Free Drip Dead by Christy Evans

her hair was carefully tied into a loose knot, and she wore a casually stylish outfit of Capri pants and a matching long-sleeved top.
    With an expertise born of necessity—dressing for success had taken practice—I could assess her clothes at a glance and I knew her casual outfit was worth more than my entire stock of jeans and T-shirts.
    Not that it mattered to me, but I knew it did to her.
    “Mom, the sheriff wants to talk to you. He’s agreed to come here rather than make you go to the station, but he’ll be here any minute.”
    “Okay,” she said. She looked around the kitchen and glanced back through the door into the living room. Her eyes lit on the dogs, and they moved away from her, as though afraid she was going to banish them from the house.
    “I’ll just have Penny finish up in the living room while I clean up and change,” she went on.
    “I doubt there will be time for that,” I countered. “You will have to leave the furniture moving for another day.” My voice was low, a too-calm tone that most people around me had learned was a warning of the possible release of my tightly controlled anger.
    Mom either didn’t hear or didn’t heed the warning. “It won’t take long.”
    “Mother.”
    “Yes, dear? What is it?” A note of annoyance crept in, and she looked impatient. “I have to go change.”
    “Forget changing your clothes and listen to me!” I swallowed the flash of anger and went on. “There isn’t time. We need to put the living room back together as best we can and let Penny go home.
    “Besides, do you realize you just put my bed directly under the living room window?”
    “Don’t worry about that, dear. I’m sure the sheriff will get this all straightened out, and I’ll be going home in another day or so.” She cocked her head to one side in a coquettish gesture meant to indicate she was thinking. “In fact, I’ll bet that’s why he’s coming over.”
    She sailed back toward the living room, confident that everything would work out.
    I admit I took the coward’s way out and let her go.
    Sure, I could have stopped her and explained that the sheriff was most definitely not coming over to tell her she could go back to her house. But that would have led to questions about why and how I could be so sure. Questions I didn’t want to answer.
    I followed her into the living room and volunteered to move furniture.
    Penny left a few minutes later. Mom followed her to the door, assuring her they would be “back to normal” in a day or two.
    She had no idea how wrong she was, nor how fervently I wished she was right. But as Penny pulled away, the sheriff glided into the empty space at the curb. She would know soon.
    Fred Mitchell parked his personal pickup and made his way up the walk to the front door. I didn’t know why he wasn’t driving an official car, but I was just as glad not to have a sheriff’s squad car in front of my house.
    The sheriff looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, his usual ramrod-straight posture was sagging slightly, and his uniform was wrinkled, as though he’d slept in it.
    Which he probably had.
    He had the murder of a prominent local businessman on his hands. I doubted he’d been home since the initial call came in yesterday morning.
    I felt sorry for him. After everything else, the next several minutes with my mother would be grueling. And unless he had personally killed Gregory Whitlock—a ludicrous thought—none of it was his fault.
    It was just his job—a job I didn’t envy. I didn’t much like talking to him in an official capacity. Would anyone? But when I wasn’t the one butting heads with him I realized what a tough position he was in. He had to deal with people at their worst. And my mother’s worst? Like I said, I felt sorry for him.
    I took the sheriff’s jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the front door. “I’d offer you a beer,” I said, “but there’s that whole ‘on duty’ thing. How about a cup