Drip Dead (3 page)

I slid into the front seat.

My coveralls were filthy, and I started to apologize.

Sherriff Mitchell shook his head. “Not a problem, Georgie. If you just wait here a minute, I need to talk to the paramedics.”

He hurried away without waiting for my answer.

Next door, Mrs. Sweeney peeked out her kitchen window that overlooked Mom’s driveway. All she could see from there were the three emergency vehicles now clustered in front of the house, and the sheriff talking with the newly arrived paramedics.

I turned in the seat to look in the other direction.

Sure enough, I saw a curtain hastily dropped back in place at the Gordens’ house across the street, and a few doors down Harry Hamilton stood on his porch with a coffee mug in his hand, openly staring at the accumulation of vehicles and emergency workers in front of Mom’s house.

Sheriff Mitchell returned in a couple minutes and slid behind the wheel. His expression was grim, confirming what I had known from the instant I had seen Gregory under the house.

He looked at me and shook his head. “We’ll need to talk to your mother. Do you know where we can reach her?”

Someone was going to have to tell my mother. It was going to be bad. She’d already been a widow once and now it was happening again. Only this time it was before the wedding.

The coffee and granola bar I’d eaten for breakfast chose that moment to revolt.

I yanked the car door open, grateful to be in the front seat where there were door handles. I didn’t make it completely out of the car, but I leaned away from the door as I emptied the contents of my stomach onto the shoulder.

I swiped my sleeve across my mouth and struggled for control. There was nothing left inside me, but that didn’t stop my stomach from trying to turn itself inside out.

The sheriff waited patiently for me to sit back up. When I did he handed me a tissue from a box under the dash, and a small bottle of water. “I can’t let you go in the house to get a drink right now,” he explained apologetically. “Not until we know what happened.”

I nodded my understanding and accepted the tissue and the water. I rinsed my mouth and spit, then took a tiny sip.

The water wasn’t chilled, but it felt cool as it slid down my throat and coated my burning stomach. I wiped my mouth and turned back to face the sheriff.

“Sorry,” I muttered, embarrassed by the rebellion of my stomach.

“It happens.” The sheriff’s voice was calm, with a note of professional concern. “Feel better?”

I nodded without speaking. The spasms had subsided, though I was still shaky. And there was still the problem of telling my mother.

“Do you know where your mother is?” The sheriff didn’t sound pleased with the prospect of talking to Sandra Neverall, and I didn’t blame him. They had crossed paths several months earlier, when he had questioned me about the death of Blake Weston.

Neither one of them had enjoyed the encounter.

I tried to access the information that was jumbled in my brain. I was doing my checking while Mom was gone. I knew she was gone. She told me where—if I could just remember . . .

“Gregory’s,” I groaned. “She was taking things to Gregory’s house.”

He started the engine. “Do you think she’ll still be there? How long ago did she leave?”

I shook my head as I fastened my seat belt. “I don’t know. I talked to her a couple hours ago, I guess. She was going to Gregory’s to take some of her things over. She didn’t say exactly what, and I didn’t ask.

“She might still be there or she might be at the office. Or somewhere else entirely.”

“Can you call her?” he asked. “Don’t do it if you can’t handle it,” he added hastily. “It’s bad enough we have to give her the news. I would much rather we do it in person.”

“I can try,” I said doubtfully. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and began searching through the directory for Mom’s cell phone number. I usually knew it better than I knew my own. But not right now.

The sheriff picked up the radio and talked softly to dispatch, asking for the address of Gregory Whitlock’s residence.

But before he could get a reply, the question became moot.

Two blocks away a Cadillac Escalade rounded the corner. Then it shot toward us at high speed. At the last second, the driver braked hard and screeched to a stop only inches from the front of the sheriff’s car.

Mom jumped from the front seat, and stormed over to the sheriff’s door.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Why do you have my daughter in your police car? Again?”

“Mrs. Neverall, please—” the sheriff began in a conciliatory tone.

“Don’t try to soft soap me!” she snapped. “Harry Hamilton called me the minute you forced Georgiana into your car! You let her out this instant.”

She looked around, taking in the collection of emergency vehicles, and the rescue and fire personnel coming and going through the open gate to her backyard.

“And you had better have a damned good explanation for this violation of my daughter’s rights and my property!”

Who was this woman? My mother never screamed at people, she never swore, and she had taught me that a lady never made a scene in public.

Of course, she had never had a neighbor call and describe her daughter being shoved into a police car, either. And if I knew Harry Hamilton, the whole story had been expanded and embellished beyond recognition.

“Mother.” I opened the door and stood up. My legs threatened to give way, and I leaned heavily against the car. “Mother, please. The sheriff and I were simply talking. He
helped
me into the car like a proper gentleman. Nobody forced me.”

As I spoke, the sheriff opened his door and climbed out. He took my mother by the arm and guided her toward the front of the house.

“Why don’t we all go somewhere private?” he asked. He shot me a look of gratitude, as though thanking me for intervening, before he turned his attention back to my mother. “We need to talk, Mrs. Neverall.”

I could see my mother wavering. She didn’t want to let the sheriff tell her what to do, but she clearly was curious about what was going on. I wished we didn’t have to satisfy that curiosity.

“Come on, Mom,” I said quietly. I reached for her keys and looked questioningly at the sheriff.

