Sink Trap Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1 - a dirty business

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  Part 2 - something smells here

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  Part 3 - finding the core of the problem

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  Part 4 - when in doubt, improvise

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  Part 5 - prevent collateral damage

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  Part 6 - never skimp on preparation

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  epilogue

  top ten tools for most home repairs

  Plumbing the depths of a mystery . . .

  The bucket stuck and I put my head back under the sink to see what the problem was, shining the light on the exposed pipe ends.

  Something bright caught my eye. Given the condition of those pipes, there shouldn’t be anything bright under that sink.

  Dirty, yes. Rusty, yes. Smelly, definitely.

  But not bright and shiny.

  I poked one gloved finger into the pipe, but the thick leather didn’t fit in the tight opening. I pulled the glove off, reached for the pipe, then reconsidered.

  I had no idea what I was reaching for.

  I grabbed a close-fitting latex glove from my pocket, stretched it over my hand, and reached back under the sink.

  It was a lump of metal and stone, large enough to block most of the pipe. It should have been too large to have fallen down the drain, except the drain guard had rusted through, probably years ago.

  The piece was lodged crosswise, and I pried it loose with my finger. It popped out of the pipe and landed in the bucket with a plop.

  Curious, I fished it out.

  It was a brooch. A very distinctive brooch, and one I thought I recognized. Martha Tepper, the retired librarian who was supposed to be in Arizona, had worn it every day, the same way a happily married woman always wears her wedding band. If it was the brooch I remembered, she never went anywhere without it. So why was the librarian’s favorite accessory sitting in a glop of plumbing goo in my hand?

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Neither the publisher nor the author is engaged in rendering professional advice or services to the individual reader. The ideas, projects, and suggestions contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for consulting with a professional. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising from any information or suggestion in this book.

  SINK TRAP

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Penguin Group (USA), Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14520-3

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In loving memory of my great-uncle,

  Hubert Darrell Rader,

  who started all this when he lent a curious ten-year-old

  her first Perry Mason book

  and created a lifelong mystery fan.

  acknowledgments

  As always, I owe a great deal to my circle of friends, who have provided invaluable help and support.

  To Colleen Kuehne, Georgie’s first fan, and my first reader. Your enthusiasm, sharp wit—and even sharper pencil—are much appreciated. Thanks for all your help!

  To my fantastic OWN buddies, and Kris and Dean, mentors and friends. And to Kip, who makes the good times possible for all of us.

  To Ximena Cearley, for a glimpse at the real world of plumbers’ apprentices.

  To my editors, Denise and Michelle, massive thanks for the chance to write Georgie’s story. Your guidance and enthusiasm were invaluable.

  And as always, to Steve—best friend, husband, and playmate. It’s good to have someone to laugh with.

  1

  a dirty business

  Always keep a Tyvek jumpsuit and a dust

  mask on hand. Both can be purchased at

  most hardware and home supply stores. You’ll

  be glad to have them when you have to crawl

  underneath the house, or through the attic.

  When dirt and worse are flying everywhere, it’s

  handy to have a tough outer layer to repel it.

  —A Plumber’s Tip from Georgiana Neverall

  chapter 1

  “ Georgiana? GeorgianaNeverall, is that you under there?”

  My mother, Sandra Neverall, the doyenne of Whitlock Estates Realty and one of the more demanding customers of Hickey & Hickey Plumbing, stood in the doorway. Her stylish stiletto heels, the only part of her visible from my position under the utility sink, looked impossibly out of place on the dirty concrete of the warehouse floor.

  My mother could turn a simple hello into a referendum on my entire life. “Yes, Mother. Who else would it be but your only daughter?”

  I regretted it the instant the words left my mouth. She knew how to push my buttons, and I knew she knew, but it didn’t stop me from rising to her bait.

&n
bsp; “We-l-l-l-l . . .” She dragged the word out, and I could picture her arching one perfectly penciled eyebrow. “I’m really not sure. My daughter spent a fortune on a degree from Cal Tech. I’d hardly expect to find her in ragged coveralls under the utility sink of a filthy warehouse, now would I?”

