Lead-Pipe Cinch by Christy Evans Read Free Book Online

is it with you and my crime scenes?”
    “It’s where I work! I was supposed to be there, just like I have been every morning.” I was getting tired of defending myself for turning up for work.
    Then I realized what else he had said. “And, crime scene? What do you mean? Just because some idiot wanders into a construction site in the dark and manages to fall in a moat and drown?”
    “If by ‘some idiot’ you mean a former associate of yours, and by ‘drown’ you mean suffer fatal injuries, then that is exactly what I mean.”
    The second part stopped me, but only for a second. “Well, falling into the moat in the dark would cause injuries, wouldn’t it? I mean, there wasn’t any light out there.”
    I sat back a little. This conversation was not going the way I planned. I waited for the sheriff’s reply.
    “Let’s try this again, Miss Neverall. It appears you knew the deceased.” He looked at the file again. “Blake Weston, with an address on Bush Street in San Francisco.” He looked back up at me. “You knew Mr. Weston?”
    I nodded. “Several years ago. We were business associates.” The rest of it had nothing to do with Blake’s accident. No need to go into ancient history.
    “And Mr. Weston had made multiple visits to the job site?”
    I nodded again.
    The sheriff waited, but I didn’t add anything.
    “And there was an encounter yesterday morning? Mr. Weston was”—he glanced at his notes—“ ‘ hassling’ you?”
    I hoped the surprise I felt wasn’t evident on my face. Blake had been a jerk, but I’d lost my temper and yelled at him in front of the crew. Someone was evidently looking out for me.
    “There was an encounter, as you call it. Mr. Weston came to the site. He was rude. I know you aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but rude was pretty standard for him. His behavior yesterday didn’t seem much different from the last time I saw him.”
    Understatement, much?
    I glanced at the folder on the desk, but the sheriff kept it tilted enough that I couldn’t see what was in it. “You are sure it was Blake Weston?” I asked. “I mean, all I saw were his shoes, really.”
    “It was Weston. There was a California license in his wallet.”
    “So what makes this a crime scene? He wandered out there in the dark and fell in the moat.” I leaned forward. “I know that sounds pretty stupid, but you have to remember that Blake is—was—a city guy. It wouldn’t really occur to him how dark it would be out there.”
    The sheriff gave me a sharp look. “How do you know so much about a business associate, Miss Neverall?”
    Whoa. Maybe I was being a little too helpful.
    “We worked together in San Francisco, and it was obvious to everybody that Blake was a city guy. The closest he came to outdoor activities was an occasional sidewalk café.”
    The sheriff nodded and scribbled something in his file and closed it. He folded his hands on top of it.
    “That’s all for now, Miss Neverall. I don’t think we will need you to identify the body, after all.” He glanced at the closed file. “It’s not something you want to see anyway.”
    I took the hint and let myself out.
    It wasn’t until I was driving home that I realized he had never actually answered my questions.
    Why was the moat considered a crime scene?
    Was the death of Blake Weston really an accident?

chapter 8

    When I pulled into the driveway, I was greeted by frantic barking from inside the house. Daisy and Buddha knew the sound of the Volkswagen’s old four-banger, and they knew it meant a trip to the backyard.
    On my way through the kitchen to the back door, I glanced at the answering machine. The light was blinking. No surprise there. News traveled fast in a small town. Everyone I know probably called to find out what happened.
    I wished I had an answer.
    But before I could listen to the calls, there was a knock at the front door.
    “Georgie?”
    It was Wade.
    His expression was a mixture of concern and