Relative Chaos (25 page)

"Not a good idea," I said.

"It's so freakin' stupid," he said. "All I wanted was to talk to her."

"You're losing me."

Kevin clenched his hands together on the table in front of him.
"When Grayson left our apartment, she went to stay at her mom's.
She said it was over, but I didn't believe her."

I stuffed a chip into my mouth to keep from throwing in my two
cents. He was talking, and that was good.

"I kept trying to catch up with Grayson," he said. "To talk, that's
all, but I never made it past the front door. Fletcher made sure of that."

The waiter brought our drinks. Kevin gulped some tea before going on.

"I hung around the golf course," he said, "hoping to see her on
her way in or out."

Aha. Things were falling into place. "That's why people spotted
you in the area."

"Guess so, but I didn't know about any murder at the time. Fletcher
said he'd call the cops on me. I heard sirens, so I got out fast."

"That's when you left me the note saying you were going out of
town, even though you didn't intend to leave?"

He nodded. "I didn't want to drag you into anything."

"You mean you didn't want me to know you were still after
Grayson"

"Maybe that too."

I reached across and touched his arm. "I'll always be here for you,
no matter if I approve of what you're doing or not."

"I know." He ate another chip. "Anyway, it wasn't enough for that
jerk that I was staying away. I heard he gave the cops my name in
connection with a murder, so I decided to come in and tell my side
of the story."

"Good choice. I'm proud of you."

The waiter served our tacos then, and we ate in silence for a few
minutes. But I wanted information more than food. I pushed my plate
away.

"Did the cops ask you about all this today in the interview?" I
asked.

"Pretty much."

"You told them what you've told me?"

"Yeah."

"You think they believed you?"

"Seemed like they did. They mostly wanted to know what I saw
while I was out there."

"Did you see anything important?"

He shrugged. "I told 'em about the other dude hanging around the
course. Since I was out there a lot, I recognized the regulars. Knew
who teed off at what times, on what days, and all that."

"Who is this dude?" I said.

"Don't know his name," Kevin said. "But I think the cop knew
him. He's older. Dark hair, turning gray. Hangs in the neighborhood,
usually at night. Drives a white pickup."

"Huh." I tried to hide my reaction to Wayne McCall's description.
I'd seen McCall's truck in the area at odd times myself and probably
not at the same times Kevin had seen him. Which meant McCall
spent a lot of time in the neighborhood. But why?

"I saw the dead guy too," Kevin added. "Didn't help the cops
much, 'cause I have no idea who he was."

I was so preoccupied thinking about McCall that it took a couple
of seconds for Kevin's words to sink in.

"What do you mean you saw the dead guy?" I said.

"They showed me a picture of the guy in the garage."

"And you recognized him?"

Kevin nodded. "When they showed me the picture, I knew I'd
seen him before."

"You mean while he was still alive?"

"Yeah."

Chills ran up my arms. "When was that?"

"Last Friday, I think."

"Where did you see him?"

"He was out on the golf course alone, not too far from Aunt Millie's. But he wasn't dressed for golf, and he didn't have any clubs."

"Are you sure he was the same guy?"

"Positive. When I mentioned the Oakley sunglasses he had pushed
up on his head, the cops got excited. They found Oakleys in the dead
guy's pocket."

"Do you think they've identified him?"

He shook his head. "Didn't sound that way. Too bad they can't
check his fingerprints. They took mine, and that ought to prove I'm
not who they're looking for, right?"

I nodded, thinking of the machete the police had fished out of the
lake. I sure hoped water washed fingerprints away so no one could
even consider using the machete as evidence against Kevin even if
his fingerprints were on the sheath.

"Mom, you okay?" Kevin ate his last bite of taco and pushed his
empty plate away.

"I'm fine." He had enough to worry about without my bringing up
the machete. I checked the time. "With this weather, you probably
should head back to work. Your boss is expecting you by eight or
you're fired."

Kevin frowned. "How do you know about my boss?"

"I'm a mom," I said, smiling. "Moms know everything."

He grinned slightly. "You're right. I should go."

I opened my purse and fished out the cell phone I'd found at Millie's. I wished Kevin would come back and stay at my house tonight,
but he'd had enough pressure for one day.

I handed him the phone. "I think this is yours. Keep in touch,
okay?"

He took the phone, glanced at it, and didn't try to explain. "Thanks,
Mom, and thanks for dinner."

The rain had slowed down, and from where I sat I could see him
jog across the parking lot to his truck.

My brain swirled with unanswered questions. Had Kevin's information about the dead man helped the police? Were they thinking
one killer or two? And, most important, had their meeting with
Kevin convinced them of his innocence? Mothers do know a lot, but
in this case I didn't know nearly enough.

Kevin backed out of his parking space, and I watched his taillights as he pulled out of the lot and disappeared down the street. It
wasn't until he was out of sight that I realized he'd never told me
why he'd been trying to call me.

I finished my tacos so I wouldn't be hungry thirty minutes from
now and called Doug from the restaurant. He had made it back
home and didn't sound too happy about the wasted trip.

"You're telling me Kev was here all along?" he said after I'd filled
him in on the latest events. "What in God's name has he been doing?"

I told him most of what Kevin had shared, leaving out the more
personal tidbits about Grayson. "Now that the police have questioned
Kevin, they can focus on finding the real killer."

"Miss Suzie Sunshine," he said sarcastically. "You haven't
changed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Are you the most naive person on the planet? The cops won't assume Kevin is innocent. They don't give a crap about him. They're
probably matching his fingerprints to that machete as we speak."

As if I couldn't come up with enough worries on my own.

