Relative Chaos (9 page)

Dawn said her good-byes, and after she left, I turned to McCall.

"Bailey sent you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call me Poppy." Ma'am made me feel about a million years old,
which was kind of how I felt after being slugged with the surprise of
finding Wayne McCall on the doorstep. Never in my wildest imagination-

"Poppy?"

I jerked to attention. "Yes?"

"Should we get started?" he said.

"Right. But first, I'm curious. Tell me how you and Dawn know
each other."

"We don't," he said, "not really. Ran into her a few times around
town."

"Oh. Sounded friendlier than that."

"She's very outgoing."

Couldn't argue there.

McCall looked past me into the house. "Where do you want me,
boss? Point the way."

I forced a smile, though I felt as enthusiastic about this working
relationship as I would if Doug proposed remarriage.

"What's going on here, McCall?"

"I don't follow," he said. "You need a subcontractor? Or did I get
the wrong message?"

"Right message, wrong experience," I said.

He grinned. "Think I can't handle the job?"

"I didn't say that."

"You one of those women who assumes all men are disorganized
slobs?"

"I meant, this is no remodeling project." Not to mention that a couple of hours ago I was picturing you as a machete-wielding murderer

"You always been so narrow-minded?" he said, his brown eyes
twinkling.

"I thought Bailey was sending an experienced professional organizer, that's all."

"And you've decided I don't fit the bill."

"There's a big difference between being a handyman and being
an organizer," I said.

He chuckled. "Narrow-minded and jumps to conclusions."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you going to stand there and tell me you've never painted a
wall or hung a shelf?" he said.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Organizers are multitalented. We have to be."

"We?"

"Guess Bailey didn't give you my background," he said. "I'm one
of her students."

"Is that so?" I knew about Bailey's online organizer-training
classes, but McCall had omitted this little detail yesterday when we
met. The man annoyed the heck out of me.

"Already learned decluttering and prioritizing," he said proudly.
"Next week's classes will cover motivation and finding your
niche."

If he wanted me to ask about his niche, I wasn't biting. "Then
you're new at this."

"Relatively new," he admitted. He retrieved a business card from
his wallet and handed it to me.

The card said, Wayne's Way-Organizing, Cleaning, Refurbishing
above McCall's name and a phone number. No address. The man had
to be in his forties, maybe late forties. I looked up from reading the
card.

"What did you do before?"

"This and that," he said. "Some desk work. I'm enjoying the organizing. Lots of variety."

"Taking a class is a lot different than real-life experience." I slipped
his card into my apron pocket.

He grinned. "There's that narrow-mindedness again. Bet it's been
a problem all your life."

"Let's just say I wasn't impressed by your on-the-job judgment at
Aunt Millie's." Standing here on the stoop was feeling awkward, but
McCall didn't seem to mind, and I wasn't sure I wanted him coming
inside.

"Maybe you don't know the Bailey Devine Rules of Organizational Success," he said. "Number one-listen to your client. Number two-listen to your client. Three-"

"Give me a break," I muttered.

"In other words," he went on, "don't force the client to do anything she doesn't want to do. Millie wanted me to paint her walls
and hang bookshelves. And does she have what she wanted?"

"The bookshelves aren't finished," I said.

McCall raised his eyebrows. "My work was interrupted. Goals
tend to change when dead bodies turn up."

"You have a lot of experience with that, do you?" I watched his
face closely for any sign of guilt. The only change I noticed was that
the twinkle had left his eyes.

"You want me to leave, or you want the help?" he said.

I didn't know what to think. Bailey had recommended him. I did
need the help. Those heavy, filled garbage cans were inside. I debated, telling myself that I trusted Bailey completely and that she
trusted Wayne McCall. She obviously knew him better than I did.

"The help," I said.

"Then let's cut the chatter and get to work."

"All right. C'mon." I turned and headed to the art studio.

The door closed, and McCall followed me in. He appraised the
room in two seconds. "Way I see it, this job's easier than most."

"That's because you missed the `before' version," I said.

"All I'm saying is, we can skip a couple steps. Client wants the
place cleared out, right?"

"Except for the valuables. Your point?"

"We sort and purge, then we're done. No assigning a home for
stuff. No containerizing."

Okay, Mr Smart Aleck, you know the lingo. Let's see your stuff. I pulled Featherstone's list from my apron pocket and handed it to
McCall.

"I listened to my client," I said, "and these are his priorities."

"Okay." McCall scanned the list. "Good."

I smiled sweetly. "So why don't you finish in here, take these
garbage cans to the curb, then tackle the kitchen?"

Kitchens are a huge undertaking, but McCall didn't blink. He
looked me square in the eye.

"Whatever you say, boss."

We quickly came to an agreement about fees, and I told him how
to approach the kitchen detail. Then I headed upstairs to the master
bedroom. With Bailey's word that McCall was good at this, I'd leave
him be without watching over his shoulder. The more distance between us, I figured, the better we'd work.

But I couldn't help thinking about Detective Troxell's questions as
I pulled Ida Featherstone's clothes from the closet and spread them
across the bed. Where was McCall from? Why had he come to the
Houston area? Why couldn't she find any information about him?

The fact that he'd taken Bailey's classes didn't tell me much. He
could have done that online from anywhere. The only thing I knew
for sure was that the man downstairs wasn't the same McCall my
imagination had conjured up. I couldn't picture him as a murderer
any more than I could picture him as an organizer.

Praying that the cops found the real culprit soon, I made myself
get down to the business of sorting clothes-the majority of them in
shades of red. Deep garnet. Scarlet. Burgundy. Obviously Ida Featherstone's favorite slot on the color wheel. I felt sad for dismantling
her wardrobe, but it had to be done.

