Authors: Christy Evans

Lead-Pipe Cinch (5 page)

BOOK: Lead-Pipe Cinch

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“So, Mom, what was it you were saying earlier about the Clackamas Commons project? You had some new sales projections?”

We moved back to safer subjects, but I was left with a lingering unease. Why had Gregory been so intent on discussing Blake Weston’s visit to the job site? And why bring it up in the middle of dinner?

chapter 6

My mother had the same questions.

She motioned for me to help her clear the dessert dishes and follow her into the kitchen. She immediately closed the door behind us.

“What was that all about?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have Gregory know more about your life than your own mother does?”

Now that was more like it. For an instant I’d thought she was worried about me. But no, she was worried about how it made her look.

Be fair, I reasoned. She knows I can take care of myself, and I’ve deliberately kept her out of my life because she doesn’t agree with the choices I’ve made.

It wasn’t that my mother thought a husband and family were a better choice than an advanced degree. She thought they were the
only
choice.

The arguments ran through my head, an instant replay of our every conversation. She thought college—especially one with a high male to female ratio—was a way to earn a “Mrs.” I was proud of my MS. It was a fundamental difference.

Still, she loved me, and I loved her in spite of our differences.

I touched her arm. “It was just someone I knew a long time ago, Mom. Someone I hoped I would never see again. He was a jerk. I’d almost forgotten about him,” I lied smoothly, “until he showed up here.”

“Well,” she didn’t sound convinced, but she seemed willing to cut me some slack. “If you say so.” She gave me a sharp look. “You’d tell me if it was more than that, wouldn’t you, Georgiana? I mean, I
am
your mother.”

I sighed. “Of course I would.” Another lie, but a necessary one if I wanted to put an end to this conversation. “But there’s nothing to tell. Really.”

Mom walked past me toward the kitchen door. She stopped and gave me a stiff hug. Then, as though embarrassed by the moment, she pulled away and walked quickly back into the dining room.

I sighed again. She drove me nuts, and we disagreed about nearly everything, but she was still my mother. We were all we had—if I didn’t count Gregory, which I didn’t—and we were stuck with each other.

I was sure there were worse things.

I was about to find out how true that was.

By morning I had put Gregory and his odd behavior out of my mind. He had certainly been in a strange mood, but that was his problem, not mine. Who knows? Maybe he saw me as a threat to his relationship with my mother.

Not that I had any intention of interfering in Sandra Neverall’s love life. I preferred to stay as far away from
that
subject as possible.

My own track record wasn’t anything to brag about, after all. Before the Blake debacle there were several years of a social life that consisted primarily of study groups, the occasional Ptomaine Tommy’s burger run, and the annual liquid nitrogen frozen pumpkin drop. And while Ditch Day had its social aspects, it was practically a civic duty. Not a serious romantic relationship in the bunch.

I’d dated Wade for a few months in high school, and my mother had harbored high hopes for our future together. He was smart and ambitious, and she still considered him a very acceptable choice.

She never understood why we broke up, and I hadn’t tried to explain. I mean, how do you explain dumping an otherwise nice guy because he didn’t rat out his buddy for cheating on your best friend? I ranted about his complicity to my friends—I was as dramatic as any teenager, albeit with a better vocabulary—but never to my mother.

Sue had found out about the jerk on her own, dumped him, and become the first prom queen to show up without a date. My relationship with Wade had never recovered.

Now we were dating again, trying to figure out if there was still something between us.

I was beginning to believe there was, though Wade had occasional doubts; like the time a few months earlier when he’d almost caught Sue and me breaking into Martha Tepper’s house. Sure, we’d been trying to catch a thief and a murderer—and we’d been right—but having a cat burglar for a girlfriend was a definite detriment to a political career.

The skies were gray and a heavy fog clung to the highway as the Beetle chugged up the final hill to the McComb site. It was going to be a lousy day to work outside: cold and clammy, the daylight deadened by the low-hanging clouds. It had rained during the night, and there would be water standing in the bottom of the moat.

I wasn’t looking forward to the day’s work.

As I neared the top I heard idling engines and male voices carrying through the still morning. I wasn’t always the first one on the site, but I was usually early, and I cherished those quiet moments before the crew arrived.

It was a habit I’d developed at Samurai Security. Arriving before my employees had allowed me uninterrupted time, a rarity in the hard-driving high-tech world. Yet Blake had somehow managed to turn even that against me in the final days.

I shook off the memory. Blake was history. Period.

When I topped the rise, emerging on the plateau where the site looked down on the surrounding pine forest, the sky was lit with red-and-blue strobe lights.

In the middle of the gravel pad an ambulance idled, puffs of exhaust creating vapor clouds in the cold morning air. The sheriff’s cruiser was parked a few feet away, its bubble gum machine strobing in counterpoint to the lights on the ambulance.

For one surreal moment I realized this must have been how my parents’ house looked the night my father had his heart attack.

Then reality hit me. There were rescue crews on our job site. Someone on the crew was hurt, badly enough to call an ambulance.

I slammed on the brakes and jumped from the car. I had to find out who was hurt, had to help if I could.

My heart raced as I ran toward the edge of the trench. If someone was hurt, I knew it would be in the moat.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Maybe it was just a false alarm.

Maybe they didn’t need the ambulance after all.

A deputy stood in my path, and I tried to run around him. His arm reached out as I passed, snagging the sleeve of my Windbreaker.

“Not so fast, ma’am. No one’s allowed up there.” He nodded toward the site, where I could see uniformed men milling about.

