Carruthers wasn’t the talkative type, and I wasn’t volunteering anything right now.
Not until I knew what this was all about.
chapter 13
The atmosphere at the sheriff’s station wasn’t much different from the one in the cruiser.
Carruthers led me to a featureless room with an old desk and an office chair upholstered in cracked green vinyl. I’d been in this office before. The comfort level hadn’t improved since my last visit.
He offered me a cup of coffee and said to wait. Sheriff Mitchell would be with me as soon as he could.
The coffee was bitter from sitting on a warmer plate too long. Just like I was sitting in that room too long. I was still wearing the coveralls I’d worn on the Hope house job that morning. Without a purse, I didn’t even have a book to read while I waited.
I considered the consequences of just leaving and had about decided to take the chance when the sheriff finally appeared.
He pushed an ergonomically correct chair into place behind the desk, sat down, and put his ever-present recorder in the middle of the desk.
“You mind?” he asked, waving at the recorder.
We’d had this conversation before. Not just the night before in my living room, but during the Tepper investigation. I could object, but Mitchell had proved himself a fair man.
I shrugged. “I suppose not. But I reserve the right to change my mind.” I wanted to remind him I had done just that the night before and he had turned off the recorder.
“Of course.” His voice was carefully neutral, but his manner was distant and his face guarded. His entire demeanor was decidedly chillier than it had been only a few hours earlier.
That, coupled with the fact he’d had me brought to the station instead of him coming to see me, set off warning bells.
Something was wrong. The lizard brain went into fight or flight mode, pumping adrenaline through my system. I had to struggle to remain still in the chair.
Focus. I had to focus.
I took a deep calming breath, just as the sensei had taught me. I made my mind overrule the irrational fears of my body, and brought my galloping heart under control.
The sheriff just looked at me, waiting for me to say something.
I forced myself to look back, to hold his gaze. He had me brought here, he could darned well tell me what this was about.
And I wasn’t going to ask.
The corner of the sheriff’s mouth twitched for a split second, as though he was amused by something. Or maybe I imagined it as a way to stifle my anxiety.
“I apologize for the delay,” he said in a tone that wasn’t at all apologetic. “I was in a meeting that ended up taking much longer than I expected.”
He placed a manila folder on the desk and opened it, tilting the file so I couldn’t see the contents. He might not know I could read it upside down, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Miss Neverall, there are some questions that have come up about your relationship with the deceased, Mr. Weston.”
The recorder clicked as he stopped talking. It was my turn, and it was clear this time he was going to leave the recorder running.
“Yes? What kind of questions?”
“It seems like you weren’t completely up front with me about you and Blake Weston, Miss Neverall.”
“I told you the truth. We were business associates, we had a personal relationship, and it ended badly. I hadn’t seen or spoken to the man for several years before he showed up here in Pine Ridge.”
I sat back and crossed my arms. I pressed my lips tightly together. I wouldn’t offer him anything more.
“Miss Neverall,” the sheriff’s tone was sharp, “you had a confrontation with Mr. Weston in front of the entire work crew just a few hours before he died. From what I hear, it sounded like a lot more than a bad breakup. Is there anything more you want to tell me about that?”
I didn’t answer. My yelling at Blake had nothing to do with him falling in the moat. Did it?
The sheriff scribbled something in his file. Probably a note about the scowl I could feel spread across my face. The recorder wouldn’t pick that up.
“Look,” I said. My patience was shot, and I wanted to get home and let the dogs out while there was still a chance the carpets were intact. “You asked me all this yesterday, and I gave you answers. I told you about my history with Blake Weston. I admit, I thought he was a jerk and a liar, but he didn’t deserve to die.” I shuddered, remembering the Italian loafers toes-down in the mud.
“Nobody deserves to drown in a freakin’ moat. But my argument with Blake had nothing to do with him being out there in the dark. If he came back out after I yelled at him, that was his stupidity. And no, nobody deserves to die just for being stupid, either.”
I stopped and drew a deep breath. I could feel a flush spreading up my neck and across my face. I was suddenly too warm. I fanned myself with my hand.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“You don’t have any idea what Mr. Weston was doing out at the McComb site?”
“He said he was there on a job—consulting on the security system.”
“We knew that. I mean do you have any knowledge of why he was there specifically on Wednesday night. Anything he might have said? Anything in the way he worked that might explain why he was out there that night?”
“Not really. He said something about looking at the site without the client, but he was doing that in the morning. I have no idea why he would be back out.”
