Relative Chaos (12 page)

Odds and ends from the garage sat in the driveway. Fitting everything back inside would be like putting together a jigsaw puzzle
with too many pieces, and the cops had passed on that challenge. I
might set the stuff by the curb-looked like garbage to me.

I parked on the street and went to the front door with a supply of
garbage bags under my arm, then scooted under the crime-scene
tape to go inside. I locked the door behind me and turned on some
lights. Surprisingly, the place didn't look any worse after the police
search, which said a lot for the state of Aunt Millie's housekeeping.
I plunked my purse onto a living room chair. With the new coat of
paint, this room would show improvement the fastest. Good place to
start.

McCall's cardboard boxes stood inside the back door. I began
by assembling two dozen, then hit the room like a Tasmanian devil. I
filled the new bookshelves, tossed junk into garbage sacks, and packed
anything Aunt Millie might actually look for one day. I unearthed an
envelope holding the estate-planning documents she had hoped to find
and set them on the kitchen counter where she couldn't miss them.

I finished in the living room, then hit the breakfast area and the
kitchen, clearing a path as I moved along. After I tossed the expired foods in the pantry, there was room to store groceries that had accumulated on the counter. I unearthed the Mr. Coffee and decided to
make a pot. While the coffee brewed, I wiped off the countertop with
a soapy rag. Even though I'd vowed no scrubbing, I couldn't ignore
dust-caked Formica that probably hadn't seen the light in years.

Looking out over the wet bar into the living room, I felt a swell of
pride. After the garbage bags and boxes were out of the way, I would
arrange the furniture and line the coffee table with a few current
magazines. Janice wouldn't believe her eyes.

I opened the back door and hauled the filled boxes out to the covered patio, stacking them where they wouldn't be visible from the
living room windows. The night air was nippy but felt refreshing,
given the sweat I'd worked up. I stood in the doorway. What to do
with those bulky garbage bags?

I remembered the Dumpster at Featherstone's. Perfect, except
driving the bags down there and dumping them would likely wake
him, and it was far too late to call unless he happened to be a night
owl. Still, I was on a mission, and I wanted them gone.

I poured a cup of coffee and went outside, walked to the edge of
Aunt Millie's yard, and looked in the direction of Featherstone's. He
was four houses away, too far to carry the heavy load. I couldn't tell
from here if his lights were on or off. I walked out to the golf cart
path and headed that way.

Out there in the open, the air felt colder. I sipped hot coffee to
stave off goose bumps prickling my neck. A half-moon peeked from
behind the clouds, giving me enough light to see the path ahead. I
veered into the grass, hoping to spy Featherstone's windows without
going all the way to his house. That's when I heard a clicking sound
and noticed rustling in the bushes behind Vicki Rhodes' house.

I froze as Aunt Millie's words came back to me. There's a killer
on the loose.

The figure in the bushes moved, and I could see the outline of a
tall man. He appeared to have his back to me. The Rhodes house
wasn't as bright as it had been a few hours ago, but downstairs windows were still lit.

I hesitated, not sure what to do. If the man turned around, he'd see
me no matter which way I went. Running would catch his attention. He moved before I decided, angling so that I caught his profile. He
had his hands up to his face, holding something.

Another click.

A camera. The man was taking pictures of the house. This didn't
fit my image of the killer. There was so much in the news lately about
crimes against children that it seemed more likely he was a pedophile
interested in Vicki's boys.

On this still night, if I called 911, the man would hear me. I took
one step backward, then another. A floodlight flicked on behind
Vicki's house, and the man turned abruptly. He rushed straight toward the cart path, then stopped in his tracks when he saw me.

"Who are you?" he barked.

Something about the guy seemed familiar, but I couldn't place
him.

"I'm taking a walk," I said, avoiding his question. "What are you
doing out here?"

"None of your business." The camera swung from a wide strap
around his neck.

"You're spying on those people, aren't you?" I said. "I think I'll
just call the police."

"No, you won't"

His hands were empty, and I didn't see any bulging pockets. No
weapon in sight. I pulled out my phone to make good on my
promise.

"You're a pervert spying on innocent children," I said.

"What?" He shook his head and chuckled. "You are one delusional individual."

"You're hiding in bushes and taking pictures," I said. "What am I
supposed to think?"

The man stepped closer.

I stood my ground.

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. "My
daughter lives there."

I remembered him now. "Barton Fletcher?"

He came closer, squinting. "Do I know you?"

I ignored his question. "Why are you taking pictures?"

"Like I said, that's none of your business."

"It sure as hell is Vicki's business," I said. "Does she know you're
out here?"

"Keep Vicki out of this," he growled.

I took that as a no.

"I've heard about you." I remembered Vicki's comments about
her father. "And apparently what I've heard is true."

"Show me some ID," he said. "I'm president of the homeowners
association, and I know everyone. You don't look familiar."

"I don't carry my ID when I take a walk, Mr. Fletcher. See you
around." I turned and headed back toward Aunt Millie's. If it had
been daylight, Fletcher might have seen angry steam rising from my
head. I didn't care if he was President of the United States-he
shouldn't be trespassing in the dead of night.

Back in Millie's kitchen, I poured a fresh mug of coffee and retrieved the package of fudge cookies I'd stored in the pantry. Enough
fresh baked goods to feed the Fort Bend County Sheriff's Department
for a week were going to waste back home. These would have to do. I
tore into the cookies and ate half a dozen before coming up for air.

