Drip Dead by Christy Evans

anything. I’ll bet she’s at the office right now, trying to act like it’s business as usual.” I shook my head. “That’s my mother.”
    “Tell her the worst part,” Sue said.
    “There’s more?” Paula sounded incredulous. After all, when your mother’s fiancé is dead, and you found the body, how much worse can it be?
    “She’s staying with me.”
    Paula winced and gave my shoulder another squeeze before she moved her arm. “Okay,” she agreed, “that’s worse.”
    “I don’t know how long I can do this. She’s already taken over the bathroom, and I think the kitchen is next.”
    “That would be an improvement,” Sue said, then looked sheepish. “I mean, your mom’s a good cook, Georgie. You said so yourself.”
    “I manage,” I muttered. I’d known how to cook once upon a time. My mother had insisted that a woman needed to know how to prepare a proper meal. But when you work through dinner, you get used to takeout or ordering in and actual cooking goes by the wayside.
    “Never mind,” Paula said in her best everybody-play-nice voice. “What can we do to help, Georgie?”
    “Nothing. That’s the worst part. Right now I can’t do anything. The only thing we can do is hold on until the sheriff lets Mom back into her house.” I glanced at my watch. “And speaking of our esteemed sheriff, I am going to have to run. Don’t want to be late.”
    Sue made a face, but she didn’t say anything. I dropped some bills on the tabletop as Paula moved to let me out. “Call me later,” she said. “Just let me know you’re okay.”
    Sue reached out and touched my arm. “Me, too,” she said.
    I nodded to both of them and headed for the car.

chapter 8

    I parked in the sheriff’s lot with a couple minutes to spare. By the time I locked up the Beetle—force of habit, who’d be stupid enough to steal an old Beetle from a sheriff’s office parking lot?—I was right on time to meet Sheriff Mitchell.
    Mitchell was waiting in the now-familiar interrogation room. At least he didn’t keep me waiting as he had on past visits. I wasn’t sure whether I should be relieved or suspicious. I settled on wait-and-see.
    “Thank you for coming.” The sheriff gestured to the chair across from him. I’d grown used to the battered steel-and-cracked-vinyl side chair. I was surprised to see something a little newer in its place.
    Newer was a relative term I realized as I sat down. This one might have a little more padding, though it wasn’t a vast improvement. Still, it seemed like the sheriff was making an effort.
    Once I was settled, the sheriff took out his pocket recorder. I was used to this part, too. He always claimed it was so he could be sure he remembered things correctly. Not that I believed him.
    “You mind?” he asked.
    I could have objected but what was the point? I was there to give a statement, and we’d done this dance before.
    “Go right ahead.”
    He switched on the recorder, set it to voice activation, and tested it by giving the date and time. When he was satisfied it was working properly he sat back a few inches and leveled his gaze at me.
    “You’re developing a bad habit of finding dead bodies, Miss Neverall.”
    I shrugged. “It’s not exactly my fault, Sheriff. I’m certainly not the one responsible for them.”
    He sighed. “I suppose not. But this is the third time you’ve done this. Tell me, Georgie, did you have this knack for finding bodies when you lived in San Francisco, or is it something special about Pine Ridge?”
    I can recognize a rhetorical question when I hear it. I kept my mouth shut.
    “How well did you know Mr. Whitlock?”
    I thought about the question. I’d tried to be cordial to Gregory for my mother’s sake, but I had to admit I hadn’t known much about him. “He and my mother worked together. I think they started dating before I moved back to Pine Ridge, but I wouldn’t swear to it. He seemed to be successful. Drove a new car, just built a big new