"He should have told the cops he wanted a lawyer," Doug went
on. "Why didn't you insist he get a lawyer?"

"I didn't even know Kevin was there until after they'd talked to
him. And if he asked for a lawyer, they'd think he had something to
hide."

"Cops assume everybody's hiding something. All they care about
is solving the case, and if Kev's fingerprints are on that-"

"Stop it," I said, loudly enough to draw the attention of the people
at the next table. I lowered my voice. "No one is denying that Kevin
touched Aunt Millie's machete."

"The killer will protect himself however he can."

"What are you saying?"

"Whoever did this isn't sitting around waiting to be caught. He, or
she, could plant evidence to frame someone else. Who the hell knows what Kevin's fingerprints are on, what the killer had access
to, what the cops might find near enough to the crime scene to pin
the blame wherever they can to end the case?" Doug sighed noisily.
"Innocent men have gone to jail before."

"Kevin is not going to jail." I felt my blood pressure rise with my
tone. "And I don't need your-your negative, condescending, speculative crap. This conversation is over."

I punched the END button and snapped my phone shut. Now people
were turning to stare. I threw more than enough cash onto the table,
dashed out of the restaurant, and ran through the rain to the Durango.
I jumped in, hit the door locks, brushed raindrops mixed with angry
tears from my face, and tried to slow my breathing.

I regretted calling Doug. No way could I go home now and expect
to get any sleep. I wouldn't rest again until the killer or killers were
behind bars and I knew Kevin was safe. I had to do something to
hurry up the process, but what?

Time to turn off my emotional Mom brain and switch on my logical problem-solver side. First, isolate the problem. Simple. Two
murders, no arrests. Second, divide the problem into manageable
segments. That wasn't so easy.

I couldn't do anything to change any physical evidence the police
might come up with. The witnesses I knew of had fingered Kevin, or
a Kevin look-alike. Given Troxell's questions, it seemed she didn't
have much to go on at this point. She needed more information, more
witnesses. The right witnesses.

I tore out of the parking lot, hoping to reach Birdie Peterson's
house before her bedtime. If Troxell wasn't going to talk to the
woman, I'd do it for her.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time I pulled up in front of
the house I knew must belong to Birdie. Who else would have birdbaths dotting their front yard, a birdhouse mailbox, and fake canaries
hanging on thin wire from the trees?

It was a little after eight, and the downstairs lights were on. I hurried up to the front door and smiled when the doorbell chirped instead of ding-donging. The foyer light flicked on. A woman with a
long gray ponytail and dangling parrot earrings peered through the
side glass, opening the door at the same time. She was tall and as bosomy as an overstuffed pillow, her wrinkly cleavage spilling out
from a pastel pink spandex shirt-not the small, birdlike ninety-yearold I'd envisioned.

She looked me up and down, adjusted her thick eyeglasses, and
stepped closer. She glanced behind me. "Where's the cookies?"

"Cookies?" I said.

"Your girl said they'd be here on Thursday, and I'm waitin' all
day.,,

"I'm sorry, but-"

Loud squawks coming from inside the house interrupted me.

"Pipe down!" she yelled over her shoulder, startling me. "Damn
doorbell sets him off every time."

I was thinking her loud voice could set off a bomb in Baghdad.
"Are you Birdie Peterson?" I asked.

"That's me. Least your girl could do is show up instead of sending you. You got 'em in there?" She was eyeing my purse.

I adjusted the straps on my shoulder, nudging the bag out of her
sight. "Sorry, but I'm not the cookie person you're expecting. My
name's Poppy Cartwright, and I'm concerned about the neighborhood's safety. I wanted to talk about the police investigation if you
have a few minutes."

Birdie's disgruntled expression brightened. "Why didn't you say
so?" She motioned for me to come inside. "It's what everyone is
talking about. I'd offer you some cookies if I had some. Damn Girl
Scouts."

"You have a lovely yard," I said, to get her mind off the cookies.

"Tell that to the homeowners association," she said. "They send out
a code-violation notice every other week."

"Why?" I asked, hoping for a short answer.

"Think they can tell me what I may or may not put in my own yard.
Well, they can kiss my grits. I lived in this city my whole life, it's my
property, and I can put out a hundred birdbaths if I want to."

"I agree." I crossed the room to a chair under the beady-eyed stare
of a caged gray bird with a yellow crest and orange cheeks. The bird
squawked when I sat down.

"Don't mind Howard," Birdie said. "He don't care for visitors any
more than the first one did."

"The first one?" I said.

"My late husband, Howard. That's him and me in that picture on
top of the TV. Never had any luck teaching either one of 'ern to mind
their manners in front of company. Or to pick up after themselves."
She grabbed a long-handled dustpan leaning against the sofa arm and
hobbled to the bird's cage to sweep up sunflower seeds scattered on
the parquet floor beneath.

I glanced at the picture of Birdie and her husband, then at the
framed photographs that dotted Birdie's walls and sat on every available surface. They fought for breathing room in and around dozens of
porcelain bird figurines. My gaze settled on the birdcage.

"Howard sure is a pretty bird," I said.

The bird whistled, then said, "Pretty bird. Birdie wants a treat."

"Mouthy cockatiel," Birdie said. "Always trying to wheedle something out of me. Another thing reminds me of the first Howard."

I hoped Birdie didn't mind my trying to wheedle information from
her, but that was why I'd come. Before I could form my first question,
she said, "You remarried?"

I frowned. "No, but how-"

"I know your ex," she said. "Your aunt too."

"Oh."

"Heard you're working at Ida Featherstone's."

"That's right." Blanca Sandoval had told me Birdie knew everything, but I hadn't taken her literally.