Free Drip Dead by Christy Evans Page B

closing costs,” she admitted. “And I certainly expected to pay my share of the expenses. I hardly expected Gregory to support me. I’m perfectly capable of supporting myself.”
    That was a change that had come about in the five years since my father’s death, and Mom had become fiercely proud of it.
    “And the incident at Dee’s?”
    “Incident? You mean that little disagreement?” I heard the pitcher clink against the table and the sound of pouring water. “It was just a misunderstanding, Sheriff. More embarrassing than anything. I would have preferred we have the discussion in private, but Gregory was insistent we resolve the issue while we ate breakfast.
    “It was over in a few minutes. The rather public nature of the conversation made me lose my appetite.”
    Ah, yes. Never argue in public. One of Mother’s rules.
    The conversation continued on that track for several minutes and I went back to my computer. I hadn’t heard anything I didn’t already know.
    Even the part about the down payment on the house had been spelled out in the prenuptial agreement, and Mom had insisted I read every word.
    “I don’t know anything about boxes!” Mom raised her voice, and my attention was drawn back to the living room. “I didn’t know they were there. I don’t know what was in them, and I don’t know when or why they were put there. And I only have your word that they belonged to Gregory. For all I know, they could have been anyone’s.”
    “They were addressed to Mr. Whitlock at his home,” the sheriff said. His voice was patient, but I could hear the strain. Talking to my mother was often difficult under the best of circumstances. Which this definitely wasn’t.
    “Do you know what was in them?” Mom challenged.
    “The way this works, Mrs. Neverall, is that I ask the questions and you answer them. Not the other way around.”
    “If they were under my house, Sheriff, no one told me.”
    “Who has access to your house, Mrs. Neverall?”
    “My housekeeper, Penny. My daughter—and you can’t possibly suspect her. Again.” Sarcasm dripped from the last word. She still hadn’t forgiven the sheriff for suspecting me in Blake’s death.
    “Anyone else?”
    “Gregory, of course.” She paused. “No one else.”
    “Did anyone lose a key? Or would any of those people lend their key to someone else? Is there any way someone other than those three would have access to your house?”
    Mom sighed. “No, Sheriff. No one else. I doubt Georgie has used her key at all since she’s been back, except for her visit to check the pipes.”
    “And the housekeeper?”
    “She wouldn’t let that key out of her sight if she cares about her job. Which, I have to say, she does. I pay her well, Sheriff. You must always respect the people you allow to care for your home.”
    The implication of her words finally sank in. My mother had a housekeeper! The woman who nagged and sniffed at my lack of domestic skills paid someone to clean for her.
    A grin spread across my face as I realized the leverage she had just provided me. No more looking down her nose at my dusty bookshelves and jumbled closets. No more snide remarks about the dog hair in the carpet.
    “So what was in those boxes, Sheriff?”
    “Wine,” the sheriff replied. He waited for a response from my mother and when he didn’t get one he continued, “It seems odd, don’t you think, that Mr. Whitlock would put several cases of wine under your house when he had a very nice wine cellar in your new house?”
    “I have no idea, Sheriff. Perhaps he put it there before we finished the new house and he hadn’t had time to move it yet. Maybe it was a surprise for our wedding. I really can’t even guess as to why he did something I didn’t know about.”
    “But you did know about the wine cellar, didn’t you? Did you know Mr. Whitlock was amassing a large wine collection?”
    “Of course I knew there was a wine cellar. As for Gregory’s wine collection, as you