Worn and ratty pieces in the throwaway pile, those in good condition in another for the women's shelter, and the quality pieces that
had brought the theater to mind in a third.

This closet job was a lot smoother than those where I dealt oneon-one with a client trying to decide what to keep, what to toss, what
fit, and what didn't. Easier just like McCall said. I felt as dumb as a
wire hanger for not catching on immediately.

I finished the closet quickly and stuffed the discardables into garbage bags. Filled boxes with the clothes to donate. Then I called
information for the phone number of Fort Bend Playhouse and had
a short conversation with the wardrobe manager. She was excited
about getting Ida's clothes and handbags and especially costume jewelry from the fifties. Since the clothes in question were already on
hangers, she preferred that I keep them that way and deliver them any
weekday between one and five in the afternoon.

In the Durango I kept a clothes rod that attaches to the hooks above
the back side doors. I grabbed an armload of future costumes and
headed down the stairs. Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen.
Sounded like McCall was into his work.

He had parked behind me. I made a short detour around his
white pickup to peer inside. You can tell a lot about a man by how he
keeps his truck. The interior was clean and, I hated to admit, very organized. The backseat held crates of office supplies. No empty cups
or discarded wrappers. The front console held only a tin of Altoids
mints.

The clothes were getting heavy, so I hit my unlock button and
placed them on the backseat before retrieving the clothes rod. As I
struggled to put the rod up, I noticed a dark unmarked van down the
street, backing into a driveway. The van was still maneuvering for
position when I finished hanging the clothes. I stood behind my open
door, stalling as I watched three young men pile out.

They were at the house Aunt Millie told me belonged to Lori
Gilmore. She'd said Lori entertained men at the house while her
husband was away, but three men at a time?

The garage door rose, and a fourth man came outside to greet the
others. He was tall and hefty, dressed for business in slacks with a
white shirt and tie, while the first three wore jeans and T-shirts. Probably Lori's husband-home for a change-which might mean no
hanky-panky for Lori today, but I had enough problems without worrying about theirs.

I closed my door and turned back to Featherstone's house. McCall was rolling a garbage can to the curb on a hand cart he might
have brought with him. His focus was on the men I'd been watching.

"You know them?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Nope."

The men carried stacks of small oblong boxes from the garage to
the open back doors of the van. White boxes with no noticeable identifying marks-at least none I could see. Of course, we were several
house-lengths away.

"Third time this week," McCall said. "Every time, more boxes.
Something weird's going on."

"Weird like what?" I asked.

"I don't know, just a feeling I have."

"You get these feelings often?"

He looked at me. "Yeah, matter of fact"

"What's your batting average? You usually right or wrong?"

"Right, nine times out of ten."

I glanced back to the men. Funny how before the murder I never
would have noticed them, but now everything seemed suspicious.

"They probably sell stuff out of their home," I said. "Maybe they
have an eBay business."

McCall nodded. "A lot of that going on these days."

"You ever meet the Gilmores?"

"I've seen them come and go," he said. "Never officially met.
Husband works long hours away from home, except for these box
pickup days, whatever that's about."

"You're pretty observant."

He grinned. "Look who's talking."

I frowned, wondering if he meant that as a compliment.

"Did my truck pass your inspection?" he said.

I put a hand on my chest and pasted on my best whatever-are-youtalking-about expression.

"Just giving you a hard time," he said. "Tell you the truth, I don't
blame you for checking me out. Especially not with this murder happening right under our noses."

I nodded. Yeah, that's the reason. "Do the cops know that it, uh,
happened, near here? I mean, have they found the actual site?"

McCall shrugged. "Haven't heard, but they're narrowing the suspect list."

"They have a list?" I said.

"They had one. Thanks to yours truly it's now a very short list."

"How short?"

"Far as I'm concerned, a list of one. Saw the guy myself. Blond,
five-ten, a hundred seventy-five, give or take ten pounds"

My heart pounded so hard, I was sure McCall could hear it thudding.

"He's been lurking around the golf course the past two weeks,"
McCall continued.

"Lurking?"

"Lurking, stalking, whatever."

"For two weeks."

"Right. Troxell said she'd call me as soon as they have him."

"How close were you to this person?" I concentrated on taking
even, steady breaths.

"Close enough," he said. "I could pick that sucker out of a lineup."

I hadn't liked thinking of McCall as the murderer, but I liked this
neighborhood-informant persona even less.

"Seeing someone on the golf course isn't exactly suspicious," I
said. "Droves of people go out there every day. And you know how
golfers can act kind of crazy." I attempted a laugh.

"Yeah, but the guy I'm talking about isn't a golfer," he said. "First
off, he didn't have clubs. And I just had this feeling about him."

Screw McCall and his feelings.

"Standing around and speculating isn't getting our work done," I
said.

"You're right." He looked back at the men and said, "Could be
an eBay business. Never know." Then he turned and headed for the
house.

I followed on shaky legs and checked my watch. No point calling
Doug this soon. He hadn't been gone long enough to make it to
Austin. But he'd better find Kevin. Fast.

By seven that night I had handled enough outfits to dress the Red
Hat Society of Greater Houston. After removing everything from the
closet rod and the dresser drawers, I'd discovered vacuum-packed
clothing under the bed, behind the TV, in the cedar chest, and stuffed
in the guest bath cabinets. Ida had used the storage bags that convert
a big pile of clothes into a skinny packet when you suck the excess
air out with a vacuum cleaner. I wanted to strangle whoever invented
the nifty, space-saving packets when I opened them and found myself knee-deep in yet more apparel.