Aunt Millie was right-Barton Fletcher was a mean-tempered
jerk. He sure had rubbed me the wrong way. I wouldn't bother Vicki
Rhodes with this tonight, but she deserved to know about her father
skulking around her house in the middle of the night.

I gulped down more cookies, dropping crumbs on the dusty floor.
I fetched a mop from the broom closet and pushed the crumbs and
dust bunnies into a pile. Then I leaned on the mop and told myself to
focus. There was no point in wasting energy on Barton Fletcher. I'd
made a big dent in my project, but there was a lot more to do. I could
take the garbage bags to the Dumpster at daybreak-if I didn't collapse by then.

I entered the crowded dining room and looked around. That's when
I heard a noise coming from Aunt Millie's first-floor bedroomlocated opposite the dining room, on the other side of the foyer.

The back door had been unlocked while I was out of the house.
Anyone could have come inside. Maybe I was paranoid, translating
creaking old house noises into something more. Just in case, I tiptoed into the kitchen and armed myself with the mop. Back in the
dining room, I flattened myself against the wall, listening.

No doubt about it. A door creaked open, then closed. I heard a
slight shuffling sound. Had the killer returned?

My mind raced. He'd come back for something. No, he came
back to leave something. To plant evidence. No, that's crazy. But he
wouldn't risk being spotted for no good reason. So why was he here?

Aunt Millie. He thought she knew something. He'd come for her.

Stop it, Poppy. Do something.

I should leave. Go out the back door before he saw me. But I
wanted to see him. I couldn't let him get away. There might not be another chance. I inched through the dining room, across the foyer. He
was still moving around in there, though I could barely hear above the
blood hammering in my ears.

I reached the bedroom, holding the mop like a baseball bat, ready
to beat this jerk to a pulp. I tiptoed across the carpet toward Aunt
Millie's dressing room and screamed bloody murder when a man
rounded the corner.

I was already swinging my makeshift weapon when I recognized
the intruder.

Wayne McCall grabbed the mop handle in the nick of time.

"Whoa there," he said. "That could be lethal."

I stared at him, my pulse racing. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he said. "Your truck's parked out front. Saw
lights on, but you weren't here."

"I was here."

"Not when I showed up. And the door was open."

"I know. I left it open when I went outside."

"Bad move," he said. "In case you forgot, there was a murder in
the neighborhood."

"Smart aleck." I lowered the mop and propped it against the wall.
"The cops don't know where the murder actually took place."

"Come on. That's a technicality."

No doubt some women would be thrilled to have Wayne McCall
looking out for their safety. I wasn't one of them. I didn't appreciate
his scaring the bejeebers out of me, though I had to admit he looked
good-freshly shaved and wearing starched jeans with a soft yellow
sweater.

"Now that you know I'm alive and well," I said, "you can leave. I
have work to do." I headed for the kitchen.

"Work?" he said, trailing behind me. "It's after one in the morning."

"So?"

"Enough's enough," he said. "You'll run yourself ragged."

I stopped in the living room and turned around. "It's one A.M. on
your watch too."

"What has you all riled up?" A grin flickered at his mouth.

"You," I said.

"I think this mood started before you saw me."

"It's not a `mood.' I didn't ask you to look out for me. You have no
right to come prancing in here as if you own the place. And none of
what you've said explains why you were in the neighborhood to see
that the lights were turned on in the first place."

"Whew," he said. "That was a mouthful."

I blew out a breath. "Do you live nearby?"

"No."

"Then I'll repeat my question. What are you doing here?"

"Making the rounds," he said. "Looking for a killer lurking in the
shadows. I've spotted him before, out on the golf course."

"Who are you? The self-proclaimed watchdog?" The last thing I
needed was for McCall to stick his two cents in before Kevin had a
chance to come home and explain himself. "Just because you saw
someone doesn't mean he's guilty."

"He was acting guilty," McCall said.

"In your opinion. Ever consider you might be wrong?"

"Not about this. The guy was up to something."

My heart was still beating too fast, and McCall's innuendo about
Kevin wasn't helping. "I've had more than enough aggravation for
one night. Please go."

He looked around the room, making no move to leave. "Place
looks good. Millie have you working the night shift?"

"What's between me and Millie isn't your business," I said.

He stepped closer and lost the mocking tone. "Listen, sorry I
scared you."

I started to deny it, but I was trembling as if I'd just come from a
face-to-face meeting with Hannibal Lecter. I looked down, avoiding
his gaze, and rubbed my temples. My hair came loose from its clip
and fell across my forehead. McCall tipped his head and tucked the
hair behind my ear so he could look me in the eye.

"You okay?" he asked.

The intimate gesture had me momentarily tongue-tied. Finally, I
managed, "I'm fine."

"Did something happen here tonight?" he said. "I mean, before I
showed up?"

To turn the conversation away from his personal observations, I
told him about my run-in with Barton Fletcher.

"Fletcher's an oddball," McCall said. "To him, those homeowners
association rules are as serious as the Ten Commandments. Guy
probably takes pictures of everything. Flagpole too close to the street,
trailer parked in a driveway more than a day-he'll nail you."

"How do you know all this?" I said.

"I spend a fair amount of time in the area, doing odd jobs. Some
of them fixing problems Fletcher reported."

"I don't think that explains why he was out there tonight," I said.
"A father wouldn't turn in his own daughter."

"This one might," McCall said.

I was curious about the reason behind Fletcher's late-night photography, but I already had enough on my plate.

"I guess rules are rules," I said.

"Speaking of rules," McCall said. "Cops won't look favorably on
your violating their crime scene."