Drip Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

opportunities.
    Sue’s brow furrowed. Usually she was the one on a conversational roller coaster. It took a second for the question to register, then she nodded. “Sandra won’t approve of the ratty T-shirt, will she? I have a brand-new pair at home. I’ll bring them with me.”
    She glanced over at the dogs, settled contentedly in their favorite nap spots, and shook her head. “The pups could use a brushing. Why don’t you leave them here and go deal with Sandra? I owe you for the last round of computer work and I can bring them with me at six.”
    She looked around the empty shop. “Pretty quiet here this afternoon, anyway.”
    I couldn’t hide the relief I felt. I wished, for Sue’s sake, the shop was busier, but I was grateful for her willingness to take Daisy and Buddha off my hands for the afternoon.
    She did owe me for some computer maintenance I’d done for her. Not many people in Pine Ridge knew I’d owned a computer security firm in San Francisco, but the ones who did—like Sue and my boss, Barry Hickey—were happy to take advantage of my expertise.
    The reminder stayed with me through the drive home. When I’d returned to Pine Ridge I thought Samurai Security was behind me. But the unexpected appearance of Blake Weston, and his subsequent murder, had landed the whole mess on my doorstep again, and nearly drawn me back into the world of high tech.
    There was still the matter of Samurai’s finances to sort out. A small army of lawyers and accountants were trying to untangle the mess. One of these days, they told me, there might be a financial settlement due me.
    I wasn’t holding my breath.
    By the time I hauled the last load of grocery bags into the kitchen, Mom was unpacking the first bags and putting them away. I got another of her raised-eyebrow looks when she opened the refrigerator to put away the salad. She didn’t have to say anything—we replayed the same conversation every time she looked in my fridge.
    First she would bemoan the state of my nutrition, then she’d move on to how she’d taught me better eating habits, and finally she’d sigh deeply and tell me that soon I would regret not taking better care of myself.
    “Just wait until you turn forty, Georgiana—and it’s not that far away, you know. You can’t eat like this forever.” I realized she had been talking for several minutes without me really hearing her.
    “I’ve got a long way till forty,” I countered. “And I don’t ‘eat like this’ all the time. I just hadn’t been to the grocery store this week.”
    Well, maybe I hadn’t been to the grocery store this month, but I’d been busy. I had my licensing exam coming up soon, and I’d been spending every spare minute studying.
    The exam had me spooked. I’d done fine on all the classroom work in my nearly four years in the apprenticeship program, and I had a bachelor’s and a master’s degree from Caltech—one of the toughest schools in the country. But test anxiety was still an old nemesis. Intense preparation was my main defense, and I wanted to pass this thing the first time.
    “And don’t tell me how hard you’ve been studying. That’s no excuse. In fact”—she closed the refrigerator and leveled her gaze at me—“you should be more careful of your diet when you’re under stress. It’s a fact that proper nutrition is essential to proper brain function.”
    She had me there, though I wasn’t about to admit it. And how did she know what I was thinking? It was a mom talent that I thought should have gone away when I was no longer a teenager, but it hadn’t.
    I pulled a jar of premade spaghetti sauce from a bag and set it by the stove. Next to it I put a package of spaghetti noodles, some pre-sliced mushrooms, and a small package of Italian sausage.
    “Spaghetti sauce from a jar ?” The disapproval was clear in her voice.
    “If we want to eat tonight instead of tomorrow,” I explained as I dragged a saucepan from the cupboard, “I have to