“I work here,” I snapped.

“Don’t think anybody’s working today,” the deputy said, releasing my sleeve. “You might as well go back home.”

“That’s kind of up to my boss.” I checked his name plate. “Don’t you think so, Deputy Wheeler?”

“Who’s your boss?” he asked slowly.

“Uh, Barry. Barry Hickey. Hickey & Hickey Plumbing?”

The deputy eyed me up and down. My coveralls were relatively clean, and I’d brushed off my boots, but I was sure I looked the part.

“I’m on the plumbing crew,” I added.

The deputy didn’t respond, and my imagination started working overtime. Maybe Barry was hurt, and he wasn’t going to tell me.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

The deputy hesitated before he answered. “There’s been an accident. This site is closed while we investigate. No one will be working here today, so, as I said, you might as well go home.”

“Is someone hurt, Deputy Wheeler? I know all the guys on the crew. Who is it?”

Wheeler pressed his lips into a thin line. Obviously, he didn’t intend to tell me anything more.

I debated my options. There weren’t many. Wheeler was broad-chested, and his arms strained the sleeves of his uniform jacket.

I couldn’t push past him, and I couldn’t see around him, but I wasn’t going away.

“Miss Neverall?”

I heard Sheriff Mitchell’s voice from behind the deputy. As he loomed out of the fog, his face became recognizable.

“What are
you
doing here?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“Just showing up for work, Sheriff.”

The sheriff and I had become acquainted during the investigation of Martha Tepper’s disappearance. I had solved the murder, but it didn’t make us fast friends.

I don’t think he had quite forgiven me for getting myself shot at. I wasn’t too happy about it, either, having been the target, but that didn’t seem to matter.

“Well you heard the deputy. Nobody’s working here today.”

“What happened, Sheriff? I work on the site here, and I know all the guys on the crew. If one of them is hurt, I’d like to know who it is.”

Pine Ridge is a small town. The sheriff would know all the regulars on Barry’s crew. He should be able to tell me
something
.

“We don’t think it’s any of the crew, Miss Neverall. None of us recognize him.

“I called Barry, and he’ll be here soon. But he’s already been notified that you can’t proceed until we’ve finished our investigation into the accident.”

He turned and walked away. “Go home,” he said without turning around.

I went back to the Bug and climbed into the driver’s seat, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to stay. I reached for my thermos, grateful that I had been organized enough to make coffee this morning.

That’s where Barry found me.

His truck pulled up next to me, and I looked over at the mud-caked tires even with my window. A minute later Barry’s face appeared in the window, and I wound down the glass.

“Sheriff Mitchell said he closed down the site and was sending everybody home.”

“Not everyone,” I said, looking pointedly at Sean’s pickup, parked a few yards away. “But he wouldn’t talk to
me
.”

“Nothing personal, girl, uh, Georgie,” he amended quickly. Barry was trying to come into the twenty-first century.

“Sean was the first one here, and he’s the one that called the sheriff. That’s all.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so. But who’s hurt? He says he doesn’t think it’s one of our guys, but who else would be out here at this hour?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Barry patted the windowsill and straightened.

I didn’t wait for an invitation. I jumped out of the car and followed him toward the flashing lights. He didn’t try to stop me.

Deputy Wheeler stepped forward to block our path, as he had done earlier, but Sheriff Mitchell spotted Barry and called out to him.

Barry glanced at Wheeler. “Sheriff wants to talk to me,” he said as he passed the deputy.

I stuck close to Barry, as though I belonged. This time Wheeler gave me a sour look, but he let me pass.

I wasn’t exactly hiding behind Barry, but I figured if Mitchell didn’t notice me he couldn’t send me back to my car.

We passed through the ring of official vehicles, the red-and-blue lights casting garish shadows across our faces.

Firefighters in heavy turnouts and hard hats stood at the lip of the moat, looking down into it. From below, I could hear muffled voices and the splash of booted feet in the water at the bottom.

As we moved closer there was no sense of urgency in the men, no rush to get the injured man to the ambulance. No one was in any hurry.

Not good.

Sheriff Mitchell led Barry to the edge of the moat and I trailed along behind. The firefighters moved aside, clearing our view of the muddy bottom.

The beams of heavy-duty flashlights cut through the mist in the moat. The reflected light cast crazy shadows, throwing the scene at the bottom into chaos.

My brain struggled to make a recognizable image from the jumble. The moat itself was a place I knew well, and I could sort out the steep sides and the temporary bridge.

But the bottom didn’t look right. As I looked harder I saw three paramedics, the reflective tape on their brown jackets spelling out “Clackamas Fire.”

The fog shifted and I got a brief clear look at the scene below.

I don’t know what I expected to see. But I didn’t expect to see a pair of hand-stitched Italian loafers motionless at the bottom of the moat—their owner lying partway under the temporary bridge, his upper body hidden by the piers and planks. But I knew those shoes.

I gasped. Several heads swiveled my direction, and Sheriff Mitchell quirked an eyebrow. “Someone you know, Miss Neverall?”

“No. Yes. I—maybe,” I stuttered. “All I can see are the shoes, really, so how can I say?”

The sheriff gave me a hard look. “Don’t go anywhere. As soon as Doc Cox gets here, you can take a look at the rest of him. In the meantime, stay out of the way.”

I didn’t ask why they were waiting for Dr. Cox. The answer was clear in the lack of urgency. This wasn’t a rescue.

The body attached to those shoes was dead.

chapter 7

BOOK: Lead-Pipe Cinch

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