Relative Chaos (28 page)

My feet scrabbled for purchase on the pavement as he dragged me away from the Porsche and behind the oak tree's wide trunk. Beams
from the parking lot's yellowish lamps filtered through the tree, pinning us with specks of light.

"Stop struggling," he said.

That voice. Familiar I kept squirming.

"Who are you?" I mumbled around the hand clamped over my
mouth.

"Poppy, I'm going to let go. Don't scream."

He knew me. I recognized the voice. The hint of citrus cologne.
My cheek brushed Wayne McCall's chest as he eased me around to
face him, then took his hand off my mouth.

"Sorry," he said quietly, "but-"

"You have some nerve," I interrupted.

He clamped his hand over my mouth again and said, "Quiet. I
don't think you want him to notice you."

Curiosity overcame my urge to give McCall a good kick in the
shins as he pointed toward the Porsche, about ten yards away.
Skintight and the man I'd seen him with inside appeared to be conducting business. All three boxes were exchanged for a wad of cash.
A drug deal?

I fought to catch my breath. "Do you know them?"

He shook his head. "Never saw them before."

I leaned against the tree trunk and studied McCall. He was wearing jeans with a form-fitting cinnamon brown golf shirt that I knew
even in this dim light matched his eyes perfectly. He looked different tonight with his hair slicked back. Running into him here seemed
like a huge coincidence, but I didn't believe in coincidence. Had he
followed me?

I turned my attention to the men who had wrapped up their business. The buyer took his boxes and went inside. We watched the
Porsche until it roared out of the lot, then McCall took a few steps
back and gave me a once-over.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

I pushed away from the tree, not wanting to answer his question.
"I could ask the same thing. What are you doing here?"

"It's business," he said.

"Oh, I get it." I raised my eyebrows. "Business. What, are you alphabetizing the liquor bottles behind the bar? Or does your 'business' have more to do with getting drunk and hitting on women?"

He scowled. "You're dead wrong."

"Whatever," I said.

"Why were you interested in that Porsche?"

I gave him my best fake smile. "Just checking the interior. Thought
I might want to buy one."

He shook his head. "C'mon. That's not your style. Why are you
here?"

"How do you know what's my style or what's not?" I said. "You
don't know me."

"I'd like to," he said softly.

"Fat chance." I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Have it your way." He waited a beat, then touched my chin and
turned my face toward his. "I don't think an attractive lady like you
should be out alone at night. Houston can be dangerous."

Was he coming on to me, or was that a threat? He always sounded
so damn sincere, and those eyes could lure a woman straight into a
bad decision. I looked away, not wanting my defenses against McCall to crumble. "Yeah, well, Richmond isn't too safe these days either."

"Point taken," he said. "I still think you should head home and get
some rest. You've had a hard week."

"Harder than most," I conceded. "Guess I'll leave you to your
`business.' I expect to be paid by Featherstone tomorrow, and I'll
make sure you get your fair share."

"Fine," he said. "You need any more help, let me know. We worked
well together."

"I guess."

We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.

I cleared my throat. "Does your being here have anything to do
with the murders?"

He shook his head, incredulous. "So you do think I'm involved.
You're the one. I didn't believe it."

"Didn't believe what? Who?"

"You're the person who told the cops I'm involved."

"I didn't say that."

"Whatever you did say got me hauled in for questioning today.
Apparently, right behind you and your son, and yet I told myself that
was a fluke. Couldn't imagine the timing had anything to do with you.
But it did, didn't it?"

I swallowed. "How do you know we were there?"

"I have friends, Poppy. People who respect me. People who don't
find me threatening or believe I had anything to do with murder."

My face felt hot. "I didn't say you were threatening. They asked
me questions about you, and I answered."

"I'd have loved to hear your answers, because you-not knowing
me any better than I know you-managed to convince the police that
I'm a suspect."

"I didn't mean-"

He touched a finger to my lips briefly. "I'm not a killer, Poppy."

I pushed his hand away. "What are you, exactly?"

He kept his eyes on mine. "I can't talk about that right now. I'm a
good guy, but I see you don't believe that."

"I'm not sure what I believe."

McCall shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away from
me, circling the tree. When he faced me again, his expression was
stony.

"I meant it when I said I wanted to know you better," he said.
"Sorry things didn't work out. Mail me a check for that work if you're
too afraid to see me in person."

He turned and headed for the building.

Emotions swirled as I slumped against the tree, watching him walk
away. Was he innocent, or was he playing me? He was obviously hiding something. Logic told me to stay far away from the man.

My emotions told me McCall might just be the nicest damn guy
I'd met in a long time and that I'd just made a huge mistake.

Sometime after midnight, I collapsed into a restless sleep. I
dreamed of speeding after a Porsche and stalking a faceless killer on
a golf course. A nightmare in which I stumbled upon Wayne McCall's
dead body surrounded by boxes labeled The Bare Facts segued into
a more pleasant dream about McCall's body-alive and barely
clothed.

I sat bolt upright. Good grief. The last thing I needed was erotic
dreams about McCall. The man was secretive and shifty, and I
didn't dare trust him. I glanced at the clock-3:00 A.M. My world
felt upside down, out of control. I couldn't focus, and no wonder. I
hadn't checked my e-mails, reviewed my to-do list, or followed up
with clients in days. Instead, I'd been chasing leads, trying to solve
murders, thinking I could do Detective Troxell's job for her.

But for God's sake, somebody needed to figure out this mess.
Until the perpetrator was caught and Kevin was cleared, I wouldn't
be able to concentrate on marketing Mutter Killer and building the
client base I desperately needed. I might run out of money and end
up living on the street.

