Relative Chaos (8 page)

I carried some boxes from the stash in my Durango into the house
and packed up the books I'd sorted for the library's used-book sale. I
put the few remaining first editions back on the shelves, hauled the old
magazines out to the garbage, cleared all surfaces of knickknacks,
and tossed all silk flowers as instructed.

My hand hovered over a pile of the old lady's half-finished
crossword puzzles. I imagined her rambling around this big house
by herself after alienating her family. Sitting in the armchair doing
crosswords. Painting beautiful pictures. Sad.

I shook myself out of the daydream, threw the crosswords away,
and looked around the room. The furniture was old and dusty but
sturdy. Goodwill would be glad to have it. The drapes were goners,
the lining threadbare from years of Texas sun beating on the windows. I made a mental note to ask Featherstone if he wanted me to take
them down and throw them away. On to the next room.

Standing in Ida Featherstone's crowded artist's studio, I surveyed
the room. This would take a while. Not to mention, I felt like I was
about to destroy the woman's sanctuary. I let out a sigh, then opened
the wood shutters covering the windows. Sunshine always made a
chore seem less overwhelming and, in this case, less depressing.

First I segregated the blank canvases and paints that had never been
opened-things that a school might put to good use. Then I brought
an empty garbage can inside and placed it next to the table holding the
used paints. I was about to sweep the whole mess-tubes, bottles, and
cans-into the trash when my cell phone rang.

I knew by the caller ID it was Bailey Devine, my organizer friend.

"Hope you have good news," I said without a hello.

"That bad, huh?"

"Not necessarily bad, it's just there's a ton of work here and a
short time frame to do it in."

"Tell me what you've got."

"Client's grandmother passed away and left him the house," I said.
"He's selling and needs the whole place cleared out by this weekend."

"Better than my job." She lowered her voice. "We're doing a
garage. Client's a hoarder with a capital H. He's collected hundreds
of hubcaps from the side of the road. And I swear he has every car
part he ever bought-new, used-don't even get me started. You
should see it."

"No, thanks," I said. "So what do you think? Can you recommend
a subcontractor?"

"Matter of fact, you're in luck," Bailey said. "I have the perfect
guy. Talked to him this morning, so I know he's available."

"A man?"

"Don't get all feminist on me."

"No offense, but it's not that guy who comes to our meetingsRicky?" I'd met the rail-thin, geeky twenty-year-old and wasn't sure
he was operating on all circuits.

"Not him," she said. "I don't think Ricky will go the distance. No,
the guy I have in mind has muscle. Sounds like you'll need some if
you're emptying a whole house in a few days"

"And he's experienced? I won't have time to supervise every
move he makes."

"Trust me. Now tell me where you're at."

I gave her the address without asking whether she had a pen and
paper to write it down. A good organizer always has a pen and paper
nearby.

"When do you want him to start?" she asked.

"Now would be great."

"I'll give him a call-"

She was interrupted by a loud crashing sound on her end. "I'm
gonna wring my client's neck. I gotta go."

She clicked off. I stared at the phone for a second, then put it back
into my pocket. There were definite benefits to working without the
client around. I felt lighter knowing help was on the way. Had Bailey
mentioned a name? If she had, I hadn't caught it.

I swept Ida's old paints into the garbage can. I had planned to fill
the can halfway, then drag it back outside before it got too heavy. I
didn't have to worry about that with Mr. Muscle on his way. So I
worked fast and tried not to dwell on the fact that Ida Featherstone's
favored possessions were being pitched like common garbage.

Used brushes, cans of solvent, and assorted scraps of paperinto the can. After the table was cleared, I moved on to a corner
cabinet that held piles of art magazines and yellowed sketch pads.
All trash. The cabinet itself was gorgeous mahogany with glass
doors. Probably antique. I brushed a decade's worth of dust bunnies
from the empty shelves and closed the doors.

What next? A row of department store bags filled with more paper stood in a corner. I couldn't in good conscience throw them out
blindly. People often hid valuables in the least-expected places. I'd
once found lumpy sofa cushions stuffed with ten-dollar bills inside a
thin foam liner.

I checked the weight of the bags and hoped the old paper wouldn't
give way as I carried two of them outside. I placed the bags next to a
garbage can and brought over a patio chair so I could sit and enjoy the
nice afternoon while I sorted.

I had just taken my seat and lifted papers from the first bag
when a plump woman walked around the corner of the house. Short with blond helmut-cut hair and round wire-framed glasses, she wore
a navy pants suit with a plain white shell underneath and scuffed
pumps.

"Poppy," she said, smiling. "You sure look busy. I knew you would
be"

She didn't seem the least bit familiar. "Do I know you?"

"Oops. I guess you don't. I'm Dawn Hurley." She extended her
hand, and we shook. "I work for Allen Tate. Maybe you don't know
Allen. Some people don't, but most do, especially those who had
their will done, since he's the probate attorney in town, but you've
never been to our office, so maybe you've never heard of him. Anyway, that's who he is, and I'm his secretary, legal assistant, paralegal, accountant. All of the above."

"Nice to meet you." I felt out of breath from listening to her.

My confusion at her being there and knowing my name must have
shown, because she went on. "Seems like I've known you for years
from your Aunt Millie. She always has such nice things to say about
you."

Guilt stabbed at me for fighting with Aunt Millie earlier.

"Bless her heart," Dawn said, "I know she's upset about the poor
man who showed up in her garage. Anyone would be, and I can't believe they can't figure out who he is. I mean, if he was from around
here, we'd know by now, wouldn't we?"

"You would think," I said.

"I know most everybody around town," she continued. "Lived
here all my life. I know all about your business too. Mutter Killer
sounds like a name Allen might have invented. He's always telling
me to clean up the office, but he doesn't understand. There's a ton of
paper. It keeps coming in and coming in-a lot more comes in than
goes out-until you feel like you're gonna drown, and there's not
enough time to keep up with it all."