Something wasn’t right. Blake’s death was an accident—a stupid accident, but still an accident.
“Sheriff Mitchell,” I unfolded my arms and leaned my forearms on the desk. “I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions. Blake drowned. Right?”
The sheriff looked at the file in front of him, and tapped a finger against the pages. He glanced up at me a couple times, always returning to the file. It was like he was trying to decide exactly what to say.
I had the distinct impression that the answer—if he answered at all—was no.
“The cause of death has not been determined. The Medical Examiner wasn’t available until early this afternoon. Until she has examined the body we can’t say what might have happened.”
Okay, not what I wanted to hear. Instead of having Doc Cox sign the death certificate, they had called in the county Medical Examiner. Never a good sign.
“Do you have anything you want to add to your statement, Miss Neverall? Any information that might be useful to us in our investigation?”
I shook my head. The sheriff looked from me to the recorder and back again, his eyebrow raised in a question.
“No,” I said, for the benefit of the recorder. “I can’t think of anything that would help. I wish I could.” That last part was especially true. I would like nothing better than to give them some information that would get this over with.
“All right.” He picked up the recorder and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll have your statement typed up. Might take a little while.”
I sighed. So much for the carpets. Buddha would at least use the tile at the back porch, but there was no telling how or where Daisy would exhibit her pique.
The sheriff looked at me, and came to some decision. His face settled into a stern expression. “I’ll want you to come back in and sign the statement, and I may have more questions once we determine the cause of death. In the meantime, you’re free to go.”
I stood up and grabbed my jacket. “Thanks.”
“Just don’t plan any long-distance trips in the next few days. I have a feeling I’ll need to talk to you again.”
I nodded and hustled out the door before he could change his mind. I would come back and sign whatever he wanted, but I needed to get out of there.
I was out the door on the sidewalk before I remembered I didn’t have a car. Carruthers had picked me up in the cruiser.
I was stranded.
I supposed I could go back in and have someone drive me home—but right now I didn’t want to go in that office for any reason. The sheriff was suspicious about me and Blake, and he wouldn’t say Blake had drowned.
Which probably meant he hadn’t.
I refused to consider that possibility. Of course he had drowned. It was the only explanation I could accept. The alternatives were unthinkable.
It was only a few blocks to Sue’s shop—two blocks over to Main and a couple blocks down—and I wasn’t sure where else to go. Wade might be in his office, but what would I say to him?
I shrugged into my jacket, feeling the weight of my cell phone bump against my side. If Sue wasn’t there I could call someone for a ride.
Like who? If I called Wade I would have to explain how I got downtown without my car. And he wasn’t going to believe for a second that I was just out for a walk—without the dogs.
My mom? The thought made me cringe. Whatever I didn’t want to tell Wade, I wanted to tell my mother even less.
To my relief, Sue was in the shop when I arrived. She looked up with a puzzled expression. She obviously hadn’t heard the Beetle pull up in front, and I was wearing work coveralls.
“I walked,” I said, as though that explained everything.
Her brows knit in confusion. “What?”
“I walked,” I repeated as I closed the door behind me. “But only from the sheriff’s office.”
She shot me a disgusted look. “You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”
I grinned at her. “Maybe a little. But I really was at the sheriff’s office and I did walk over here.”
There was no one in the shop, and I was grateful for the chance to talk privately. “He had more questions about Blake. Had Carruthers come out to the house and ‘offer’ me a ride to the station. It sounded like one of those offers you shouldn’t refuse.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the sheriff’s office. “I got done a few minutes ago, so now I need a ride home.”
Sue blinked a couple times, as though trying to piece together what I’d said. She looked the way I felt when I talked to her—like she’d just stepped into the middle of a completely different conversation.
“Back up,” she said. “Let’s try this again.”
I laughed out loud. Usually it was me telling her to start over and explain what she was talking about.
“What’s funny?” Sue demanded. “The sheriff had you dragged down to his office to answer questions, and then he didn’t even have someone drive you home? I mean, all those cop shows, they always have an officer drive the person home. It’s like standard procedure or something, isn’t it?”
“Maybe he would have thought of it, if I’d stuck around,” I admitted. “But I was in a hurry to get out. I don’t even know why, really. It was just strange and uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave more than I wanted a ride home.”
Sue glanced up at the clock. It was a kitschy big-eyed cat that she’d found at a garage sale a couple years ago. I’d told her what it was worth as a collectible, but she insisted she didn’t care and it stayed on her wall.
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