Relative Chaos (22 page)

I almost needed sunglasses to ward off the vivid chartreuse pants
suit and iridescent paisley scarf worn by the woman on the front stoop. She was sixty-five if she was a day and wearing enough
makeup for ten women, accented by lavender cat's-eye glasses with
glittering rhinestones at the temples.

My smile froze as the woman stepped over the threshhold before
I could invite her in. She was short, with a hefty trunk on thin legs
that made it seem as if she might topple as she walked.

"I'm Annabelle Lake, hon. Steve's expecting me." Heavy bracelets
jangled on her wrist as she ran a hand through her too-black dyed hair.

"Ah, the appraiser." I closed the door and turned to face her.

"Appraiser, auctioneer, Antiques Roadshow groupie, decoratorthat's me." She chuckled, showing a mouthful of age-yellowed teeth.
"Let's see what we got here."

I introduced myself, but Lake was already moving into the dining
room. She picked up a plate and held it to the light. "Lovely. Baronet
China Silver Arbor. Good condition." She slid a gigantic leopard-print
tote off her shoulder and leaned it against a dining chair.

I would have loved to see Featherstone's first reaction when he
spotted the quirky woman, but I was so intent on watching her myself that I didn't hear him come in.

Lake had been picking up and putting down dish after dish when
she suddenly faced the doorway and broke into that dingy smile
again.

"You must be Steve." She crossed the dining room to shake Featherstone's hand, pumping his arm as if she was trying to get water out
of a dry well. "Pleased to meetcha, and have you got yourself a gold
mine in dinnerware here."

"Glad to hear it," Featherstone said.

Lake stooped over with a grunt, pulled a flyer from her tote, and
handed it to him. She used the chair for support to push herself upright. "Accredited by the ISA and all that jazz. Member of the Texas
Estate Liquidators Association for more years than I care to count."

Featherstone glanced at the flyer. "I was told you're the best. I'm
ready to roll."

"Gathered that from your phone call, hon. Here's what I recommend." She grunted again as she reached for the tote and pulled out a
square black object. "I got me this computerized gizmo makes things
go a whole lot quicker."

"The quicker the better." Featherstone glanced at what looked
like a computerized tablet. "What does that do?"

"I record your inventory right into this little baby." She tapped the
screen. "Go back to my office, consult my research materials, and
add values. Print it all out for you."

"How long does that take?"

"Depends on what you have, hon."

"Of course." Featherstone nodded. "Then what?"

She walked into the foyer and gazed toward the living room. "A
couple of ways we can do this. Nice big house like this, we could set
up the estate sale right here. Save the expense of moving. Run the
newspaper ads, distribute announcements-"

Featherstone was shaking his head. "That won't work. I need to
empty the house now, by this weekend"

Lake screwed up her mouth. "Why's that?"

"Prospective buyers are coming in," he said, "and the place needs
to look spacious."

Lake nodded but didn't appear convinced. "Emptying the house
leaves you wide open to inspection. Every little flaw will-"

"I realize that," Featherstone interrupted. "My decision stands."

"Okay, then." Lake tapped a finger on her chin. "Let's look at
our other options. First I'd like to take the tour, see what all you
got."

Featherstone crossed the foyer and opened the doors to the art
studio. He flipped on the light.

Lake entered the room and clucked her tongue. "Heard you had
original art, but you got it out the wazoo, don'tcha?"

"Should be worth something," Featherstone said hopefully.

"Get the right buyer," she said, "it could bring a pretty penny."

This was likely to take a while, and they didn't seem to need me
around. I wanted to try Kevin again.

I said, "Ms. Lake, can I get you something to drink?"

"A strong cup of coffee would rev me up," she said. "Cream and
sugar"

"I'll have the same," Featherstone added.

I reminded myself he was paying me by the hour whether I was
waitressing or organizing. "Coming right up."

I hurried to the kitchen, poured out the old coffee, and started a
fresh pot. As it brewed, I hit redial on my phone.

After what seemed like a million rings, I gave up and slipped the
phone back into my pocket. I propped my elbows on the counter by
the coffeepot and buried my face in my hands. Kevin, where are you?

The back door opened, and I wiped at my weepy eyes. A hand
touched my back.

"You okay?" McCall said.

I looked up at him. "Sure."

"Did you warn your son about Fletcher?"

"Not yet"

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not really."

"Tell me anyway. Maybe I can help."

"I don't know where he is," I blurted, ignoring for the moment the
fact that McCall was one of the people who'd seen Kevin or somebody who looked like Kevin wandering around this very neighborhood. "He'd been living with Fletcher's stepdaughter. Two nights ago
he was at my place, then he left a note saying he was going out of
town. Except I don't think he did. And I don't know where he is."

"He have a cell phone?" McCall said.

I nodded. "Sort of. It's the phone you found at Aunt Millie's
house. He has trouble keeping up with his stuff. Always has."

"Doesn't take after his mom, huh?" McCall put a finger under my
chin to tip my head up.

His grin made me smile, but the smile soon disintegrated into a
loud sigh. "If that stupid Fletcher hadn't shown up, I wouldn't have
missed Kevin's call."

"He called you this morning?"

"Yeah.,,

"Let me see your phone."

"Won't do any good. I've been calling the number all day. There's
no answer."

"Where's he calling from?" McCall said.

"That's the problem," I said, frustrated. "There's no name on the
caller ID. It's a local number, but I have no idea where he is."

"We can find out from the number"

"How?"

"On the Internet," McCall said. "I can access a database. Look it
up in two seconds"

"But there's no computer here."

"We can run over to my place. It isn't far."

