Sink Trap

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?

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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.

 

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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.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-14520-3

 

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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.

“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.