Drip Dead Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  chapter 33

  chapter 34

  chapter 35

  epilogue

  plumbing tips

  PRAISE FOR

  lead-pipe cinch

  “[A] solid bet for mystery fans.”

  —CA Reviews

  sink trap

  “[A] clever mystery with fresh, fast-paced writing.”

  —Jim and Joyce Lavene, authors of the Renaissance Faire Mysteries

  “[A] cute cozy mystery debut . . . with plumbing tips and moments of wry humor.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fun . . . Christy Evans has a hit on her hands.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Evans delivers a fast-paced mystery with admirable finesse!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Christy Evans will find legions of fans with this new series.”

  —The Lincoln City (OR) News Guard

  “Funny and entertaining—a solid mystery filled with likable characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Will have you giggling out loud! Four stars.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The book is good! Keep them coming, Ms. Evans!”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Christy Evans is aces. I’ll be very surprised if Sink Trap isn’t an instant hit with cozy readers!”

  —Cozy Library

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Christy Evans

  SINK TRAP

  LEAD-PIPE CINCH

  DRIP DEAD

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Neither the publisher nor the author is engaged in rendering professional advice or services to the individual reader. The ideas, projects, and suggestions contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for consulting with a professional. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising from any information or suggestion in this book.

  DRIP DEAD

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN: 9781101481233

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To all the mothers and daughters in my life, fighting and laughing and learning every day what it means to be a family:

  Jeanne, Jan, Jeri, Lynette, Petula, Zoe, and all the rest. I love you.

  acknowledgments

  As always, thanks to my editors Michelle and Denise; my first reader and cheerleader, Colleen; husband and support system, Steve; and all my OWN buddies—especially Kris and Dean—for their friendship and moral support.

  My gratitude also goes to Rita Frangie for her great covers, and an extra special shout-out to Brandon Dorman for his amazing artwork. I love those dogs!!

  The aerator is the device on the tip of the faucet spout that mixes air and water. It can become clogged with dirt and minerals on the screen and disc and impede the movement of water in your faucet, so it needs to be cleaned regularly to maintain good water flow. Unscrew the aerator, using penetrating oil to loosen stubborn connections if needed. Disassemble the parts. If the screen or disc is damaged or clogged with mineral deposits, replace the parts—they’re available cheaply at any home or hardware store. Otherwise, if they seem in good condition, clean the screen and disc with soapy water and a brush, and use a pin or toothpick to open clogged holes in the disc. Flush the parts with clean water and reassemble.

  —A Plumber’s Tip from Georgiana Neverall

  chapter 1

  I pointed the flashlight under my mother’s house and looked around. A series of concrete footings stretched into the gloom outside the flashlight’s beam, a heavy pier rising from each one to support the floor joists.

  The high-powered beam cut through the darkness, throwing exaggerated shadows across the packed dirt beneath the house. It smelled damp, a mixture of dirt and heaven-knows-what-else that hadn’t been disturbed in years.

  And I was going to voluntarily crawl under there.

  Of course I was. A plumber spends a lot of time under houses, and I was a plumber. Well, almost a plumber. Just as soon as I passed my licensing exam I would be the real deal.

  So what was stopping me from crawling under Mom’s house and checking out the foundation and the pipes?

  The house was practically mine anyway. I’d agreed to buy it when Mom and Mr. Too-Smooth Gregory Whitlock got engaged and Mom had morphed into Pine Ridge, Oregon’s, most demanding bride-to-be. I�
�d agreed to be her maid of honor (“You really should be a matron of honor at your age, Georgiana, but since you refuse to get married . . .”). Then she announced she was moving into Gregory’s home, and offered to sell me her house, the house where I grew up.

  Half of Mom’s stuff had already gone to Gregory’s. Even if I didn’t want to think about it, I knew she was probably sleeping at his house most every night.

  Eeew!

  They’re adults.

  It’s perfectly normal.

  They’re getting married.

  All the arguments I’d given my sometimes boyfriend, Wade, when he talked about his mother dating again after her divorce rang in my head. But this was different. This was my mother. Completely different situation. Completely.

  Was I having second thoughts about buying the house? Was that why I was stalling? Barry Hickey of Hickey & Hickey Plumbing—aka my boss—said it was a good deal, but could he be sure? How much did he really know about the condition of the house?

  There was only one way to find out.

  I pulled a mask over my nose and mouth, blocking out the musty smell that seeped from the crawl space, and wiggled through the opening. I wanted to get this over with before Sandra Neverall—mother, bridezilla extraordinaire, and doyenne of Whitlock Estates Realty—came home and decided to supervise.

  I tried to get my bearings, mentally picturing the floor plan above my head. To the far right was a wall that divided the house from the garage. On this side of that wall was the kitchen.

  I could start there.

  I crawled between the footings, my flashlight casting a narrow line of bright light in the darkness. Cold seeped up from beneath me, penetrating the heavy denim of my coveralls. The calendar might say it was summer, but the dirt under the house hadn’t got that memo.

  The pipes under the kitchen were galvanized steel, no surprise given the age of the house. There was no way to know what shape they were in, since they corroded from the inside out, but the life expectancy of galvanized was only about thirty years.

  I would likely be replacing pipes in the near future.

  I scribbled a few notes in a small notebook and stuffed it back in the breast pocket of my coveralls. This was one place I agreed with Barry. A pencil and paper were the best tools for the job—I wouldn’t want to drag electronic gizmos under a house with me.

  I turned left, moving slowly between the footings, imagining the rooms above my head. I moved under the dining room, toward the living room, bedrooms, and bathroom beyond.

  Up ahead, about where I thought the hallway should be, a sliver of light caught my eye. I doused the flashlight for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the low light. Sure enough, there was a narrow band of light in the floor above, outlining a square about three feet on a side.

