Lead-Pipe Cinch (9 page)

I’d deal with it later.

“Georgiana?” Richard’s voice was tiny, carrying from where I’d abandoned the phone. “Georgie? Are you still there?”

I grabbed the phone back up. “Sorry, Richard. I was trying to burn dinner.” I glanced at the blackened mess in the sink. “Looks like I did a pretty good job, too.”

“I’m sorry. I called at a bad time. Maybe I should just call you back later, or something.”

“Never mind, Richard. It’s fine.” I thought for a second. “But just why did you call me? It’s been a long time since I left Samurai, after all.”

“Actually, it’s about Stan. He’s at the San Francisco airport, and he’s catching the next flight to Portland. He should be up there in a couple hours, and he said he’d like to talk to you while he’s there.”

“Ooookay,” I said slowly. “I don’t know why he’d want to talk to me, but you can pass along my number.”

“I don’t know, either, Georgie. I just know he asked me to find you and let him know how to get in touch.” Richard hesitated, and I could picture him, his mouth twisted as he pondered his next words. “You won’t tell him what I said, will you, Georgie? I mean, I know I wasn’t supposed to know and all, but it just slipped out. I swear, I won’t talk to anybody else about it or anything. I won’t even tell them I talked to you if you don’t want me to. Except for Stan, of course.”

“Sure, Richard. There isn’t any reason for me to mention it to Stan. I’m not even sure I’ll actually talk to him, since there isn’t anything I can really tell him.”

I finally got Richard off the phone, and turned back to inspect the wreckage of my dinner. The French toast was burned, I was out of eggs, and the frying pan was a crusted mess.

I called Garibaldi’s and ordered a pizza.

My mother didn’t have to know.

While I waited for the delivery driver, I thought about what Richard had said. “Everybody” at Samurai knew I’d taken a buyout? They thought I’d walked away with a bundle of cash and left them all behind.

No wonder no one had called. And I just bet that rumor was strategically “leaked” to the entire company as soon as I was out the door. It certainly would have sounded better than the truth—that Blake and the board of directors that included Stan Fischer had cheated me out of the company, and left me without a dime.

And Stan was on his way to Pine Ridge. I wanted to see him even less than I wanted to see Blake. The last time I’d seen him was when I left San Francisco with my tail between my legs. It would be awkward; more so because Stan didn’t have the social grace and charm of Blake Weston.

Okay, so the charm had worn a bit thin, judging by the way Blake had talked to me out at the job site, but he had been charming when he wanted to be.

The doorbell rang, and I grabbed my wallet. In spite of everything that was going on, I was still hungry.

But it wasn’t the pizza delivery guy. It was Sheriff Mitchell.

And he didn’t look happy.

“Good evening, Miss Neverall. May I come in?”

The tone of his voice didn’t give me much hope that a protest would do any good. It had that we-can-do-this-the-easy-way-or-the-hard-way quality you hear in all the cop shows on TV.

It had the desired effect. I opened the door wide and invited him in.

I glanced outside as I closed the door behind the sheriff. His cruiser was parked at the curb, but he appeared to be alone. It looked like an official visit, but at least there weren’t lights and sirens.

“Have a seat, Sheriff.” I waved at the sofa, but he remained standing. “I was waiting for a delivery from Garibaldi’s. In fact”—I held out the wallet as proof—“that’s who I thought was at the door.”

I smiled at him. “Seems like the last time you were here Garibaldi’s was delivering, too. If I recall, you like extra olives and pepperoni.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him. The last time he’d been in my living room, I’d been recovering from a run-in with the Gladstones who’d killed Martha Tepper and hidden her body.

He gave me an unhappy look, and sat down on the recliner. He didn’t lean back but sat up straight, his elbows resting on his knees.

The doorbell rang again. This time it was Garibaldi’s. By the time I got back to the living room with the pizza and some napkins, Sheriff Mitchell had a notebook out and he was fiddling with his pen.

“Help yourself,” I said, setting the box on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. “I always order a large, even though it’s way too much.”

I was chattering. I knew it and I hated the fact, but my nerves were pulled tight by Richard’s phone call and the impending arrival of Stan Fischer. The sheriff’s unexpected visit didn’t exactly help matters.

“Thanks,” the sheriff said. “Maybe later. But for now, I need to ask you a few questions. I thought you might prefer to talk here, rather than down at the station.”

Yow. That sounded like a warning.

“I appreciate that. As long as you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. It’s been kind of a long day, and I’m hungry.” >

As if to prove my point, I picked up the slice on my plate and took a big bite. The cheese was still hot, burning my tongue as I tried to chew.

I set the plate down, careful not to put it where the dogs could reach. They knew better, but the aroma of pepperoni and cheese was sometimes too much for their obedience training to overcome.

“So,” I said, folding my hands together in my lap. “Questions.”

The sheriff glanced at his pad and back up at me. “Do you mind if I use the recorder? You know I feel more secure knowing I got the exact response.”

He’d done the same thing when he interviewed me about Martha Tepper. I nodded. I’d expected it.

