Drip Dead (12 page)

I wandered back into the kitchen. Her laptop was closed, but it still rested on the kitchen table where she had been working.

I can resist anything but temptation, and this was a huge temptation.

Mom’s passwords weren’t very sophisticated. I was logged on with her user name within three minutes and cruising her files. I don’t know what I was looking for exactly. Just something to explain how Gregory and several cases of wine ended up under Mom’s house.

But an hour of exploring Mom’s files didn’t reveal anything more interesting than an unfortunate addiction to bad YouTube videos of too-cute animals and—not surprising—a lot of bookmarked online shoe stores.

My mother’s shoe addiction was worse than I thought.

My conscience nagged at me as I poured another cup of coffee and sat back down at the computer. I had no right to paw through Mom’s files. They were none of my business and I was invading her privacy and violating her trust.

So, of course I dug deeper. Since the initial barrier was so flimsy, maybe she had a hidden directory with files she wanted secure. None of my usual tricks turned up anything, and I was beginning to believe there wasn’t anything to find.

Mom needed a serious security checkup.

I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I searched the system files, logged off and back on, and ran several diagnostics.

All the while I listened for the sound of a car in the driveway.

There was something out of balance in the hard drive usage statistics. The capacity of the drive didn’t mesh with the space used and available. There were files taking up space somewhere, but I couldn’t find them.

I went back to the log-in. I was determined to solve the puzzle of Mom’s phantom files. It wasn’t about Gregory or his wine any longer. It was all about the challenge.

I was focused so completely on the computer I missed the sound of the car pulling into the driveway.

The knock on the front door startled me. I jumped, jostled the table, and knocked over my coffee cup. A dribble of cold coffee splashed across the keyboard.

I bit back a curse and grabbed a paper towel. I swiped at the keyboard and slammed it closed.

I was halfway to the door when it struck me that it couldn’t be Mom. She had her own key.

I opened the door and found Wade Montgomery grinning at me over a cardboard box of donuts.

“Your car was in the driveway,” he said as he came in. “So I stopped.”

Wade leaned over and kissed me. He tasted of sugar glaze. “Got coffee?” he called back over his shoulder.

It took a few seconds for his question to register.

“Sure.” I closed the door and followed him to the kitchen, where he was already pouring himself a cup.

“Uh, help yourself,” I said.

“I think I will,” he teased, turning to kiss me again.

I laughed and pulled away. “I meant the coffee.”

We set the box of donuts on the table and I sat back down next to the laptop. Unable to leave it alone, I flipped it open and went back to cleaning the keyboard.

Wade sat across from me and waited while I finished with the computer.

“Spilled some coffee,” I explained. “Just wanted to make sure I got it all cleaned up before it did any damage.”

I finished cleaning and checked the keyboard functions. No permanent damage. Reluctantly I logged out and closed the computer. I would have to finish checking the hard drive later.

We made small talk for a few minutes as we ate donuts and drank coffee.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class this morning?” Wade asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, I should be. It’s a review session before the licensing exam. But with everything that’s going on, I really didn’t want to be gone all morning. No telling what Mom would get up to if I wasn’t here.”

“Speaking of the inimitable Sandra, where is she?” Wade looked around as though he expected her to emerge from the woodwork any minute now. “Her car wasn’t out front.”

“She said she had some houses to show and didn’t know when she’d be back.”

Wade studied me for a minute. “How’s that going for you?”

He should have known better than to ask. “She’s been here two days, Wade, and she’s making me crazy. I let her have the bedroom since there’s only one, but I didn’t count on her taking over the bathroom, too. And she tried to rearrange the living room yesterday! I don’t know how long I can handle this.”

I shook my head. “I have got to get her back in her own house, or into the new one Gregory built, before I lose my mind.”

I glared at Wade, who was struggling to control a grin. “Just what is so funny?”

He tried to look innocent, to hide the smirk on his face, but it didn’t work. “Hey, Georgie, you’re the one who offered to let her stay here.” There was a barely concealed snicker in his voice.

“And what was I supposed to do? Make her move to a hotel in Portland? There isn’t anywhere around Pine Ridge that would be acceptable. And the sheriff made it clear she wasn’t supposed to leave town. So I really didn’t have a choice.” I shook my head again. “And I definitely didn’t have any other options that wouldn’t include the patented Neverall guilt trip.”

This time Wade did laugh in spite of my glare. “Now I wouldn’t know anything about that, would I, Georgie?”

My glare stayed put. “You were wrong. I said it then, and I’ll say it now.”

Wade’s laughter subsided. “I was seventeen! Of course I was wrong. But what was I supposed to do? And really, Georgie, complicity is a pretty big word for a teenaged girl to go slinging around!”

It was a familiar argument. We covered the same ground every few months, to the point it had become a running joke. Yes, he’d covered for his buddy who was cheating on Sue. And no, I still thought he was wrong.

“Well, you’re the one who was best buds with a total horndog.”

“Guilty as charged. Josh
was
a total horndog. But he was still my best friend.” He held up a hand in mock surrender. “I know. I know. And Sue was your best friend. I am never going to live this down, am I?”

“Never.” I smiled.

He sighed dramatically and closed the donut box. “I don’t know why I try.” He put his coffee cup on the counter. “But how about I give it another go tonight over beer and chicken fingers? About six thirty work for you?”

