Relative Chaos (23 page)

"Good point." Siccing my cousin on a grieving mother would be
cruel, even on Janice's best day.

"Speaking of Janice," Aunt Millie went on, "I swear she's more
frantic by the minute. She won't tell me why. Never thought I'd say
this about my own daughter, but she needs to take something.
Maybe I should slip her a sedative."

"Couldn't hurt," I said.

"Not that I'm complaining," Millie said. "Olive's daughter is gone,
and I'm grateful to have mine, even if she won't listen to a word I
say."

"I understand."

"So, can you do it?"

I checked my watch. If McCall came through with an address,
and depending on where it was, I should be able to track Kevin
down before it was time to pick up Olive Hurley.

"I'll do it," I told her.

McCall gave me a thumbs-up. He'd found something.

I spotted a notepad and pen next to a stack of phonebooks on the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen. I grabbed the
pen. "I have to run, Aunt Millie. Tell me where-Mrs. Hurley's address and the funeral home's."

As I listened to her fumbling on the other end, I noticed some
photographs sitting on the phone books. The photo on top looked familiar, and I leaned over to study it. I recognized the back of Vicki
Rhodes' house from her kids' swing set. I glanced over my shoulder
at McCall, who was engrossed with the computer.

I pushed the top photo aside. The one beneath it was a street scene,
a black Mercedes just like Barton Fletcher's prominent in the photo.
Weird. Curious now, I flipped to the next. A front view of a house I
didn't recognize. The fourth picture was of Grayson with a man I'd
never seen before. I froze for a second, then hurriedly shoved the photos back onto a pile. Why on earth would McCall have these pictures?

Aunt Millie began reciting addresses, and I scribbled them down
while straightening the photos with my left hand. I promised to take
care of Mrs. Hurley, then disconnected and turned to McCall. I felt
awkward being here, as if he had suddenly become a stranger. I was
eager to leave but not until I got the information I'd come for.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"The location for that phone number is clearly a building at the
corner of Fifty-nine and Gessner," he said. "A convenience store."

I frowned. "Kevin called me from a convenience store?"

"More likely from a pay phone outside. Could explain why nobody answers when you call back."

I nodded, thinking. Chances were slim that I'd find Kevin hanging out in the parking lot, but I had to look.

"I'll be glad to go over there with you," McCall said. "Not the
best part of town."

"No," I blurted and headed for the door. "I'll be fine. Thanks for
the help."

"You're welcome." He followed close behind me. "What about
Millie's problem?"

"We got that straightened out. Thanks again."

"I'd like to hear more about Fletcher," he said. "Something doesn't
sit right."

Not with Fletcher and not with you either, I thought.

"I have to go see about Kevin," I said. "That's my top priority."

McCall smiled and touched my arm. "I know. Maybe we can get
together later."

I shook my head. "Aunt Millie needs me tonight. I'll let you know
if Featherstone wants us to come back. If we're done there, I'll collect on his bill, and we'll divvy it up."

"Sounds likes a plan." McCall opened the door for me.

I said good-bye and jogged down the steps and out to the Durango. As excited as I was about having a lead on Kevin, I couldn't
help wondering about McCall on my way to the convenience store.
Why did he have a picture of Grayson? Why had he been spending
so much time in Aunt Millie's neighborhood? Had he taken those
pictures himself, and what did he plan to do with them? What had
he been up to late last night when I spotted his truck parked on the
street?

I reached the convenience store, maneuvered around vehicles waiting in line to get gas, and slipped into a parking space next to the
building. There was a pay phone near the street, but I didn't see Kevin
loitering in the area. His pickup was nowhere in sight. I rushed inside,
nearly knocking over a skinny teenager on her way out, and made a
lap around the store. Kevin wasn't there.

One clerk manned the store, and three people waited impatiently
while he activated gas pumps and rang up purchases. I joined the
line and five long minutes later came face-to-face with the man behind the counter, an Asian with graying temples. He looked at me
expectantly.

"You get gas?" he said.

"No, I'm looking for someone."

He glanced at the line behind me. "What you want? Cigarettes? A
pack of gum?"

"No. I'm looking for a young man. My son."

"I don't see no lost kids around here," he said. "I'm alone, and
you see I have many customers."

I regretted my switch to a small wallet that had no room to hold a
picture of Kevin. "Is the manager here? Maybe I could talk with him."

"I am manager," the man said, frowning.

I grabbed several candy bars and tossed them onto the counter. "I'll buy these, but my son called me from the phone outside. Maybe
you saw him."

The clerk rang up the candy bars. "That will be four dollars, nineteen cents." He picked up a plastic sack.

I pulled out my wallet, taking my time. "My son is about six foot,
blond. His name is Kevin."

The clerk dropped the candy into the sack and stared at me.
"Kevin Cartwright?"

"Yes, that's him."

His face reddened. "You tell Kevin Cartwright I am looking for
him too. I'm his boss, and I get this call that he had to leave suddenlike. So here I am trying to fill in when he's supposed to be the one
working."

"Kevin works here?" I said.

"For now, yes," the man said. "And if he get back here by eight
like he says, maybe I will keep him on. If not, you can tell him for
me. He's fired"

I threw a five onto the counter and grabbed the candy. "Keep the
change. I'll be back at eight."

I trudged out to my truck, surprised by what I'd learned.

Kevin worked here. At the convenience store. I couldn't wrap my
mind around that, much less understand why he would take off suddenly, saying he'd come back by eight. I checked my watch. That
was nearly five hours away. Which gave me plenty of time to collect
Olive Hurley, deliver her to the funeral home by five, and be back
here when Kevin returned.