I threw back the covers, frustrated and wide awake. Now that I'd
worked myself into a tizzy, I wouldn't fall asleep anytime soon. And
what was wrong with my doing a little investigating, as long as I turned
over all the facts and evidence I found to Troxell?

I rolled out of bed, pulled on a robe, and padded into my office to
find Jett curled up in the desk chair. The cat stretched and yawned.
He squinted at the bright light I'd turned on.

After hesitating a second, cringing at the thought of black hair
plastering my chenille robe, I picked Jett up and settled into the
chair with him in my lap. Stroking the cat and listening to his soothing purr, I thought about the question I'd raised earlier in the evening.

Who wanted Dawn Hurley dead? There were two people I could
follow up with. Both had shown an interest in my organizing skills, but
now was not the time to call Dawn's mother. I straightened abruptly,
startling the cat. Jett streaked from the room, and I grabbed my tote to
retrieve Allen Tate's business card.

I woke up my computer and typed his e-mail address into a new
message. Hmm. What to say? I drummed my fingers on the desk and
decided short and sweet was best.

I typed, When we met, you expressed an interest in my organizing
services. Although with this tragedy you may want to put the project
on hold, I just wanted you to know that I'm available Friday-todayif you need me.

After studying the message for a second, I clicked SEND, then sat
back and felt a fresh wave of sadness over Dawn Hurley's untimely
death. I allowed myself these morose thoughts for a few seconds before pulling up my incoming e-mails and deleting the junk that regularly floods my in-box. I then sent messages to former clients, asking
them how their new and improved organized lives were working out
and letting them know I could return if they'd run into any glitches.
When I finished, I noticed a new e-mail-Allen Tate's response.

You're right. I do need help. The sooner the better

I wrote back. How does 9:00 A.M. sound?

He answered quickly. Perfect. You're a godsend. See you at nine.

Guess I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.

On my way to Tate's office the next morning, I swung by Steve
Featherstone's to make sure there were no loose ends he expected me
to handle before he paid me. A Heritage Movers truck blocked the
driveway. Men in orange T-shirts scurried back and forth, hauling
furniture and packed boxes to the truck. The garage door was raised,
and I noticed that only a few odds and ends of lawn equipment and
tools remained inside. The ancient Impala was gone. Featherstone's
rental car wasn't there either.

I strode toward the open front door anyway and found Annabelle
Lake in the foyer, bent over a clipboard and checking off items on a
list. The dining room and living room-formerly the artist's studiowere empty.

"Wow, you work fast," I said.

Annabelle looked up. "Only when forced, hon. He insisted the
house had to be vacant by the weekend. Wants me to move the stuff
off-site and wire him the money in LA after I sell it all for top dollar."

"Whatever the client wants, the client gets," I said. "That's my
motto."

"You just missed the boss," Annabelle said, "but he left something for you." She headed for her leopard-print bag that sat in the
dining room doorway. She wore a black pants suit today and looked
somber and more haggard than the first time we'd met. When she
put the clipboard down to grab her bag, I glanced at the paper attached.

"I see he made you a list too," I said.

"I didn't need any list." She waved a hand dismissively. "You know,
he might be the fussiest man I've ever dealt with, but his money's as
green as anybody else's, so who's complaining?" She reached into the
bag and withdrew an envelope, handing it to me.

"He asked me to pass this on to you with his thanks."

I glanced inside at the wad of crisp green hundreds, then looked up
at Annabelle and smiled. "Hope your job goes as smoothly as mine
did."

"I expect it will," Annabelle said, "as long as I don't try to understand the man. Must have been some bad blood between him and his
grandma. Hope my grandkids never feel that way about me. He told
me to shred the pictures I found upstairs. Ripping them up will have to
do." She indicated torn photos sitting on top of a filled garbage can.

He'd been collecting photographs the other day, and I'd assumed
he wanted to keep them all. These were probably the ones I'd left after he'd emptied his bedroom.

"Like I said, whatever the client wants." I checked my watch. If I
hurried, I could deposit this cash in the bank and still make it to my
new job on time. Annabelle was busy instructing the movers, so I
waved good-bye and went on my way.

I counted the money at a long red light and did some quick mental calculations. Featherstone had made good on his offer of a twothousand-dollar bonus. I drove to the bank, grinning, and made my
deposit.

The grin faded when I thought about paying McCall his share.
Not because I didn't want him to have the money-God knew he
deserved it-but I wasn't too keen on a face-to-face after our run-in
the night before. Dropping off a check when he wasn't home felt
like a wimpy way to handle the transaction, but that's just what I did.

Despite the detour, I arrived at Tate's office with minutes to spare.
I entered through the front door, averting my gaze from the stairs
where Dawn had met her end, and took the creaky elevator. I was eager to get to work on the new project, to lose myself in paper. Not
only in hopes of finding some clue that might lead to the killer, but
because bringing order to chaos always helped clear my head. I
wanted those spiderwebs gone.

"Hallelujah," Tate said when I walked through the door of Dawn's
office. He backed away from an extended file drawer that held folders bulging out like the excess weight of a stocky woman in a petite
bikini. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

Taking in the mass of paper piled ankle deep around the lawyer's
shoes, not to mention the nearly invisible desk, I could well imagine
his relief.

"Mutter Killer to the rescue," I said.

Tate exaggerated wiping sweat from his forehead. "Good thing. I
have clients due in less than an hour. George Prescott passed two
days ago, and his kids expect to take control of their inheritance today. The probate process is quick but not that quick. For starters, I
need to find the listing of assets George handed me six months ago.
It's not in his file."