Relative Chaos (24 page)

To speed things along, I began answering questions before she
asked. "If you brought me here to find out whether I was in the building where Dawn Hurley worked, the answer is yes, I was. Yesterday.
The day she was killed."

"I see." Troxell settled into the chair across from me. She placed
her tape recorder on the table, pushed record, and stated the date,
time, and my name, then smiled at me.

"Ms. Cartwright, were you in the building at six-twenty Morton
Street yesterday?"

"That's what I just said. Yes, I was there. I'm sure many other
people were too. Are you bringing everyone in for a formal interview?"

She ignored my question and asked another of her own. "Why
were you there?"

I explained about Aunt Millie's papers and her request that I take
them to her attorney's office, then spent the next five minutes giving
Troxell a blow-by-blow of my meeting with Tate, including his concern that Dawn had not yet arrived for work.

"We found your prints on the railing along the back stairs."

"Of course," I said. "I used the stairs on my way out."

"Why not take the elevator?"

I blew out a breath. "Because I was in a hurry. Have you ever been
in that geriatric elevator?"

Once again she ignored what I'd said. "Did you see anyone else in
the stairwell?"

"Did you leave anything at the law office?" Troxell asked.

"The papers from my aunt." Was she not paying attention?

"Anything else?"

"Not a note?"

I slumped back in my chair. "I forgot. I left a note for Dawn to
call me."

"And did she call you?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Why did you want to talk with her?"

Yesterday seemed like a year ago, and I had to think for a second.
"I wanted to ask her about my cousin. Dawn seemed to know more
about her than I did, and I thought she might shed some light on why
she's acting so weird."

"That would be Janice Reed?"

"Right."

"What do you mean by `weird'?"

"You know," I said. "You met her the other night at Aunt Millie's."

Troxell nodded. "The first time."

"Don't tell me she's harassing you about her boxes"

"You might say that," Troxell said.

"Then you know what I mean by `weird.' Those boxes are thirty
years old. I mean, how important can they be?"

"Let's stay on track," Troxell said. "Tell me how your cousin was
acquainted with the victim."

I frowned. "I wouldn't say they were acquainted. Dawn only knew
Janice as Aunt Millie's heir because of Dawn's job. She seemed to
take a personal interest in all of Mr. Tate's clients."

Troxell nodded as if this wasn't the first time she'd heard this information. She glanced down at the recorder, I guessed to make sure
it was still running.

"In fact," I added, "Dawn turned up early yesterday morning at
my client's house."

Troxell looked up. "Your client's name?"

"Steve Featherstone."

"What time was this?"

"Before eight," I said.

"And her reason for coming?"

"Mr. Tate is the probate attorney for Steve's late grandmother, who
was an artist. Dawn was interested in getting one of her paintings."

"And she'd made an appointment to come see these paintings?"

"I'm sure Mr. Featherstone wasn't expecting her," I said. "He
seemed put out about the visit."

Troxell nodded again. "I see."

"We discovered today that one of the paintings is missing. A portrait Dawn was particularly interested in."

Troxell raised her eyebrows. "You think she stole a painting?"

I shrugged. "It's the one that's missing. You didn't happen to find
a portrait in her car, did you?"

"I can't discuss that," Troxell said.

Her choice of words was making me more jittery.

"Did you notice anything unusual at the law office?"

What was she getting at? Did she suspect Allen Tate now? "Aside
from Dawn's office being a mess and I couldn't imagine her getting
any work done there, no."

"Do you have any idea who might have wanted Dawn Hurley
dead?"

"No."

"Were you involved in any way with the murder?"

My jaw dropped. "Are you kidding? I've only seen the woman a
couple of times in my life. Why would I be involved?"

"Calm down, Ms. Cartwright."

"I can't believe this."

"I simply asked you a question."

"Which sounded like an accusation. Can you see me getting the
drop on a woman Dawn's size and strangling her with a wire?"

"Did I say you did it yourself?" she said.

Outrage burned on my cheeks. "You are accusing me."

"No," Troxell said. "But I would like to hear how you knew about
the wire."

I stared at her hard. "I heard about that right here in this office.
Yesterday, as I was leaving. People were already talking."

Troxell watched me, silently.

I didn't look away, concentrating on calming myself.

"Was your associate Wayne McCall present when the victim visited Mr. Featherstone?" Troxell asked.

I hesitated, reviewing the sequence of events. "No, he arrived
later."

"Do you know if he was acquainted with her?"

"They knew each other. I don't know how or when they met."

"What do you know about Mr. McCall?"

She kept coming around to asking about McCall. I chewed my
lower lip. I had plenty of suspicions about him, but I didn't necessarily want to share them with Troxell. He'd been so nice, helpful,
seemed so genuine. I didn't want him to be involved in the murders,
but what if he was? If it came down to Troxell suspecting McCall or
Kevin or even me, I'd rather she suspected McCall. So I told Troxell
everything I knew and felt like a traitor.

"Is McCall a suspect?" I asked when I'd finished.

Troxell drummed her fingers on the table. "No comment."

To change the subject, I said, "Have you identified the man from
Aunt Millie's garage?"

"I can't share details with you. This is an ongoing investigation,"
Troxell said.

"But you know who he is?"

"The investigation is continuing."

I sighed, frustrated. "Okay. May I ask if you've at least interviewed the neighbors? I heard about a lady named Birdie Peterson
who knows-"

She held up a hand. "I'll decide whom to interview, Ms. Cartwright.
Your son has given us some good information."

My mouth went dry. "You talked with Kevin?"

"I did."

"When?"

