Free Lead-Pipe Cinch by Christy Evans

charm of Blake Weston.
    Okay, so the charm had worn a bit thin, judging by the way Blake had talked to me out at the job site, but he had been charming when he wanted to be.
    The doorbell rang, and I grabbed my wallet. In spite of everything that was going on, I was still hungry.
    But it wasn’t the pizza delivery guy. It was Sheriff Mitchell.
    And he didn’t look happy.

chapter 11

    “Good evening, Miss Neverall. May I come in?”
    The tone of his voice didn’t give me much hope that a protest would do any good. It had that we-can-do-this-the-easy-way-or-the-hard-way quality you hear in all the cop shows on TV.
    It had the desired effect. I opened the door wide and invited him in.
    I glanced outside as I closed the door behind the sheriff. His cruiser was parked at the curb, but he appeared to be alone. It looked like an official visit, but at least there weren’t lights and sirens.
    “Have a seat, Sheriff.” I waved at the sofa, but he remained standing. “I was waiting for a delivery from Garibaldi’s. In fact”—I held out the wallet as proof—“that’s who I thought was at the door.”
    I smiled at him. “Seems like the last time you were here Garibaldi’s was delivering, too. If I recall, you like extra olives and pepperoni.”
    Maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him. The last time he’d been in my living room, I’d been recovering from a run-in with the Gladstones who’d killed Martha Tepper and hidden her body.
    He gave me an unhappy look, and sat down on the recliner. He didn’t lean back but sat up straight, his elbows resting on his knees.
    The doorbell rang again. This time it was Garibaldi’s. By the time I got back to the living room with the pizza and some napkins, Sheriff Mitchell had a notebook out and he was fiddling with his pen.
    “Help yourself,” I said, setting the box on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. “I always order a large, even though it’s way too much.”
    I was chattering. I knew it and I hated the fact, but my nerves were pulled tight by Richard’s phone call and the impending arrival of Stan Fischer. The sheriff’s unexpected visit didn’t exactly help matters.
    “Thanks,” the sheriff said. “Maybe later. But for now, I need to ask you a few questions. I thought you might prefer to talk here, rather than down at the station.”
    Yow. That sounded like a warning.
    “I appreciate that. As long as you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. It’s been kind of a long day, and I’m hungry.” >
    As if to prove my point, I picked up the slice on my plate and took a big bite. The cheese was still hot, burning my tongue as I tried to chew.
    I set the plate down, careful not to put it where the dogs could reach. They knew better, but the aroma of pepperoni and cheese was sometimes too much for their obedience training to overcome.
    “So,” I said, folding my hands together in my lap. “Questions.”
    The sheriff glanced at his pad and back up at me. “Do you mind if I use the recorder? You know I feel more secure knowing I got the exact response.”
    He’d done the same thing when he interviewed me about Martha Tepper. I nodded. I’d expected it.
    He reached in his pocket and set the tiny machine on the table next to the pizza box.
    “That official, huh?” I asked.
    “Just a few details, Miss Neverall. I want to be sure I get everything straight. That’s all.”
    I didn’t believe him, but I was smart enough not to say so.
    He punched a button, tested the recording and played it back, then noted the time and place before he asked his first question.
    “You knew the deceased, Blake Weston?”
    I nodded. The sheriff rolled his eyes. I had to actually talk for the recorder. “Yes, I knew him.”
    “When and where did you see him last?”
    “You mean before he came to Pine Ridge?”
    “Yes. And after.”
    “Well, let me see. I saw him at the construction site twice, and once in Tiny’s. He was at the site on Tuesday morning with Chad