Free Drip Dead by Christy Evans Page A

of coffee?”
    He shook his head. “I’ve had too much already.” He winced and instinctively put a hand against his stomach.
    “Water?” I suggested.
    He nodded.
    I went to the kitchen and filled a pitcher. I brought it back to the living room with a couple glasses of ice, just as my mother emerged from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Somehow in the few intervening minutes she had managed to ditch her casual outfit and replace it with a pair of tailored slacks and a creamy yellow sweater set.
    And stilettos.
    I managed to keep a straight face. “If you don’t need me?” I asked the sheriff, glancing toward the kitchen.
    He shook his head. I would be close enough if he wanted me, but I’d leave the two of them alone.
    Coward.
    I retreated to the kitchen.
    I opened the refrigerator, intending to make dinner. I confronted full shelves, a novelty in my kitchen, and a couple plates already filled and covered with plastic wrap, ready to microwave and serve.
    My mother needed a hobby. Or at least to get back to work.
    I set my laptop on the kitchen table and flipped it open. Maybe I could distract myself by checking my e-mail or cruising the Web. Anything to take my mind off the interview taking place a few feet away.
    There was an open doorway between the two rooms, so I could hear them talking. I couldn’t make out all the words at first, but as I grew accustomed to the sound of their voices I could make out most of the conversation.
    It wasn’t eavesdropping as much as hearing a conversation I couldn’t avoid.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” the sheriff said.
    I felt a smile curl my mouth. I could picture him taking out the little recorder and putting it on the table next to the water pitcher.
    “It’s just for my own use. Make sure I remember everything correctly.”
    “Of course,” Mom answered.
    The sheriff went through his ritual, a process that had become all too familiar to me over the last couple years. It was all new to my mother.
    I logged in to the laptop and brought up the mail program. I didn’t need to listen; I knew what was coming.
    I deleted several messages from my junk folder offering to check my credit score, enlarge body parts, or find long-lost schoolmates, and reset my spam filters. It was the kind of work I could do without much thought, a good idea since I couldn’t completely tune out the voices in the living room.
    I managed pretty well though, until my mother’s voice rose. “Sheriff. You must be mistaken! That simply isn’t possible.”
    Mom didn’t sound upset so much as she sounded offended. It was the same tone she had taken with Sheriff Mitchell when he questioned me as a possible suspect in the murder of Blake Weston, an implication that her boyfriend—or her daughter—simply couldn’t be involved with something as unseemly as murder.
    While I didn’t share her absolute belief in Gregory, I did share her desire not to be involved. Not that it mattered what we wanted. Blake Weston’s death had made that clear. When someone you’re close to—or someone you used to be close to—is murdered, you’re involved whether you want to be or not.
    The sheriff spoke softly, offering his apologies for the questions he had to ask, while pressing ahead with his interview.
    He asked about her relationship with Gregory, which she insisted was happy. She told him there was no problem with the wedding plans, and that she was already moving into the new house Gregory had purchased.
    “This house—” I heard him riffle through the pages of the small notebook he carried as a backup to the recorder. “You say Mr. Whitlock built it?”
    “He had a mortgage, of course,” Mom answered. “But yes, he built it.”
    “And did you have a financial interest in the property?”
    Mom didn’t answer immediately. The sudden silence drew my full attention, and I sat still, listening.
    She laughed, as though trying to dismiss the question. “I did cover part of the down payment and