Relative Chaos (27 page)

"What's she done now?"

"She's being nice," Millie said. "She made supper for me. Now
she's into this facial. She wants us to go shopping together tomorrow. This is not like her."

"You should be pleased," I said. "She's making the most of the
time you spend together."

"That's not it. She's fishing for information."

"What kind of information?"

"She's quizzing me hard about where all the things went that were
in the house. I didn't tell her about the storage units."

"Do you have any idea what she's looking for?" I asked.

"No. She's insinuating that someone stole something. There's
nothing here worth stealing-at least nothing I know about."

We could have stood there all night analyzing Janice's psyche, but
it wouldn't ease Millie's concern, and I had other topics to discuss.

"Hate to change the subject," I said, "but I have some important
questions, and I'd rather ask them without Janice around."

"Okay," Millie said.

"Did Dawn Hurley know Barton Fletcher?"

"I'm sure she'd heard his name."

"Maybe he was a client of Mr. Tate's?" I suggested.

"Fletcher's kind thinks they'll live forever," Millie said. "Can't
see him worrying about estate planning."

"We can check on that with Dawn's boss," I said. "What does
Olive Hurley think happened to Dawn?"

"She has no idea why anyone would want to kill her daughter, if
that's what you're asking," Millie said. "She's clueless."

"No ex-boyfriends, angry clients, strangers coming by, unusual
phone calls, threats?"

Millie shook her head. "The police badgered Olive with a load of
questions. She couldn't tell them much. Might be because of those
drugs she's on to calm her nerves."

I explained my conviction that one murderer had a connection to
both victims and my desire to find that link. "We don't want the police homing in on you or me or Wayne McCall just because we all knew
Dawn and we were all here the day the man's body was discovered."

"Why do people want to suspect Wayne?" Millie asked. "Janice
was bad-mouthing him this afternoon"

"She suspects Wayne?" I said.

"She says he's a suspicious character."

I put a hand on Aunt Millie's arm. "I hate to tell you this, but the police think so too. Troxell asked me more than once about him, but you
have to remember, it's her job to ask questions. For all she knows, all
three of us could be lying when we say we don't know who the dead
man was"

"But we're not liars."

"The police don't know that," I said. "Maybe we didn't know the
man, but Dawn might have."

Millie nodded. "That's a possibility."

"Mother!" Janice yelled. "Two minutes."

"Okay," Millie called back, then lowered her voice. "Wish I could
get some of Olive's drugs for Janice. She could use some calming.
All this hunting for old stuff she hasn't cared about for thirty years.
She's gone off her rocker."

An idea struck me, one I knew Millie would not want to hear.
"Have the police talked to her?"

"Who? Janice?"

I nodded.

"Sure, they did. Remember? Janice was at your place the night
Rae Troxell came over."

"I know, but did they question her? Did they ever show her the
picture of the dead man?"

Millie stared at me. "You think Janice knew him?"

"I'm grasping at straws, Aunt Millie. First we find a dead man in
your garage, then Janice shows up early. Why did she show up days
ahead of schedule? Did she ever tell you?"

"No," Millie said thoughtfully.

"And now she's searching for something," I said. "What if it's
something the dead man had in his possession? What if she did know
him, and he brought something here, and now she's looking for it?"

Millie gasped.

"But maybe this mysterious object isn't here anymore," I continued. "The killer might have taken it."

Millie put one hand on her forehead and grabbed for a kitchen
chair with the other. "I need to sit down. I feel faint."

"Don't panic," I said. "I'm just talking off the top of my head."

"But what if you're right?"

Footsteps slapped down the stairs, and Janice called, "Time's up,
Mother."

I gave Aunt Millie a quick hug. "Janice will behave herself better
if I'm not here. Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this."

I escaped through the back door, feeling bad for dropping such a
bombshell on Aunt Millie and wishing I didn't have this tendency to
blurt things out before thinking them through. But it was entirely
possible that Janice knew the dead man. She was never one to share
secrets with people, so there was no reason to believe she'd tell us
the details if she had become involved in some weird drama that
ended with a man's death.

I jogged around the side of the house and over to my SUV, slid in,
and quickly shut and locked the door. I looked at Millie's house and
hoped Janice continued to treat her mother nicely, no matter how
suspicious that behavior might seem.

I turned my key in the ignition and just before flicking on my
headlights noticed the front door opening at the house where McCall and I had seen the van being loaded with boxes the other day.

A man emerged along with the red-haired Lori Gilmore, who
didn't appear to be dressed for going out. She was barefoot and wearing what looked like a red kimono with a belt tied loosely in front. I'd
bet the man was getting an eyeful from the robe's deep V opening as
they stood under the porch light.

This guy was blond, muscular, and wore skintight jeans-not the
businessman I'd seen before. He held three boxes under one arm. The
same kind of long, narrow boxes I'd seen loaded onto that van. I decided that whatever they held must be relatively light. They talked for
a few seconds, then Skintight swept Gilmore into a brief but very passionate kiss before striding across the lawn to his car parked on the
street-a black Porsche. He tossed the boxes in through the driver's
door before getting in himself.

My knees felt a little weak, and I'd only witnessed the kiss from a
distance. I could imagine what Lori Gilmore might be feeling. She
waved to him before going back inside and closing the door.

I shook my head to clear my thinking and shifted into drive, wondering what on earth was in all those boxes. From the way he'd
carelessly tossed them, nothing fragile.

Something curious was going on over at the Gilmores', and, considering the circumstances of the past few days, anything even slightly
unusual deserved a closer look. I could go over there and knock on the
door-ask Gilmore some questions. But I could do that anytime.
Meanwhile, the Porsche reached the end of the street and made a
right.

