Relative Chaos (14 page)

"Am I too early?" I asked.

"No, no." He motioned for me to come in and closed the door behind me.

My eyes hadn't yet adjusted from the sunlight, when someone
else greeted me.

"Hi, Poppy. We meet again."

I recognized Dawn Hurley's voice.

"Hello, Dawn," I said. "What brings you here?"

Featherstone wore a relieved expression, as if he was glad I'd arrived to save him from entertaining Dawn alone.

"I was in the neighborhood," Dawn said. "Not that I planned to
be, but something came up." She winked at me. "You know how that
goes."

"I do."

I mentally traced Dawn's path this morning. She'd come to pick
up the keys, then drove out to my house and returned here to drop in
at Featherstone's. Didn't make sense unless his house was on a direct path to her job. That wasn't the case.

Dawn had kept talking while I worked out the details in my mind.
"So I thought it would be a shame to come so close and not stop by,"
she said, "to catch Mr. Featherstone at home and make sure he knew
about my interest in the paintings."

"I would have passed on your message." I turned to Featherstone.
"Dawn was here yesterday while I was working and expressed her
interest in buying one of your grandmother's paintings if they're for
sale."

"She told me that," Featherstone said, "among other things."

Dawn giggled. "I know I talk too much. Everyone says so, but
Mama is the same way, and sometimes I think it's just a trait I inherited. Do you think that's possible, Mr. Featherstone, that a person
can inherit something like being talkative?"

Featherstone shrugged. "Never gave it any thought."

"Seems like family members always have a lot in common," she
said. "Like Andy Axelrod and his son. They're the opposite of me
and Mama. Can't drag two words out of 'em to save your life. And
there's old Mrs. Webber and her daughter-they sing like birds. See
what I mean? I'll bet you and your grandmother had a lot in common too."

"I'm sure we did," Featherstone said.

I jumped in to put a stop to the character sketches. "You seem to
know a lot about the people in this area, Dawn."

"Sure do," she said. "Lived here all my life. I love dealing with
people, and I'm a really good listener."

Featherstone, behind Dawn, put a hand to his head like a fake gun
and pulled the trigger. He was able to joke about this nosy woman,
but with the little sleep I'd had, she was getting on my nerves. I remembered that Janice's early arrival was due to a conversation with
Dawn, and I wanted to know exactly how and why that had come
about.

Featherstone said, "Dawn, if there's a particular painting you're
interested in, I'd be glad to set it aside for you"

"That's so thoughtful, but I'm not sure which one I'd pick" She
screwed up her mouth, thinking. "The florals sure are pretty. Maybe
I should pick the painting of her favorite flower. You know the one."
She paused, watching Featherstone.

He smiled. "Whatever you like."

"That family portrait of you, Ida, and your parents really touched
me," Dawn said, "but I'm sure you don't want to part with it. That
portrait meant so much to her."

Featherstone was nodding, though he seemed to have drifted off
while she talked.

"Where was that done?" Dawn said.

"What?" Featherstone said.

"The family portrait. I'll bet you were at Ida's daddy's home in
Abilene. She talked about that house so often, I feel like I've been
there myself. What was it they called the place? I forget. The old
Sapperstein place? No. Steigerwalt? That doesn't sound right either.
It was something with an S though, wasn't it?"

Featherstone smiled. "You're getting warm."

"Sauerwine," Dawn said. "No. I give up. What was it?"

"Hate to ruin your fun," he said.

At this rate, we'd never accomplish anything. Featherstone was
being too nice, so I interrupted. "You know, Dawn, we have a full day
ahead of us, and we need to get to work."

"Oh, me too," Dawn said. "Mr. Tate is probably pacing the office as we speak. Sorry for taking up so much time. Just wanted to make
sure Mr. Featherstone knew to save a painting for me."

"I will," Featherstone said.

"I'll stop by again sometime," she said.

"Looking forward to it." Featherstone looked at me and crossed
his eyes.

Dawn turned to the door.

"Be right back," I told Featherstone. "I have a quick question for
Dawn."

We went outside, and when the door closed behind us, I said,
"You know my cousin Janice is in town?"

"Yes, that's why the keys-"

"We don't need to get into that," I said. "Do you and Janice talk
often?"

"I called her a few times," Dawn said, "and, tell you the truth, I
was kind of sorry each time I called. She's not very sociable."

"You called to tell her about the murder." It wasn't a question. I
was annoyed at how much pleasure Dawn took in gossip.

"I told her, yes," she said, "But that wasn't the reason for my call."

"What was the reason?"

"I needed her correct address."

"Janice lives on East Seventy-third in New York City." I'd heard
more than I wanted to know about her wonderful apartment in the
city.

"She used to," Dawn said. "I didn't mention this to Millie because
I knew it would upset her-Janice not keeping her informed and all.
But it took me a couple of weeks to track her down."

"Did you try calling her at work?" I said.

"Sure, but she doesn't work there anymore."

"She doesn't?"

"Nope. They told me she left right after Christmas."

"Interesting," I said. "Why were you so eager to find her?"

"I mailed her a power of attorney Millie needed her to sign. If I'd
known she was coming to visit, I'd have just waited, but I didn't know.
So I mailed the document, but then the mail came back undeliverable.
And now I know why."

"Why?" I said.

"Because Janice moved to Parsippany. That's in New Jersey."

Ordinarily, I wouldn't give a flip about where Janice worked or
lived, but after the way she'd shown up, acting so concerned, I was
downright suspicious of my oh-so-perfect cousin.

The door opened behind me, and Featherstone stuck his head out.

"Excuse me, Poppy?" He tapped the face of his watch, stretching
my last nerve to the breaking point.