  On the dirt below the strip of light there was a deeper shadow. A large box, maybe. Had mom stored something under the house? As far as I knew, everything was stacked neatly in labeled boxes in the attic.

  What was down here in the cold and damp?

  I turned the flashlight back on and worked my way toward the object. In the beam of the flashlight I could see that it was several smallish boxes stacked on top of one another.

  Something stuck out from one end of the pile of boxes. It wasn’t another box; the shape was irregular, though most of it was hidden from sight behind the stacked boxes.

  The crawl space was more than musty, and I was grateful for the small protection of the face mask. I had the sinking feeling I was going to find a small deceased animal somewhere in my travels, judging by the odor that seeped under the mask.

  I was close enough now to see that the boxes were wooden shipping crates. Only a couple feet on each side, they could easily have been lowered through the opening faintly outlined above.

  My curiosity was piqued. I wanted to know what was in those crates, and why they were hidden under the house I was buying—my mom’s house and my old family home.

  It was like a buried treasure.

  I suppose I could have crawled back out and called Mom to ask her what this was all about, but I didn’t want to wait for an answer, or give her another chance to discuss every minute detail of the wedding. Why couldn’t she just elope to Reno or Las Vegas?

  I got close enough to make out a shipping label on one box. It was addressed to Gregory, my soon-to-be stepfather, with a return address in Paris—France, not Texas.

  A shiver ran through me. I couldn’t think of a single good reason for Gregory to get a shipment from outside the country and hide it under my mother’s house.

  I could think of several bad reasons.

  I wondered if my mother might have a big problem.

  Then I realized I was kidding myself. Just because Gregory wasn’t the man I’d choose for Mom to marry, it didn’t mean he was running guns or hiding nukes.

  I moved to one side, trying to guess how many boxes were stacked under the house.

  I shined my flashlight over the scene in front of me, trying to make sense of what I saw. Something didn’t look right, no matter how I moved the light or turned my head.

  I heard a scream. It took a few seconds to realize it came from me.

  Mom’s problem just got a lot bigger.

  The lumpy shape behind the boxes was Gregory Whitlock.

  And I was pretty sure he was dead.

  chapter 2

  I clamped my mouth shut, cutting off the scream. Instead I started to whimper. That didn’t help, either.

  I should check for a pulse. Maybe Gregory just fell and he was hurt. Or stuck. He didn’t have to be dead.

  I crawled a little closer. My heart pounded so hard I was sure it would burst right out of my chest, and I couldn’t seem to hold the flashlight steady. The beam flickered crazily over the scene in front of me.

  Gregory wore a pair of neatly pressed khakis, a crisp oxford cloth shirt in pale blue, and expensive penny loafers. Casual but not sloppy. The shoes were nearly new, the soles facing me were still unmarked by wear.

  I didn’t want to touch him.

  I stretched my arm, holding the flashlight out in front of me, and tapped it against his left foot.

  No response.

  He hadn’t reacted to my screaming, either.

  I backed away from Gregory and the boxes. Within a few feet I ran into one of the concrete footings. I had to turn around to watch where I was going as I made my way toward the access hole.

  My stomach clenched and my breath came in gasps. I felt as if there was something lurking in the dark corners. Something big and bad. Something I had to get away from.

  Panic pushed me forward.

  I reached the opening to the outside world and clambered through it. The tool loop at my right hip caught on a corner. I tugged to free myself and escape from the crawl space.

  From whatever was hiding down there.

  Logically I knew there was nothing under the house. But logic and fear don’t mix, and right then fear was definitely in charge.

  I ran in the back door and grabbed my cell phone from the kitchen table.

  I punched 9-1-1 into the cell and tried to calm my breathing as I waited for the emergency operator to answer.

  I somehow managed to explain my situation to the man who answered. I probably wasn’t very coherent, but I don’t really remember much of the conversation. He kept me on the phone while he talked to the fire department and local sheriff’s office, assured me someone would be there within a few minutes, and kept talking calmly to me while we waited.

  I wondered if the dispatcher was anyone I knew. I’d met a lot of the local deputies over the last several months. Maybe it was one of them. I tried to remember their names.

  Anything to avoid thinking about what was under the house.

  In the distance I heard sirens.

  “Are there trucks coming?” I asked the operator. “I can hear sirens.”

  “That should be them,” he answered. “There aren’t any other calls in the area. Ar
e you okay to wait for them now?”

  I swallowed hard. “I, uh, I think so,” I managed to lie.

  “They’re just a couple streets away. If you go outside, you should be able to see them coming.”

  I walked to the front door, bumping into furniture as if I had never been in the house before. When I stepped outside, the sirens sounded very close. And very loud.

  The operator spoke, but it was impossible to understand him over the wails of the sirens.

  “They’re here,” I said, seeing a rescue unit come around a corner a couple blocks away. “I have to go.”

  There was a noise from the other end of the phone that I assumed was the operator signing off. I hung up and slipped the phone in my pocket.

  The square box on wheels with “Pine Ridge Medic Unit” on the front was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

  The rescue unit pulled to the curb in front of the house and two men in navy blue uniforms jumped out.

  One of the men started taking boxes and supplies from the back of the truck while the other one ran toward me.

  “This way,” I said, leading him along the side of the garage. There was a gate at the back. I figured it would be easier to get their equipment through there instead of having to drag it through the house.

  “You said there was someone under the house?”

  “It’s Gregory. Gregory Whitlock. He’s my mother’s fiancé. This is her house. Well, I mean, it’s my house, almost. I’m buying it from her but she still lives here until the wedding—”

  I stopped in the middle of the yard.

  Wedding!

  The groom-to-be was under the house. Dead.

  There wasn’t going to be any wedding.

  Someone had to tell my mother.