He nodded to the garage, and I pushed the button to open the door. At least we could get out of the line of sight of the neighbors before this conversation went any further.

I led the way into the garage, where Gregory’s latest car sat—a big, flashy Mercedes sedan that still carried the paper dealer registration stuck to the window. I flinched at the sight of the car, but my mother didn’t notice. Her attention was focused on the sheriff, and you could almost see the steam rising off her.

Mom’s stiletto heels tapped angrily across the carefully swept concrete. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Mitchell,” she said, deliberately using his last name without the title of sheriff. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

If she intended to intimidate him it didn’t work.

I glanced around and spotted some folding lawn chairs in the corner of the garage. The webbing had faded to a uniform gray, and the aluminum frames were pitted with dark spots of corrosion.

Mom would certainly refuse to voluntarily put the seat of her pale yellow linen pantsuit anywhere near the dirty-looking webbing, but her reactions might well be anything but voluntary.

I dragged a couple of the chairs out into the empty space where Mom usually parked her car and offered one to her and one to the sheriff.

She just glared at the decrepit-looking furniture and continued standing in the middle of the garage.

The sheriff shook his head slightly. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other as I positioned myself next to my mother. I kept one hand on the lawn chair in case my mother needed it.

“Mrs. Neverall,” the sheriff said in a low voice, “this is about Gregory Whitlock. Your daughter found him in the crawl space under your house here.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Neverall, but Mr. Whitlock is dead.”

Mom sat down in the ratty chair.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry, or scream, or argue with the sheriff that he much be mistaken. She simply collapsed into the chair I held ready, like a marionette with all her strings cut.

Over the years, I had dealt with Mom in many different moods. She was by turns bossy, condescending, judgmental, and angry. She could also be charming, witty, and persuasive. She was never at a loss for words.

Until now.

When Dad died, she had grieved openly and buried the bitterness and anger that came with the discovery of the debts he’d left behind.

It wasn’t until his sudden heart attack that she had learned why the beloved Dr. Neverall was so beloved: if a patient was having a tough time, he simply didn’t bill them. His death left her with a mountain of debt and a load of resentment. She had maintained the perfect public image of the heartbroken widow and in some ways she really was.

But now, sitting limply in the battered garden chair, she was a complete stranger. A woman I didn’t know.

The silence stretched eerily for a couple minutes. The sheriff waited patiently for Mom to respond, as though he had all the time in the world.

Outside, the voices of the emergency crew rose and fell as they went past the garage on their way in and out of the backyard. Somewhere a block or two away someone was cutting grass, and the sound of the mower echoed in the silent garage.

I crouched down next to my mother and looked up into her face. Her eyes were dry, and she stared at the floor without blinking.

Was she in shock? I didn’t know the symptoms well enough to be sure.

I looked up at the sheriff. “Do you think we ought to have one of the paramedics come take a look at her?”

He nodded and went out. The paramedics weren’t in a hurry dealing with Gregory after all. They would have plenty of time to look at Mom and try to help her.

Gregory needed a coroner, not medical attention.

A dark-eyed paramedic with a military-style buzz cut followed the sheriff back into the garage. He crouched next to me and pulled a blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope from his kit.

Talking gently to Mom, as though she were a small child, the paramedic checked her over. He wrapped the cuff around her arm, all the while keeping up a steady stream of verbal reassurances.

When we finished, he stood up and nodded to me to follow.

We moved nearer to the sheriff, and the paramedic reported. “Medically she’s fine. No indication of physical distress or trauma.” He turned to me. “You’re the daughter?”

I nodded.

“Did she know the deceased well?”

It took me a minute to process his question. It was the first time I had heard anyone refer to Gregory as “the deceased.”

“They were engaged,” I answered after a pause.

“That would do it.” He glanced at Mom, who hadn’t moved. She hadn’t even looked up to see where we were. “The psychological shock was too great, and she’s shut down. It may last a few minutes, or hours. Or it could go on for several days. There is no immediate medical reason to transport her to the hospital, but you might want to have her own doctor look at her later. She shouldn’t be alone.”

I nodded.

The sheriff hesitated. “How long before they can get Whitlock out of there?” he asked.

The paramedic shrugged. “Not long. But there’s a pile of boxes under there, and the space is tight. Might be another thirty or forty minutes.”

Sheriff Mitchell furrowed his brow. “Tell you what, Georgie. Take your mom over to see Doc Cox right now. He is her doctor, right?”

I nodded. It seemed to be all I was capable of at the moment.

“I’ll call and let him know you’re on the way. He should still be at Immediate Care,” he said, checking his watch. “When you’re done, I’ll still need a formal statement from you.” An ironic tone crept into his voice. “You should know that drill by now.”

I couldn’t argue with him. I’d already been dragged into the investigation of two murders in Pine Ridge, and my visits to the sheriff’s office had become all too familiar.

Neither the sheriff nor I was happy about it.

“I’ll call you as soon as we’re through at the doctor’s,” I said before he could continue. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave her for a while, but I’m sure we can make some arrangement for you to take my statement. I can call a friend in to sit with her. But there isn’t really much to tell, Sheriff. I came over to inspect the pipes, crawled under the house, and there he was.”

I anticipated his next question and answered without being asked. “I didn’t touch anything except his shoe. I kind of poked him to see if he would respond. When he didn’t, I got out of there as fast as I could and called you.”