He reached in his pocket and set the tiny machine on the table next to the pizza box.

“That official, huh?” I asked.

“Just a few details, Miss Neverall. I want to be sure I get everything straight. That’s all.”

I didn’t believe him, but I was smart enough not to say so.

He punched a button, tested the recording and played it back, then noted the time and place before he asked his first question.

“You knew the deceased, Blake Weston?”

I nodded. The sheriff rolled his eyes. I had to actually talk for the recorder. “Yes, I knew him.”

“When and where did you see him last?”

“You mean before he came to Pine Ridge?”

“Yes. And after.”

“Well, let me see. I saw him at the construction site twice, and once in Tiny’s. He was at the site on Tuesday morning with Chad McComb, and with Chad and Astrid in Tiny’s that night. And then I saw him at the site the next morning.”

“And before that?”

“It was several years ago, in San Francisco. As I told you, we worked together. The last time I saw him was when I left the company where we worked.”

“That was”—he checked his notebook—“Samurai Security? Where he was still employed?”

“It was Samurai, yes. But I didn’t know that he was still employed there.” I’m not a very good liar, but I hadn’t
known
Blake was still a part of the company until Richard called. It was a fine distinction, but it worked for me. “I had the impression he was still doing the same kind of work, though he didn’t say where he was working.”

“According to Chad McComb, it was Samurai Security. Said he’d never done business with them before, but they came highly recommended.”

He glanced back at his notes. “You hadn’t seen Mr. Weston since you left San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Had you talked to him?”

I glanced at the recorder. The light blinked steadily, my words saved for anyone to hear. “Can we turn that off for a minute?”

The sheriff hesitated, then reached down and killed the power to the recorder. “Why?”

I toyed with a piece of pepperoni. It was greasy, and I wiped my hands on a paper towel.

“Miss Neverall?”

I looked up and caught the sheriff’s gaze. I held his eyes for a minute before I looked back down at my plate. “There are several things about my relationship with Mr. Weston that I would prefer to keep private. Once they are on that thing”—I waved at the recorder—“anybody can listen to what I say.”

“It’s kept secure, Georgie.”

I looked up again, startled by his use of my first name. He flashed a sheepish grin. “Let’s start over, shall we?”

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Georgie, I have heard some things that make me think you know more about Blake Weston than you’ve been telling me. I need to know what those things are.” He held up a hand to stop the question that was already forming on my lips.

“I have my reasons, just like you have yours for not telling me. I can’t divulge why I need to know, but I do. So why don’t we have some pizza, and talk about good ol’ Blake?”

He reached for a piece of pizza. “And you’re the one who told me to call you Georgie.”

Fred Mitchell knew I had been holding out on him.

I put another slice on my plate and leaned back. “Okay, we can play it that way. But I want you to promise me this doesn’t go any further. It’s ancient history, and I don’t want to be reading about it on the front page of the
Pine Ridge Times
.”

“Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers in a salute. “Unless it’s evidence of a crime, I’ll respect your confidence.”

“Blake and I had a, um, complicated relationship. I started the company, it took off, and Blake was the first partner when I expanded. We had a personal relationship in addition to the business partnership.”

“That trick never works.”

“I know. But I believed we were different.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah. Well.” I chewed a bite of pizza, then continued. “We attracted venture capital, like a lot of high-tech companies did at the time. Eventually, the investors decided they wanted a say in how things were done.

“It did not end well.”

The sheriff shrugged and took another piece of pizza. “Seems like things were going okay for Weston. Until recently, of course.”

It was my turn to shrug. “Really don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t talked to him since I left San Francisco.”

“We all have those kind of stories. Why is it so important to you to keep this a secret?” His expression was genuinely puzzled.

I could have told him about my mother’s disapproval and my father’s expectations. I could have explained how I was the local girl that made good at the prestigious university. I could talk about pride and self-respect and all the things that made me keep my failures to myself.

“When a girl gets dumped, Sheriff, she doesn’t want to tell the whole world.”

Although not the most complete response I could have given, it was an explanation he would understand. An explanation that left intact what little dignity I had left.

“About the only thing that’s evidence of,” I continued, “is embarrassment. And that isn’t a crime, is it?”

“If it was,” he answered, “I’d need a lot bigger jail.”

He levered himself out of the chair and stretched to his full six feet—an imposing sight. Easy to see why Sue was developing a crush on him—even if she wouldn’t admit it. I wondered if it was mutual, and how long it would take one or the other of them to act on it.

“I suppose that’s all I have for now, Georgie. There may be more questions later, after we know a little more. But for now, I appreciate your candor.” He waved at the box on the trunk. “And the pizza.”

I stood up and walked him to the door. As he drove away, I considered his last words. After they knew a little more? Blake had fallen in the moat and drowned. There wasn’t much to know.

Except what he was doing out there in the first place.

The good news was that maybe Stan Fischer could answer that question.

The bad news was that meant talking to Stan Fischer, a man not noted for his discretion and civility.

I was so dead.