  I bit back the impulse to answer in kind. We’d read that script too many times already. I’d recently discovered I liked wearing coveralls and crawling under sinks, and she thought I should wear aprons and serve meatloaf to an adoring husband. Or at least make some use of that pricy college degree.

  “And yet, you have.” I abandoned the stubborn pipe joint and wiggled out from under the sink, standing up to face my mother, work boots to stilettos. “So, what was so important that you dragged yourself all the way out here to find me?”

  She widened her eyes in an attempt at innocence. She held the expression for a few seconds, but then realized I wasn’t buying her act and gave it up.

  I love my mother, and I truly believe she loves me. But that didn’t mean we dropped in on each other, or palled around together.

  Or understood each other.

  To tell the truth, I was surprised she even knew where to find me.

  “I went by that charity house first. I assumed you were there.” She refused to call the project by its proper name, Portland Homes for Help.

  “I finished there before I came to work.” For a moment I remembered the rich odor of fresh-cut pine and the scent of new carpet. The house was nearly done, smelling like hope and the promise of help for one deserving family.

  “It’s charity, Georgiana,” she said, as though reading my thoughts. She says that’s a mom talent that never goes away. She’d been really good at it when I was a teenager, but you’d think it would lose its potency when I passed thirty.

  Apparently not.

  But it explained how she found me. The Homes for Help crew ratted me out.

  I nodded, bit my tongue, and waited for her to go on.

  “I’m on my way out to the Clackamas Commons Development,” she finally continued. “Gregory and I.” She always referred to her boss as Gregory, not Mr. Whitlock, and I wondered for a moment about the apparent level of familiarity before I focused back on her words. “—so we’re going to take over sales for all three hundred units.”

  “Great, Mom. Really. If anyone can sell those places, it’s you. I can picture the commissions stacking up.” I grinned at her, to let her know I really was pleased. “But you didn’t need to come all the way out here to tell me that. You could have called.”

  “It was on my way,” she lied, waving a freshly manicured hand in dismissal.

  Plum Crazy. The color registered without thought. I hadn’t had a manicure in over two years—not since I left the high-wire act of corporate competition—but it used to be my favorite color. And it described perfectly the way my mother made me feel.

  I turned away and crouched back under the edge of the sink. “That’s great news, Mom. Thanks for telling me. But I need to get back to this job.”

  I really didn’t expect it to work, and it didn’t. But it did make her get to the point. Finally.

  Her tone became all-business, as though someone had thrown a switch. I found her ability to change so abruptly a tad creepy. Then again, it was a useful talent.

  “I just talked to Barry,” she said.

  So she’d come to see my boss, Barry the Plumber, not me. “He promised me the two of you would get this inspection done by tomorrow.” She glanced around the warehouse, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “And he said he’d start on the house as soon as you finish here.”

  She paused and I hoped we were finished, but she had one more zinger before she left. “I asked for you on this one, Georgiana, because I know you need the work. I just hope you don’t waste too much time on that charity house when you have a paying job waiting.”

  She walked away, her heels clicking loudly in the empty space, and I wiggled back under the sink. Charity, I reflected, was not one of Sandra Neverall’s strong suits.

  Be fair, I reminded myself, as I went back to work on the corroded pipes. Charity was what forced her to go to work after my dad died. The beloved Dr. Neverall of Pine Ridge, Oregon, had treated his patients for free, and left his widow with a stack of unpaid bills and a load of resentment.

  I promised myself I’d cut her some slack.

  Or at least I’d try.

  The inspection of the vacant Tepper warehouse hadn’t gone well. The last tenant, a construction company, hadn’t treated the place well, and so far we’d discovered one restroom with some serious leaks, and a stopped-up utility sink.

  Fortunately for me, clogged pipes are easier to diagnose than leaks, so Barry took the bathroom and I got the sink.

  But on this job, nothing turned out to be simple. I’d struggled with a plumber’s snake for twenty minutes before I gave up, grabbed my tools, and crawled under the sink where my mother had found me.

  Plumbers, in my limited experience, spent an inordinate amount of time under sinks. Or under houses. I’d take the sink any day.

  From my cramped quarters back under the sink, I heard familiar footsteps echo through the empty warehouse. Over my shoulder I saw the worn steel-toe boots of my boss, Barry Hickey.