"A few minutes ago. He's down the hall."

My heard raced. "Is he under arrest?"

She tipped her head. "Should he be?"

I fidgeted in my seat. "Of course not."

Troxell watched me so closely, I wondered if she was counting
how many times I blinked.

Finally, she indicated for the tape that our interview was over and
switched off the recorder.

"Are you holding us here?" I didn't breathe as I waited for her
answer.

"No. You and your son are witnesses for the time being."

I let out my breath. "So now what?"

The corners of Troxell's mouth curved up slightly, the closest
thing to a smile I'd seen since the start of the interview. "You're free
to go"

"And Kevin?"

"My partner should be finished with him. Go talk to your boy."

It took every ounce of willpower in my being to rise slowly and
walk from the room. My heart soared at the thought of finally talking to Kevin.

Relief washed over me as I stepped into the hallway and saw
Kevin emerge from a room two doors down. His hair needed washing, and his jeans and sweatshirt looked as if he'd worn them for a
week straight. But no handcuffs-a good sign. His jaw dropped when
he spotted me.

"Hey, Kev." I walked over and gave him a casual hug, pretending
that running into each other here was no big deal. "Sorry I missed
your call earlier."

He stared at me as if I'd just sprouted antlers. "Uh, no problem."

He looked exhausted and even thinner than he had the other day.
Troxell kept an eye on us, as if she expected we'd commit some crime
right there and she could swoop in and make an arrest. The sooner we
put distance between us and her, the better.

"Detective," I said, "you'll let us know if we can do anything
more to help out?"

"Count on it." Troxell nodded and gave a little wave.

My stomach knotted at her words. I linked my arm in Kevin's and
made tracks for the exit.

He pulled his arm free as soon as we turned the first corner. "You
don't have to hang on to me like I'm some little kid."

"Sorry."

"Mom, what are you doing here? Did the cops call you?"

"Wait," I said, "We'll talk outside."

On the first floor, a blast of cold, damp air whooshed in as people
left the building ahead of us. It was already dark and, to make matters
worse, pouring rain. We went out and stood under the portico where a
couple of women waited in hopes that the weather would let up.

Not the best place to talk. I dug into my oversized purse, came up
with my folding umbrella, and undid the snap.

"Hold on," Kevin said. "What's happening here?"

I took his arm again, urging him as far as we could get from the
women and still be under cover.

"You tell me," I said in a low voice. "Your dad and I have been
worried sick. He drove to Austin searching for you."

"Austin? Why?"

"We didn't know where else to look. We heard about the festival.
Jojo expected you-"

"I told him I wasn't in the mood for any festival," Kevin said.

"Whatever. That's not important now."

"Then why are you so freaked out?"

"Because you disappeared right after a dead man was found in
Aunt Millie's garage. Witnesses reported someone who looks like
you lurking around Riverside Estates. So you see why we beat the
bushes trying to find you?"

Kevin's eyes widened. "Is that why you're here? The cops wanted
to talk to you because of me?"

I glanced at the women, but the pounding rain was drowning out
our voices, and they weren't paying any attention to us. "Not exactly. I'm sure they're talking to everyone remotely connected to
these cases." I gave him the shorthand version of my past few days.

"You think I'm guilty?" he said.

"Of course not. But where have you been?"

"Around," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Staying at a friend's."

"Not with Grayson, I hope."

"No, Mom. You can quit harping about her."

Even in the skimpy outdoor lighting I caught his pained expression.
My heart hurt for him, but I needed to push on and get some answers.
Rain pummeled the shrubbery surrounding the building and splattered us. Thunder boomed in the distance.

"How about we move this discussion to Manuel's?" I said. "Grab
some dinner."

He shook his head. "I should get going."

"Not so fast. We have to talk about what happened in there. Just
because the police let us go doesn't mean we're off their radar."

Kevin looked down, scuffed his tennis shoes on the concrete, then
stared out at the wet parking lot. "Crap."

"Exactly," I said. "Let's go. You have to eat"

"Okay." He sounded utterly dejected, as if spending time with me
was his worst nightmare. "Meet you there."

I offered him my umbrella.

"Keep it. I'm good." He pulled his sweatshirt up higher around
his neck, then broke for the parking lot.

On the way to the restaurant I thought about calling Doug. He
needed to know Kevin had surfaced, but I didn't want him joining us.
He'd end up yelling, Kevin would clam up, and in the end I wouldn't
know any more than I did now. I pulled into the restaurant lot and
vowed to call Doug after dinner.

Our waiter delivered the usual basket of tortilla chips and salsa
to the table and took our orders. Two iced teas-though I sure could
have used a margarita to calm my nerves-and taco plates, the day's
special.

When the waiter left, I said, "Tell me everything. Start with how
the police found you."

"They didn't," Kevin said around a mouthful of chips. "Some guy
sicced them on me."

"What guy?"

"You don't know him, and you don't want to." He smoothed raindrenched hair back from his face.

"Tell me his name. I need details in case the cops come back to us
on this."

He swallowed and waited a beat, trying to decide whether or not
to share the information. Finally, he said, "Grayson's stepfather. He
hates my guts."

"Barton Fletcher," I said, bristling at the thought of anyone hating
my son.

Kevin looked up, surprised. "You know him?"

"We've met," I explained. "And he's the one who mentioned your
name to the police?"

"He threatened to have me arrested."

"For murder?"

"No. To keep me away from Grayson"

I nodded. "Actually Fletcher and I had a little run-in this morning.
He's not through threatening you."

Kevin's hands balled into fists. "I'd like to get my hands on that-"