Dawn might have more interesting tidbits about Janice if I let her
talk herself out, but that wasn't on Featherstone's agenda.

I told her good-bye and went inside to work.

I love organizing when I'm in the right frame of mind. My attitude
this morning didn't qualify, but Steve Featherstone wouldn't wait
around until I had a drastic mood swing.

I forced myself to pay attention as he ticked down his list of today's top priorities and reminded me that tomorrow was the big day
for the appraiser's visit. When he finished, he grabbed a leather tote
stuffed with documents that I guessed he'd gathered from around
the house. He was on his way out to run errands and expected to
return by midafternoon. I was glad to know he didn't need me to
handle the papers Ida had left behind and happy to have him out of
my hair.

After he left, I trudged upstairs to pick up where I'd left off the
day before in the master bedroom. McCall and I could divvy up the
prioritized list when he arrived.

I sat on the floor in front of Ida Featherstone's massive oak
dresser and emptied drawers, piling things on the floor beside me.
Nightgowns, belts, slips, girdles-thank God we didn't wear those
anymore. I worked on autopilot, my thoughts on family-gullible
Aunt Millie, scheming Janice, and especially Kevin. I sighed.

What the heck was that boy up to?

We'd know soon, but not soon enough to suit me. And now that
the meeting time was so close, I worried about Doug's seeing Kevin
without me there to act as a buffer. I hoped Doug wouldn't arrive in
attack mode, though I knew good and well that's how he'd handled
issues in the past.

Assume the worst-that was Doug's child-rearing motto.

Kevin stayed out past curfew-he must be on drugs. Kevin didn't
say how a test went-he must have flunked. Kevin left town after
discovery of a dead body-he must have killed the man.

No. Doug didn't believe that. And I had to admit that he had matured some in the thirty-odd years I'd known him. He could
handle this without going off half-cocked. I leaned back, propping
my hands behind me and wondering if the police had found any information that would lead their suspicions away from Kevin.

One way to find out.

I retrieved a business card from my purse and punched in the
number on my cell.

Three rings, then, "Detective Troxell. Talk to me."

As we exchanged greetings, I realized I'd acted on impulse. How
could I approach this without sounding suspicious? Troxell took the
lead.

"Glad you called," she said cheerily. "I was about to phone you."

Hope sparked in my chest. "Really? Have you found the killer?"

"Wishful thinking. No. I need you to come by the sheriff's office
for a meeting."

My heart rate kicked up. "A meeting? Why? What's going on?"

"I'd rather do this in person," she said.

"When? My schedule's pretty tight." I paced the bedroom. Troxell
had spotted my photos of Kevin after all, and now she wanted to drag
information about him out of me.

"I understand you're working," Troxell said. "So am I. How about
six?"

"Tonight?"

"That work for you?"

"I, uh, think so. Sure." I swallowed and tried to sound casual.
"What's this about? Have you identified the victim?"

"Not yet."

"You have a new development?"

"More like continuing developments. We'll meet at the Ransom
Road facility. You know the place?"

"Yes, but can't you give me some idea why-"

"Not now," she said. "But you called me. Something I can do for
you before then?"

I hesitated, sorry I had called. How would I survive until six without
knowing exactly what Troxell wanted? "Aunt Millie is going home this
morning," I said, making up a plausible reason to have called her. "Are
you sure that's safe?"

"Can't guarantee safety. Wish I could. Tell her to stay inside, keep
the doors locked. Same advice I'm giving everyone"

"You've talked with all the neighbors?"

"Some of them."

"Oh. I thought you would canvas the whole neighborhood." I'd
seen plenty of movies where cops pinned the blame on the first suspect to come along. I couldn't let that happen.

"You trying to run my case?" Troxell's tone had a slight edge.

"No. I didn't mean-"

"As a rule, citizens aren't shy about reporting every quirky detail
when it comes to catching up with a killer," she said. "We're getting
plenty of calls."

"Really?" I said. "Has anyone reported on Barton Fletcher's
quirks?"

That stopped her for a second. "What would those be?"

I told her about my run-in with Fletcher the night before.

"Sounds like he was on private property," Troxell said.

"But not on his property."

"You're assuming the daughter didn't know he was out there. Can't
assume anything. Man could be into night photography. Could be
studying the nocturnal habits of geckos for all I know" She chuckled.

"This isn't funny."

"You're right." Troxell sobered. "And I thank you for the information. I'll add your report to all the other trivia we're gathering. Gotta
go. See you at six."

She disconnected, leaving me both perturbed and frightened at
the prospect of our meeting. Even if Kevin could attend the meeting
himself and give Troxell his perfectly innocent reason for being in
the neighborhood, would that put an end to her suspicions? What we
needed were some other suspects.

I dialed Doug's cell number and got his voice mail. Probably still
fast asleep in some plush hotel room. I closed the phone and paced
some more. What to do? If only I didn't have this darned Featherstone job to deal with. I looked out the window facing the street. No
McCall.

I glanced over at a blue Astro van parked in Vicki Rhodes' driveway. Maybe Vicki had known about her father hanging out in the shrubbery last night, but maybe she didn't. I turned quickly, almost
stumbling over the piles of undergarments I'd made on the floor, and
went to find out for myself.

I expected the shrieks of little boys to greet me at the Rhodes' front
door. Instead, lively Latin music-Ricky Martin if I had to guessemanated from behind the walls. I rang the bell and was surprised
when a middle-aged Hispanic woman in a Fiesta Texas T-shirt over
bright turquoise spandex pants answered the door, a can of Lemon
Pledge in one hand, a rag in the other. She had the hip movements of
a teenager, gyrating to the rhythm of the music. She waited for me to
say something, as if speaking would cause her to lose the beat.