house, got involved with local politics—all the stuff a successful local guy does.
“Beyond that I really didn’t know him very well. I had dinner with him and Mom about once a month or so, maybe a little more often since the engagement because there were wedding plans and stuff.”
I shoved a strand of hair out of my eyes, the distraction reminding me I needed to get a haircut. “Other than that, I really didn’t know much about him.”
“You never talked about where he was from, or where he went to school? His hobbies?”
I shook my head.
“Dinner about once a month for a couple years, and you never talked about anything like that?”
I shook my head again. “We didn’t have much in common. Mostly we talked about the local sports teams—the high school, or the Blazers—and whether City Hall should be painted this year. You know, the kind of small talk you make when you’re being polite.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on one fist. He rocked slightly as though he was thinking so hard he didn’t realize he was moving.
He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “You didn’t like him very much, did you?”
I bristled. “Is that an accusation, Sheriff?”
“No,” he said mildly. “But you’ve already answered my question. You didn’t like him.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
He was right, of course.
I’d tried. I really tried. But there was something about Gregory Whitlock that I had never warmed up to.
A realization hit me, turning the flash of anger to icy cold. “You haven’t said anything about how he died, Sheriff. What was it?”
I waited, dread seeping through me. Even before I asked the question I was sure what the answer would be. And I knew I wouldn’t like it.
“We’re treating his death as a homicide, Miss Neverall.” The sheriff retreated into his formal mode again.
Not the answer I wanted.
The sheriff gave me a moment to digest the news, but it was going to take a lot longer than that, even though I was expecting it.
“When did you arrive at your mother’s house?”
The sheriff’s question drew me back to the events of the previous day. I forced my thoughts back to that morning and tried to remember exactly what I’d done.
“I was at the McComb site in the morning,” I said. “Barry and Sean agreed I could inspect Mom’s house at lunch, so I left a little early—maybe eleven fifteen or so—and swung by my house to let the dogs out. Figure about fifteen minutes’ driving time?”
The sheriff nodded.
I thought for a minute and went on. “I was probably at home fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. Another five minutes to Mom’s house, so I got there just before noon, I’d guess.”
“Was there anyone else there when you arrived?”
“Mom was gone, taking some stuff to Gregory’s house before she went to the office for the afternoon.” I guess Gregory had been there, but I pushed that thought aside.
“And what did you do then?”
“I let myself in the front door. I suppose I didn’t even need to go in the house, but I’ve always had a key and it just seemed like the normal thing to do. I went through the kitchen to the back door—” I stopped, remembering something odd. “I was going to get a drink of water, and I noticed an empty glass on the counter by the sink, which was weird.”
Sheriff Mitchell cocked his head to the side. “Why is that weird? You should see the stack of dirty dishes next to my sink.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but it sounded forced.
“Sure, that’s normal for most people, but not for Sandra Neverall. You saw her house. There is never, ever, anything out of place. If there’s a dirty plate or cup or glass it goes in the dishwasher immediately. She would never leave a dirty glass on the counter.”
“Maybe,” the sheriff said, but it was clear he wasn’t convinced. “So did you get your drink?”
“Yeah. I got a glass of water, then I put both
“Beyond that I really didn’t know him very well. I had dinner with him and Mom about once a month or so, maybe a little more often since the engagement because there were wedding plans and stuff.”
I shoved a strand of hair out of my eyes, the distraction reminding me I needed to get a haircut. “Other than that, I really didn’t know much about him.”
“You never talked about where he was from, or where he went to school? His hobbies?”
I shook my head.
“Dinner about once a month for a couple years, and you never talked about anything like that?”
I shook my head again. “We didn’t have much in common. Mostly we talked about the local sports teams—the high school, or the Blazers—and whether City Hall should be painted this year. You know, the kind of small talk you make when you’re being polite.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on one fist. He rocked slightly as though he was thinking so hard he didn’t realize he was moving.
He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “You didn’t like him very much, did you?”
I bristled. “Is that an accusation, Sheriff?”
“No,” he said mildly. “But you’ve already answered my question. You didn’t like him.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
He was right, of course.
I’d tried. I really tried. But there was something about Gregory Whitlock that I had never warmed up to.
A realization hit me, turning the flash of anger to icy cold. “You haven’t said anything about how he died, Sheriff. What was it?”
I waited, dread seeping through me. Even before I asked the question I was sure what the answer would be. And I knew I wouldn’t like it.
“We’re treating his death as a homicide, Miss Neverall.” The sheriff retreated into his formal mode again.
Not the answer I wanted.
The sheriff gave me a moment to digest the news, but it was going to take a lot longer than that, even though I was expecting it.
“When did you arrive at your mother’s house?”
The sheriff’s question drew me back to the events of the previous day. I forced my thoughts back to that morning and tried to remember exactly what I’d done.
“I was at the McComb site in the morning,” I said. “Barry and Sean agreed I could inspect Mom’s house at lunch, so I left a little early—maybe eleven fifteen or so—and swung by my house to let the dogs out. Figure about fifteen minutes’ driving time?”
The sheriff nodded.
I thought for a minute and went on. “I was probably at home fifteen or twenty minutes, tops. Another five minutes to Mom’s house, so I got there just before noon, I’d guess.”
“Was there anyone else there when you arrived?”
“Mom was gone, taking some stuff to Gregory’s house before she went to the office for the afternoon.” I guess Gregory had been there, but I pushed that thought aside.
“And what did you do then?”
“I let myself in the front door. I suppose I didn’t even need to go in the house, but I’ve always had a key and it just seemed like the normal thing to do. I went through the kitchen to the back door—” I stopped, remembering something odd. “I was going to get a drink of water, and I noticed an empty glass on the counter by the sink, which was weird.”
Sheriff Mitchell cocked his head to the side. “Why is that weird? You should see the stack of dirty dishes next to my sink.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but it sounded forced.
“Sure, that’s normal for most people, but not for Sandra Neverall. You saw her house. There is never, ever, anything out of place. If there’s a dirty plate or cup or glass it goes in the dishwasher immediately. She would never leave a dirty glass on the counter.”
“Maybe,” the sheriff said, but it was clear he wasn’t convinced. “So did you get your drink?”
“Yeah. I got a glass of water, then I put both
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