Hope lifted my mood. "Featherstone will be tied up with this
woman for a while anyway."

"Then let's go."

"Wait, I promised them coffee." I grabbed two mugs, sloshed the
fresh, hot liquid into them, added the cream and sugar, then practically ran into the art studio to deliver the mugs.

Lake and Featherstone were paging through canvases at the far
end of the room.

"Here's your coffee," I said. "McCall and I are going to take a
break now, if that's okay. Do you need us back today?" We'd covered
everything on Featherstone's agenda, and he had spent the last thirty
minutes doing his version of the white-glove test.

"Don't think so," he said. "I'll be in touch."

My shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor as I turned to leave.

"One sec, hon," Lake said. "About the portrait."

"What portrait?" I said.

"I was told about a portrait painted by this artist." Lake's back
creaked as she straightened and looked around the room. "I have a
client who's decorating a library. All dark woods and black-and-white
art from the seventies. She's looking for portraits from that decade."

"There was a portrait here." I looked at Featherstone. "You remember it?"

He shrugged. "Maybe there was. Tell the truth, I wasn't paying
much attention."

I frowned. Dawn Hurley had oohed and aahed over the portrait.
Had she slipped back and taken it? But why would she want it? For
decorating reasons, same as Lake's client?

This was a mystery, but not one I had a personal stake in. "Don't
know where it is," I said, "but I'll be glad to take a look around when
I get back"

"Don't worry about it," Featherstone said. "Maybe the thing will
turn up somewhere."

Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't. Whatever. I had more important things on my mind.

I'm not sure what type of place I expected Wayne McCall to live
in, but it wasn't the Stafford Inn off the Southwest Freeway. I'd noticed other rent-by-the-week places springing up around Houston
and envisioned them as a thrifty alternative to hotels for traveling
salesmen, someone who'd walked out on a spouse, those waiting to
close on a new home. McCall didn't fit any of those profiles, but
then, what did I really know about the man aside from the wellshaped biceps, the lines around sexy eyes ... ? Not much.

I pulled into a parking spot beside his truck and followed him up
the concrete stairs to a second-floor unit.

"Excuse the mess." He opened the door and motioned for me to
enter ahead of him.

"No problem." I said conversationally, then saw he was serious
when he flicked on the light.

Bagged dry cleaning draped the sofa, and dirty dishes decorated
the coffee table. File folders lay on the floor near an armchair next
to a pile of toppled books. Paperbacks, I noticed, mostly on business
topics that sounded as dull as the beige walls and carpeting looked.
This didn't strike me as the living quarters of a professional organizer, even if McCall was in the early stages of his career.

He headed for a square dining table in a corner and flipped open a
laptop computer. Pushed a button.

"Lived here long?" I asked.

"About a month. I'm between things."

What kind of things? I wondered but didn't ask.

"Takes a minute to get this up and running," he said. "Thirsty? I
have bottled water, Cokes, beer."

"Nothing, thanks."

He went into the kitchen, and I heard the refrigerator open. I
glanced around the room. A navy blue suit jacket hung on the back of a dining chair. Next to the chair sat an expensive-looking black
leather briefcase.

McCall in a suit? Carrying a briefcase? The image didn't fit.

A box of his Wayne's Way business cards sat on the table near the
computer. I walked over to check the computer screen-still bootingand noticed an invoice next to the cards. He'd had them printed at
Kinko's-two weeks ago.

He came back into the room and snapped the tab on a Coke.
"What was Fletcher's problem today?"

I shook my head. "He's not important. I just want to find Kevin."

"Something was important for the man to track you down the way
he did," McCall said. "I don't like his attitude."

"He's freaked out about his stepdaughter," I said. "Overprotective, I guess you could say, but for the wrong reasons."

"What do you mean?" McCall said.

"It's a long story."

The computer signalled it was up and ready for action. McCall
leaned over, clicked an icon, and entered a password.

I recited the phone number we needed to look up and pulled out
my cell to confirm my memory. The phone rang as I flipped it open,
startling me.

"Maybe this is Kevin," I said, my heart thudding.

But Aunt Millie was talking before I got the phone to my ear. McCall could hear her from where he stood. He smiled and turned his
attention back to the keyboard.

"I am so relieved to reach you," Aunt Millie said.

"What's wrong?" I said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. My car isn't."

"What happened? Were you in a wreck?"

"Nothing that serious," she said. "I'm at Kroger's. Drove over here
okay, but when I came out, the car was as dead as a snake on a rushhour freeway. Thought I had a bad battery, but it might be the alternator again."

"You want me to come and get you? Better yet, maybe McCall
can help. I wouldn't know the first thing about car problems."

"No, no. I don't need either one of you over here."

"Then why did you call?"

McCall was watching me, curious. I shrugged.

"Olive Hurley is expecting me at four-thirty," Millie said. "I ran
over here to pick up some apples. Had apple-cranberry crisp on my
mind. It's a quick fix, and I thought Olive could use some comfort
food. Not that it will ease her pain, but-"

"Aunt Millie, what do you need?" I hoped she didn't expect me to
make the dessert for her. I paced McCall's living room, waiting for
her response, checking on his progress every few seconds. He was
busy working the keyboard.

"Well," she said finally, dragging it out into three syllables. "My
mechanic is on his way, and he might be able to fix the problem
here, but I can't count on that, and Olive needs to be at the funeral
home by five to make arrangements. I thought you might pick her up
and take her over there."

I stopped in my tracks and looked at the ceiling. I felt sorry for
Mrs. Hurley, but I didn't exactly have spare time. "What about Janice?"

"Poor Olive does not need Janice," Millie said in a what-are-youthinking tone.