I'd never tailed anyone before in my life, but I wanted to find the
truth about these murders before the wrong person ended up in jail.
I wanted to know what was in all those white boxes. And, as Birdie
Peterson might say, Skintight wasn't bad on the eyes.

The only idea that made sense at the moment was to follow that
Porsche.

The farther we drove on the Southwest Freeway toward Houston,
the more I thought about turning around and going home. That would
be the smart thing to do. But I wanted to do the gutsy thing, whatever
it took to get answers. Traffic was light, which only made driving
more dangerous, with speeders zooming in and out of lanes at will. I
was relieved when Skintight exited the freeway. We made a left on
Hillcroft and took it up to Richmond Avenue, where we turned right.

The street was lined with strip malls, restaurants, and clubsseedy properties with FOR LEASE signs pasted in the windows interspersed with thriving businesses. I felt increasingly uncomfortable
and out of place as we passed clubs ablaze in neon lights and flashing signs that promised Live Dancing.

Skintight pulled into the parking lot of an establishment called
Wildcatter Bill's. Under the name, a one-liner advertised FoodBeer-Music. I tapped my brakes, but there was traffic coming up behind me, and I had to make a snap decision.

What the heck. You've come this far

I turned in and followed the Porsche down a row of parked cars,
hoping the driver was oblivious to my existence. He whipped into a
space along the building near the back of the lot. I found a spot in the
shadows under a live oak and watched until he got out of the Porsche
and went inside.

Now what?

I pulled down my visor and checked my reflection in the vanity
light. This was not the face of a woman who could sidle up to Skintight
inside the club and hope to learn anything about the guy. In my black
cotton Dockers, striped shirt, and work shoes, I'd probably be mistaken for the cleaning woman.

Jeez. I hadn't come this far for nothing.

I fished around in my console and found some lipstick and a beaded necklace. I put on the necklace and colored my lips rosy red.
Removed my hair clip and finger-fluffed my hair. Contemplated my
clothes for a second, undid a couple of shirt buttons, and decided that
would have to do. I climbed out, feeling ridiculous.

I headed for the entrance, adopting the hip-swaying gait of two
women entering ahead of me. A man at the door asked to see my ID,
which I managed to show him without bursting into laughter. The
pungent combination of alcohol and sweat hit me as I moved inside,
glad for the dim lighting. The place buzzed with conversationmore like shouting over music blaring from the jukebox.

Standing on tiptoe, I looked for Skintight in the crowd. Beyond
the center bar, couples gyrated on the dance floor, trying to put
moves to Toby Keith and Willie Nelson's song about beer-drinking
horses.

I spotted Skintight to the left of the dance floor talking with another man. He'd brought one of the white boxes in with him, and I figured they might be talking about whatever was inside. Maybe I could
get close enough to learn something useful.

I caught the attention of a bartender and ordered a ginger ale so I
wouldn't feel so conspicuous as I edged my way closer to the men. I
needed a better conversation starter than "Come here often?" but no
matter how I began with Skintight-if he'd talk to me-I couldn't
imagine getting through the list of questions flooding my head.
Questions I had a feeling might get me into trouble.

I stopped walking. This was stupid.

I looked toward the entrance and considered leaving. When I
turned around, Skintight was on the opposite side of the dance floor
and heading down a hallway. He disappeared through a door and
swung it shut behind him. I started in that direction, thinking he'd entered the men's room and I could conveniently bump into him when
he came out. But when I got closer I saw the door was marked OFFICE.

So maybe Skintight was Wildcatter Bill, and that was his office.
Or maybe he was the manager. I didn't make him for a bartendernot driving that Porsche.

Whatever he was doing in there, this might be my chance to get a
better look at the boxes he'd left in the car. I spun to head back the
way I'd come, ignoring the stares of men seated at the bar until one beer-bellied man jumped off his stool in front of me. He towered
over me, his eyes glazed, his expression more of a leer. Keith and
Nelson had given way to Brooks & Dunn crooning "That Ain't No
Way to Go."

"How 'bout a dance, darlin'?' the man said.

"No, thanks." I tried to sidestep him, but he blocked my path.

"Aw, c'mon," he said. "What's the hurry?"

"I need to leave. Please."

He showed no sign of budging, and everyone nearby seemed
oblivious to us. He grabbed my forearm, and that's when I gave him
a good kick in the shins with my steel-toed sneakers.

The man bellowed like a sick cow, and I didn't wait around to see
what he tried next. I stooped over, making myself small to scoot in
and around people and out the front door. My heart raced as I ran to
the Durango, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. No one
appeared to be coming after me, and I didn't see anyone else outside.

I retrieved a flashlight from my glove box. The coast was still
clear, so I hurried over to the Porsche and flicked on my light.

I peered into the car. Both remaining boxes sat askew on the passenger seat. The one on top was plain white, unmarked, but I could
see that the bottom box had a label in the return address area. I moved
forward a step, then back, then forward again and leaned around the
windshield, adjusting my flashlight position to get a better look at the
label. It read The Bare Facts with a Sugar Land P.O. Box underneath.
What was that about?

I heard voices and jerked upright, lowering my flashlight arm
quickly while stepping back so I wouldn't clunk the heavy metal on
the Porsche's hood.

Hands clamped my waist.

I opened my mouth to scream, but one of the hands slapped over
my mouth while a strong arm encircled my waist. A harsh "Shhh"
sounded in my ear, and hot breath hit my cheek. I struggled, trying
to loosen the man's grip, but he had me off balance, and I couldn't
gain any ground.