Sink Trap Read Online Free PDF Page B

skill.
    “Monday,” I conceded. “Just so I don’t miss my class.”
    “I really don’t see why you have to go to some class,” she said. “You already have more education than you need.”
    Barry slid in front of me and stepped into the hall, gently forcing my mother back toward the kitchen. “Now, Mrs. Neverall, you know Georgiana has to log the classroom hours if she wants to get her certificate.”
    “I know,” she said, leading our little parade down the
hall. “Though I really don’t understand why she doesn’t just settle down and get married.” She looked back over her shoulder at Barry. “Would you want your daughter to be a plumber?”
    Barry laughed, a hearty rumble from deep in his chest. “I don’t think I’m going to have much say. She told me last week that she was going to be a doctor.” He chuckled again. “The thought of paying for medical school had me wishing she did want to be a plumber.”
    Sandra muttered something under her breath. I had a good idea what. Money and medicine were a bad conversational combination when it came to her. I needed to change the subject, before she brought up my dad.
    The thought crossed my mind, as it often did, that he was a large part of my problem with my mother. His death had left her with massive debts, and I was putting every penny I had into Samurai Security. I hadn’t been able to help her when she needed it, and by the time I could, she was established with Whitlock and didn’t need me.
    I remembered the brooch, in the pocket of my jacket, hanging on a hook by the back door. I decided it was time for a distraction.
    “Hold on a second, there’s something I want you to look at.” I walked back through the kitchen, and fished the brooch out of my pocket.
    When I came back, my mother was glaring at the kitchen sink, as though she could heal the worn and pitted surface through sheer force of will. Barry was looking uncomfortable, and my mother’s bitterness filled the room like an invisible elephant.
    Definitely time for a change of subject.
    I held out the brooch to my mother, who hesitated a moment before taking it. She held it at arm’s length to look at it, turning it over in her hands. She was at the age where her arms were never quite long enough to focus, but she wouldn’t admit it in public. She swore she could see every bit as well as she could when she was a kid. I knew better, though, since I’d seen the reading glasses
she’d stashed in several places around her house. She knew what the problem was, but she was prepared to will it out of existence. My mother, the queen of denial.
    “This is Martha Tepper’s,” she said after a moment. “She wore it every day.” She looked at me accusingly. “How did you get hold of it?”
    I plucked the brooch out of her grasp before she could put it in her purse, which she had been preparing to do.
    “Found it in the warehouse.”
    From behind me I heard footsteps. I turned around to find a couple standing in the doorway. The man was about my height, maybe five-eight, and slight. He wore a cheap suit and brown wingtips, and his sandy hair needed a trim.
    The woman would have been a hippie—forty years ago. Gauzy skirt, negative-heel clogs, her dark hair an untamed mane that trailed over her shoulders. I was willing to bet she didn’t shave her legs, but the hem of her skirt swept the floor so I couldn’t be sure.
    “You found something in the warehouse? Give it to me,” he demanded.
    I held the brooch where he could see it, but I kept a firm grip on it. “And you are?”
    “Rick Gladstone. I’m Martha’s attorney.”
    The woman cleared her throat loudly.
    “ We’re Martha’s attorneys.” He gestured to her. “My wife, Rachel.”
    I nodded at her and turned my attention back to Mr. Gladstone. “This is Miss Tepper’s brooch, I believe. I’d like to return it to her.” I put a slight emphasis on “her.”
    Mom’s cell phone beeped, pulling her away from the conversation.