Relative Chaos (3 page)

God, it smelled putrid in here. Jett must have used the potted
plants as a litter box.

I held my nose as I pulled my key ring penlight from my pocket.
Shining the beam ahead, I spotted a tower of boxes labeled JANICE
with thick black marker. That brat ought to be paying to store her crap
somewhere else, and I wouldn't mind being the one to tell her so.

The smell was making me woozy.

Get out of here before you asphyxiate, I told myself, rushing to
get the bags.

My foot caught on something, and I tripped, flying forward and
barely escaping a collision with Janice's boxes.

I turned around and aimed the light at the floor.

A man's shoe. Which wouldn't seem that odd, given my surroundings, except that this shoe was connected to a leg protruding from a
space between a stack of plastic storage tubs and an old washing machine.

What on earth?

I moved closer, my hand shaking as the light traveled from the
expensive-looking loafer up a man's leg. He wore khakis and a yellow golf shirt stained with dark splotches. I trained the light on his
gray complexion. My vision swam. He was definitely dead.

I backed away, feeling faint, and the light played over the man's
torso, illuminating his arms and-

Holy God, his hands were gone.

stumbled back, gagging.

A dead man. In Aunt Millie's garage. Couldn't be real.

I blinked. Pinched myself. He was real, all right. Sweat poured
down my face. The odor intensified. Flies buzzed.

For two seconds, my feet felt like they were superglued to the
floor. Then I turned and hightailed it out of there.

Outside, I bent over the grass, hands on knees, and dry heaved. McCall came up the driveway carrying an armload of flattened cardboard
boxes. He looked at me, then at the open garage door.

"Pretty scary," he said, grinning. "Went in there once myself."

I wanted to call him a smart aleck, but my trembling lips wouldn't
form the words.

He came closer and looked me over.

"You're kinda green," he said. "You sick?"

I shook my head and pointed at the garage. "In there. A man. He's
de-dead"

"You're kidding," he said.

I stared at him. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

The answer must have been no, because McCall threw the boxes
down and ran into the garage.

He was back in ten seconds. "You recognize him?"

"No. Do you?"

McCall shook his head. "Whoever it is, my guess is he's been in
there a day or so." He pulled out his cell phone. "Maybe you should
prepare Millie. Cops won't be long."

I straightened and looked at the house. Aunt Millie would freak
out at this news, but he was right. Better she hear it from me before
cops came down on this place like the flood on Noah.

"Yes," McCall said into the phone. "I need to report a homicide." He was silent for a beat, then added, "Unidentified male. Gunshot
wounds. His hands are severed."

The word severed sent my stomach into a spin, and I didn't want
to hear more. I approached the house slowly, my mission clear. Prepare Millie for news of a dead body found in her garage.

Impossible, but I'd give it my best shot.

Two hours later, I paced the neighboring driveway, watching as
police officers scurried around Aunt Millie's property. McCall leaned
against his truck, parked on the street, unable to leave because cop
cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck that had responded to the emergency call blocked him in. Yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the
driveway, garage, and backyard. I'd given Aunt Millie a sedative and
put her to bed. Neighbors stood on the sidewalk gawking. Out on the
golf course, carts slowed to see what the commotion was about.

Millie, McCall, and I had been separated and questioned individually, first by the initial officers who'd arrived on the scene, then by
Rae Troxell, the lead homicide detective. They'd gotten no useful information because we didn't have any. We couldn't identify the dead
man. We hadn't seen anyone or anything suspicious.

Even though I'd given Aunt Millie enough medicine to drug a horse,
I caught her peering out the upstairs window every few minutes.

I wouldn't be able to rest either, didn't know if I'd ever be able to
close my eyes again without seeing the dead man. Who was he? And
why had someone stuffed him into Aunt Millie's garage? Clearly,
the murder had happened somewhere else. I hadn't noticed any
blood. There must have been a lot of blood. I shuddered, not wanting to dwell on how this had happened.

But why dump the body here? Could there be some connection
between Aunt Millie and this man? I didn't think so. Maybe he lived
nearby. I wondered about his family, whether he had children. I
scanned the street, half afraid I'd see his wife or mother running toward the scene and screaming his name. My stomach rolled.

I turned my attention back to the police, who had opened the
overhead garage door and jumped back when a pile of Aunt Millie's
"collectibles" tumbled onto the driveway.

I knew they had to search the scene thoroughly, especially because of the missing hands, but I didn't like the way they were dismantling the garage contents, making an even bigger mess-if that
were possible. I watched the measuring, photographing, and notetaking as they conducted their search for evidence.

They had to clear a path so they'd be able to remove the body from
the garage, but why did they have to pile everything up haphazardly
along the driveway? This project could work to everyone's benefit if
done right. The woman in charge emerged from the shadows of the
garage. Without consulting my better judgment, I marched in her direction.

Detective Rae Troxell was fortyish with a stocky, athletic build.
She wore her brown hair in a tight ponytail and sported black-framed
glasses and a manly navy suit, probably an image calculated to counteract her soft, feminine voice. Troxell's back was to me as I edged
along the crime-scene tape, but she spoke before I reached her.

"Don't contaminate my scene, Ms. Cartwright."

I hopped back from the tape, raising my hands. "I didn't touch
anything."

"Okay, then." She faced me. "What is it?"