I ripped open a candy bar, chomped into the chocolate, and felt
the knot in my gut unwind with that first bite. Comfort food. Things
would look better as soon as I got hold of Kevin-surely they
couldn't look worse.

After a quick trip home to take a shower and make myself presentable to meet Olive Hurley, I arrived at her small country home at
ten minutes till five. The house, a brick one-story with wide flower
beds full of colorful pansies, sat at the end of a narrow dirt lane on
the outskirts of Richmond.

I stayed in my SUV for a moment and imagined how the Hurley women might have felt removed from the dangers of big-city living
out here in this tranquil setting. Now Dawn was gone, and I wondered
if her mother would ever again have a peaceful thought. I couldn't
imagine myself living through the horror of my child's murder.

A curtain moved at a front window, and I realized I'd been spotted. I approached the door, steeling myself to deal with an emotionally distraught woman. But Olive Hurley surprised me with her calm
and matter-of-fact greeting. We introduced ourselves, and I expressed
my condolences.

The woman was built like Dawn-short and round. She wore a
plain navy dress with matching low pumps and appeared ready to
leave except for the pink curlers in her hair.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "My doctor has me on medication, and I'm not supposed to drive."

"I'm glad to help," I said.

"If you don't mind, I need to finish getting ready." She patted the
curlers.

"Take all the time you need."

She rushed off down a hallway that I assumed led to the bedrooms. I strolled over to the living room and stopped short in the
doorway. Wow! In all my experience of going into people's homes,
I'd never seen anything like this. The room had a split-personality
decor. The left side reminded me of Dawn's office-papers and
books stacked everywhere, with barely a path to a deep armchair in
front of the television. The other half was neat and rather empty,
with knickknacks placed carefully on end tables flanking the sofa, a
TV Guide centered on the bare coffee table.

Heels clumped down the hall toward me, and I pulled my gaze
from the invisible line dividing the room.

Olive had removed half of the curlers, and tendrils of hair bounced
as she approached me. "I just realized you're the person Dawn mentioned earlier this week-the organizer."

"That's right."

"This probably gives you the heebie-jeebies." She indicated the
crowded side of the living room. "I know it does me."

I hesitated, not sure how to respond, then said, "Everyone has
their own style."

"I'm sure you can see the conflict we had going on in this house."

"You mean because of the clutter?" I said.

"Yes." She looked at the floor, and when she raised her head, her
eyes were wet with tears. "I can't live this way anymore, but I don't
want to change anything either, because when I do, then she'll be
completely gone. I'm not sure which is more depressing."

"Give yourself some time," I said. "You aren't ready to make any
big decisions yet."

She took a breath and blinked away the tears. "You're right.
Later."

She turned away, then paused and said, "Could you help me with
this?" She gestured at the messy half of the room. "I mean in a month
or so."

"I help people with projects just like this all the time," I said. "I'll
be happy to leave my business card."

"Good," she said. "If you want to look around, so you'll know what
to recommend when we talk later, I wouldn't mind." She started back
down the hall, then stopped and pointed to a door. "That's Dawn's
room."

"Okay."

She disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway. I felt awkward nosing around the house, but it appeared that's what she wanted
me to do. I stuck my head into the kitchen first and noticed a decor
similar to the living room. Half of the breakfast table was stacked
with debris, half clear. A section of kitchen counter was cleared, the
other side a mess. This was weird.

I understood how Olive felt she'd be erasing Dawn from her life if
she cleaned up the place and why she didn't want to keep things as
they were. But we could designate a room in the house to keep mementoes of Dawn and clear out the rest.

Dawn's room would be the likely place to gather her things. I went
down the hall to see how large a room we'd be dealing with and
gasped when I opened the door. The room was packed and stacked,
with a path to the bed so narrow, I couldn't imagine Dawn had fit
through it. I estimated she'd been in her mid-thirties, and it wouldn't
surprise me to learn that every single item she'd ever brought into
this room was still in here somewhere.

One thing was for sure-if she had taken the Featherstone portrait, she couldn't have possibly fit it into this bedroom. And I didn't
think Olive would have allowed some stranger's portrait to take up
any of her neat and orderly space.

I was dwelling on what might have happened to the darn painting
when the doorbell rang.

"Could you get that please?" Olive called from the other room.
"I'm almost ready but not quite."

"Okay," I called back, wondering if she was expecting someone
else.

I opened the door, and my chin dropped in surprise. "Detective
Troxell."

"You're a hard woman to catch up with, Ms. Cartwright," Troxell
said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your fingerprints were found at another crime scene, and
I need to take you in for questioning."

Detective Troxell kept me waiting in the interrogation roomthe same one I'd been in the day before. The room was frigid today,
just like Troxell's attitude. I didn't know what had happened to change
her-a couple of days ago we were friends sharing chocolate cake.
All of a sudden she was treating me like a front-runner on her suspect list.

I hugged myself, rubbing my arms to warm up. At least she hadn't
dragged me here cuffed and shackled. She'd allowed me to drive
Dawn's mother to the funeral home as planned, so things couldn't be
too bad. But if Troxell had questions, why didn't she just ask them?
Why did I have to be here?

I told myself this was simply a conclusion of yesterday's meeting.
Troxell had been interrupted. And now she'd have even more questions because of Dawn's murder. Yeah, that made sense. This had
nothing to do with my son. But by the time Troxell graced me with her
presence, I'd worked myself into a major snit. I was no criminal, and
I didn't appreciate her wasting so much of my time.