  Lately, I identified everyone by their shoes.

  “Hand me that work light, would you, Bear? I can hardly see what I’m doing under here.” The nickname fit his stocky frame and brown hair, though I didn’t use it often. It seemed a little too familiar.

  But sometimes Barry felt more like the older brother I never had than my boss. And it didn’t hurt our budding friendship that I made the office computers do tricks he didn’t think possible.

  Barry thrust the small round light under the counter, into my outstretched palm. “Getting late,” he said. “I’m done with that bathroom for now. We could knock off for the night, come back in the morning when you can see what you’re doing.”

  I wiggled farther under the sink and grabbed the wrench handle with my leather-gloved hands. I tightened the jaws around the connecting ring of the drain pipe, digging into seventy years’ accumulation of unidentifiable corrosion.

  “I can see,” I protested. “Besides, another five minutes, I swear, and I’ll be done under here.” I grunted as I pushed against the wrench, my reward a scant inch of movement. “And we can’t come back tomorrow,” I continued as I braced myself for another push. “We have to do the walk-through on the Tepper house.”

  The two properties were both owned by Martha Tepper, a retired librarian who’d left town a couple weeks back. I’d heard she was tired of Oregon winters and wanted someplace with sunshine.

  I thought she went to Arizona, though I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t seen much of her since I left for college, but I remembered her from summer vacations when I camped out in the mystery section of the library.

  Now my mother and Gregory were working with Rick and Rachel Gladstone, Martha’s attorneys, on a deal for both properties.

  “You promised Sandra it’d be done, and she wants to get back to the Gladstones before the end of the week.”

  The wrench moved again. The pipes in the warehouse were old, but I had the right tools and a whole lot of stubborn.

  “Sandra?” A disapproving tone crept into my boss’s voice. “Georgiana, she’s your mother.”

  It bugged Barry when I called my mom by her first name, but it was one way I kept my personal and professional lives separate. And as long as Hickey & Hickey worked for Whitlock Estates Realty, I needed that separation.

  I’d already messed that up once today, talking to Sandra herself. I wasn’t going to do it again.

  “She is. When I’m at her house for Sunday dinner or we’re visiting her sister in Sweet Home. Not when she’s paying for a job, Barry. Then she’s Sandra. Or would you rather I called her Mrs. Neverall?”

  Barry’s feet moved away, out of my line of sight. He paced across the dirty concrete floor of the wareho
use.

  Barry wasn’t good at waiting.

  I herked on the wrench one more time and the connector ring broke loose. A couple good turns and I was able to put the wrench down and turn the coupling by hand.

  The stubborn joint came free, releasing the end of the outlet pipe. A gush of stagnant water ran into the waiting plastic bucket. Judging by the stench, that water had been sitting in the pipe for a long time.

  I dropped the rusty coupling in the bucket and wormed my way back out from under the sink.

  “You know, Barry, you didn’t put ‘contortionist’ on the job description.” I reached back in for the work light and played the illumination over the end of the pipe to be sure the flow of stinky water stopped before I moved the bucket.

  Barry chuckled. “You’re the girl who wanted to be a plumber,” he said.

  “Woman, Barry. Woman. Your daughter is a girl. Maybe. But I am not a ‘girl.’ Haven’t been for years.” I reached under the sink to retrieve the bucket.

  “Megan’s twelve. Of course she’s a girl.”

  I glanced up, smiling and shaking my head. “Not so much anymore, Barry. She might tolerate you calling her that right now, but not for much longer.”

  Through the high windows of the warehouse, the sky was nearly dark. I let go of the bucket and pulled back the cuff of my leather glove to glance at the scratched plastic bezel of my dime-store watch. I had learned the hard way never to wear a good watch when messing with pipes.

  Nearly seven. I was late for dinner with Wade Montgomery.

  I bit back a curse. Barry tolerated a lot from me, but one of his rules was no cursing in front of customers, which had morphed into no cursing on the job. Never mind that there wasn’t anyone in the building but the two of us, or that he was probably the only construction-trade guy in the country who didn’t swear a blue streak. It was still a rule.