I nodded, sympathizing with her plight, though I hoped she'd
come to the point of her visit soon so I could get back to work.

She shook her head. "The man can never find anything, even if it's
staring him in the face, and he blames it all on me. Well, you know
how attorneys are. Or maybe you don't know, but believe you me,
they are a handful. I've worked for plenty in my time, and Allen's a nice guy, but he shouldn't harp on me like he does. I know where
every piece of paper is in that place. Not my fault he can't find anything and ..."

She droned on, and I decided she'd never stop talking if I didn't
interrupt. I assumed Allen Tate must have been Ida Featherstone's
attorney. I put my stack of papers back into the shopping bag and
stood.

When Dawn paused to take a breath, I said, "You must be here to
see Steve Featherstone."

"No, not exactly," Dawn said. "I saw him earlier today-that's
how I knew you were working here, which is a good thing, since
he's planning to sell the house real quick-like, and I know you'll do
a great job for him. Anyway, I told him he needs to be patient, but
you know men have a problem with patience. I always tell Little
Joe-that's my brother-he needs to take a big dose of patience.
Like Little Joe on the Ponderosa-you remember him, which is how
my Little Joe got his name, 'cause that used to be our daddy's favorite show. Anyway, where was I?' She held an index finger to her
mouth, thinking.

"You told Mr. Featherstone he should be patient," I prodded.

"Right. Probate only takes a couple of weeks if everything's in order, and if anybody kept things in order, it was sweet Ida. I already
miss seeing her, you know. She was like the grandmother I never
had, seeing as how my grandma passed when I was only three years
old, and the other one I never even knew 'cause she lived in Detroit,
so Ida kind of filled those shoes for me, you know what I mean?"

"I do," I said, nodding. Her description of Ida was the mirror opposite of Steve's, but then, he hadn't lived here since he was a kid,
and some people do change as they get older.

"Is there a message you'd like me to give Steve when he gets
home?" I asked.

She considered the question for a split second. "No, I don't think
so."

I wondered if she'd stopped by just to meet me. "So you're here
because-"

"Oh, silly me." Dawn giggled. "I came to see Ida's paintings.
She always told me I should stop in, but I never got around to it, and when I mentioned this to Steve, he said come on by and check
them out because they won't be here much longer. I didn't like the
sound of that, but he didn't say what he meant. Do you know what
he meant?"

I told her about the scheduled appraiser's visit.

"Surely he's not going to sell her paintings," Dawn said. "I mean,
not with how torn up he is about everything. He's like a breath of
fresh air, you know, compared to the clients we see fighting while
their loved one's barely in the ground. Like the sisters we had once
who sued each other over who got their mother's purse. A pursecan you believe that?"

"I can," I muttered, still stuck on her comment about Featherstone's being torn up. I hadn't seen any of that, but he might be putting on a macho front for me. Dawn had actually stayed quiet for
two seconds, so I said, "Why don't I show you where the paintings
are so you can take a look while I'm working?"

Her eyes twinkled as if I was about to show her King Tut's tomb.
"Oh, goody."

I probably should have cleared this with my client, but he'd invited her over, or so she'd said. It wasn't as if she could steal a painting without my noticing. So I took her inside where I sorted through
a bag of papers while she oohed and aahed over Ida's work in between telling more stories about cases. So much for attorney-client
confidentiality.

I had finished a bag that held no surprises and moved on to the
next when I realized Dawn hadn't spoken for more than a minute. I'd
just met her and already knew that silence was abnormal. The woman
probably even talked in her sleep.

I looked up. Dawn stood across the room, where canvases were
stacked against the wall. She'd flipped to the third one and paused. I
walked over to her.

"Find something interesting?" I peered over her shoulder at the
group portrait she was studying. Two women, one man, and a child
in front of a fireplace.

She wiped at her eyes, and I noticed they were wet. "This must be
Ida's family," she said. "That's her in the middle, and it's just sad she
was alone and so lonely during her last days."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"That's why she tried so hard to find Steve. I mean, we had the
private eye, the whole nine yards, but when he finally tracked Steve
down-" She blinked rapidly to ward off tears.

"What?" I said.

"Ida had passed away before we found him. I took care of her funeral arrangements myself. She'd already planned everything, and
we had the service. Then the PI contacts me two weeks later. Says
guess what, I found your guy, and I told him our client had died already but we'd need the grandson's address"

"That is very sad," I said, "but I'm sure Ida was glad for your
friendship."

Dawn smiled through the tears. "Thanks for saying that." She
glanced at her watch. "Oh, boy. I'd better get back to the office. I'm
sure Allen is having a fit. Sent me out to notarize something for a
client, but I wanted to stop here on my way back. Do me a favor?"

"Sure," I said, feeling sorry for her.

"I don't know what Steve has in mind for these paintings, but
if he's getting rid of anything, would you ask him to give me first
dibs?"

"I'll be sure to let him know."

The doorbell rang, and I suppressed a groan. At this rate, I wouldn't
accomplish much work. We headed toward the front door.

"I'll get out of your hair," Dawn said. "Maybe you could come by
the office sometime, give me some organizational pointers."

"Will do." If Tate was willing to pay, I'd stop by weekly and do
whatever he needed done.

"Thanks for everything," she said, as I opened the door.

Wayne McCall stood on the front stoop. He was more dressed up
than he'd been the day before, wearing a knit shirt with starched
khakis and black athletic shoes.

Dawn stared at him. "Wayne McCall, you sure do clean up nice.
What are you doing here?"

Good question.

"Yes, Wayne," I said. "What are you doing here?"

He focused on me. "I thought you needed help. Bailey sent me."