“Tiny’s?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question. In a town the size of Pine Ridge there wasn’t any place else.

Wade nodded and picked up the donut box. “I do have some work to do this morning,” he said.

I walked him to the door and gave him a quick kiss before promising to meet him at Tiny’s for dinner. He waved as he climbed into his sensible hybrid sedan, and I closed the door with a smile on my face.

I was getting used to Wade making me smile. It felt like he had moved from maybe-boyfriend to someone special. He hadn’t solved the problem of Sandra, or of Gregory’s murder, but he had managed to make me feel better.

I knew it wouldn’t last.

The only way to get Sandra Neverall out of my house was to figure out who murdered Gregory Whitlock.

Aside from the sheriff and my mother, that made me the person with the most at stake in this investigation. I couldn’t sit around waiting for something to happen; I had to go out and make it happen.

The dogs weren’t happy about being left at home, but our adventure the night before had convinced me Daisy and Buddha weren’t good choices for investigative pals. I made extravagant promises before I left and hoped they wouldn’t hold me to them.

There was one place I hadn’t been yet.

Gregory’s new house.

I drove out to the new development where Gregory had recently moved. Privately I thought the houses deserved the description of McMansions. They were too big for the sites, built to the limits of the lot lines and crowding against their neighbors. The backyards were tiny, hedged in by tall fences in an attempt to regain a few shreds of privacy from the too-close neighbors.

Gregory’s house was one of the largest. A three-car garage stopped short of the side fence, leaving room for a boat or RV to park next to it. Gregory had opted for the boat, a luxury craft whose hull had never even touched the water before its owner was killed.

The front yard was a tiny patch of lawn so green it looked artificial. Since the yard had been bare dirt only a couple weeks earlier it was probably an instant lawn.

I parked at the curb and peered at the house. The front entry was only a few yards from the street. Yellow tape crisscrossed the entry and a notice was posted on the front door. The print was too small to be read from the street, except for the large red letters that said “Warning! Do Not Enter.”

Across the street a couple tried to hide their curiosity as they planted flowers in their own patch of bare dirt. A few doors down a teenager with a hose and bucket washed a late-model Beemer, and a block over I could hear the ring of hammers as a construction crew took advantage of the Saturday sunshine.

I was attracting attention just sitting in the car. Attention I didn’t need. I wondered if the ’Vette might look more at home in this neighborhood, but dismissed the idea. The’Vette stood out no matter where I went.

There was nothing to do but start the engine and pull away. If I wanted to check out Gregory’s house, this wasn’t the way to do it.

The only other clue I had was the wine, and I didn’t know a thing about wine. There were lots of wineries in Oregon and they were supposed to be good. So why would Gregory be getting cases shipped to him from Paris?

I could do an Internet search and I probably should. But that wouldn’t tell me about the local wine scene. For that I needed to talk to someone who lived in Pine Ridge. Someone who knew everyone in town.

Paula.

The library was a small clapboard building on the corner of the high school campus. Paula had started doing the preschool story hour as a volunteer when her kids were little. Eventually her volunteer career led to a job, which led to her present position as library director.

Pine Ridge was a small town with a tiny library. But thanks to an active interlibrary system, it had access to every collection in the state, and the residents of Pine Ridge took advantage of that connection.

When somebody in Pine Ridge wanted to know about a subject, Paula was the person they turned to. Even in the current age of online searches and Internet databases, Paula was a popular source of information.

Technically the library was only open for a few hours on Saturday morning. But Paula Ciccone didn’t operate on technicalities, and neither did her library. She firmly believed a library should be open all the time, and unless she was out of town it was likely she would be there with the doors open. I think she would have tried to keep it open twenty-four/seven if she could convince the City Council.

Sure enough, Paula’s car was in the lot at the side of the building and the door was open to the soft afternoon breeze.

Paula looked up and smiled a greeting when I walked in. She was sitting at the computer behind the tall checkout counter, logging in books. The return basket was on the desk next to her terminal instead of in its usual spot on the counter.

“Be with you in a sec, Georgie,” she called. “Just got a couple more.”

As if to underscore her words, she lifted the last few books from the basket and pushed it across the desk.

I wandered back into the stacks, scanning titles. After my licensing exam maybe I could read something besides textbooks and plumbing manuals. I’d have to ask Paula for some recommendations.

I heard Paula’s chair scrape back from the desk, and the rustle of the basket being returned to its spot on the counter. A minute later Paula came up behind me.

“Good to see you, Georgie,” she said, hugging me. Paula hugged people the way most people shook hands. She said everyone needed a hug now and then and some people even deserved them. Deserved or not, everyone got a hug from Paula Ciccone.

“What can I do for you?”

I winced. “That obvious, huh?”

She laughed. “Judging from the scowl on your face, something important’s brewing. What can I do to help?”

I reached up and smoothed my hands over my face, as though I could wipe away the worries. “You can tell me what you know about wine.”

“Wine?” She moved a few steps back and ran her hand along a shelf, tracing the line of numbers on the book spines.

“Here.” She pulled a thick volume off the shelf. “This ought to answer your questions.”

I took the book from her and held it against my chest. “This should help,” I said. “But I need to know who in town really knows his wine.”

“Not me,” she said. “Barry and I are mostly beer drinkers.”

Paula moved toward the little kitchen at the back of the library. “Coffee?” she called over her shoulder. “I need to think about this.”