"You know, I'm in the business of organizing, and-"

She nodded and made a hurry-up-and-spit-it-out hand motion, so
I did.

"I couldn't help but notice the mess out here on the drive, and I'm
thinking that if you decide down the road in this investigation that you
need to take another look at something in particular, you shouldn't
have to go through the whole cotton-pickin' pile all over again."

Troxell frowned. "You trying to tell me how to run my investigation?"

"No:'

"As I remind my husband every day, nobody tells me how to do my
job." She leaned toward me conspiratorially. "He's in the department.
Pain in the neck to work with your spouse-know what I mean?"

I knew, and thank God I wasn't in that boat anymore. I took a deep
breath and tried again. "I'm just explaining that if you'll take a few
extra seconds to categorize things now, it will save you time later."

"Categorize," Troxell said.

"You know, make one pile of garden tools, one for seasonal decorations-"

"I'm trying to find a dead man's missing hands," Troxell interrupted, "and you want me to categorize?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Don't."

"Sorry I wasted your time." I started to walk away.

"Ms. Cartwright," Troxell said.

I turned around.

"A few more questions, if I may."

"Certainly." So now she wanted something.

Troxell glanced toward the street, then moved closer to me.
"What do you know about this McCall guy?"

"Wayne McCall?"

"You see any other McCalls around here?" Troxell said. "Who
else would I mean?"

"Why do you ask?"

Troxell raised her eyebrows. "Just answer the question."

I reminded myself that she was in charge, and that she could
make my life miserable if she didn't finish her job here quickly. I
still had hopes of straightening things up before Janice arrived.

"I met Wayne McCall today for the first time," I said. "He and
Aunt Millie seem to get along well with each other. He's handling
some remodeling for her. Personally, I find him annoying."

"Huh," Troxell said. "Any idea how long your aunt's known him?"

Aunt Millie hadn't mentioned when the chance Kroger's meeting
had happened. "No, but I can find out if it's important." I stole a glance
toward McCall's truck, but it was gone. Apparently he'd found a way
to worm around the emergency vehicles without my noticing. I turned
back to Troxell. "Is it important?"

"Everything is potentially important in a homicide investigation,"
she said. "Can't find much on McCall."

"You investigated him?" I said.

"Preliminary check. Standard procedure"

"Does that mean you checked on me too? And Aunt Millie?"

"Sure," Troxell said. "Know everything about you from the date
of your divorce to how much your son weighed at birth."

I stared at her.

"Kidding about that last part," she said.

When I didn't respond, she added, "Lighten up, I was joking."

"I don't find that amusing, and I'm not in the greatest mood. It's
not every day I come across a dead body."

Troxell looked wistful. "Wish I could say that"

"Do you think Wayne McCall is suspicious?" I asked.

"Haven't decided. He's new to the area. Lived here three months."

A noise that sounded like another pile toppling came from the
garage.

"Better get back in there," she said.

"I have a hard hat in the house if you need it."

Troxell laughed. "No need-I've got a hard head" She sobered
and said, "I trust you won't mention this little conversation to anyone, right?"

I made a zipping motion across my lips.

She looked down at my apron. "And if I were you, I wouldn't
wear anything with the word killer embroidered on it around here"

"Good point."

She walked away, and I trudged toward the front of the house.
Neighbors huddled in a group on the sidewalk, no doubt gossiping
about what might have happened. Aunt Millie had given up on her nap
and stood by the street, talking with a man standing next to a golf cart.
Her mouth and her arms were going ninety-to-nothing, and I figured
the drugs must have pumped her up rather than calmed her down.

Millie saw me and waved. "Poppy, over here."

As I approached, I couldn't help but notice that the man was a
hunk. Tall, slim, and tan, with impeccably cut dark hair and a bright
smile. Ten or more years too young for me, but it never hurt to look.

When I got closer, Millie said, "Poppy, this is my new neighbor,
Steve Featherstone. I told him all about how you came over to help
me get organized and now we can't do anything because you found
that dead man."

She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she was discussing the weather.
The drugs were working in that respect.

Featherstone shook my hand. "Nice to meet you, Poppy. Sorry to hear about the trouble. Not something you expect to find, even in
your line of work."

"This is a first for me," I said.

"Steve inherited the house at the end of the block," Millie said,
"and he's staying there until it's sold. Unless we can convince him
otherwise, of course. Nice young men are always welcome in the
neighborhood."

Featherstone chuckled uncomfortably.

I jumped in to rescue him from further embarrassment. "Where
are you from?"

"Here, originally," he said. "Been living in Los Angeles."

"You know any movie stars?" Aunt Millie asked.

Featherstone laughed. "Not well."

"Poppy loves going to the movies," she said. "You like movies,
Steve?"

Now I felt uncomfortable. "Aunt Millie, this isn't the time, not
with the police here and all." I put a hand on her arm and said to
Featherstone, "If there's anything you need while you're in town, let
us know."

"Actually, there is something," he said.

"Oh?" I waited.

"I noticed the Klutter Killer sign on your SUV when I went to the
grocery store earlier, and that got me thinking. If there's one thing I
could use in that big old house where my grandmother lived forever,
it's somebody to get rid of the clutter. I'm overwhelmed."

"I understand how you feel," I said.

"Are you available?" he said. "I mean, do you have time in your
schedule to take the job?"

"She's available," said Millie, giggling.

I shot her a look, then smiled at him. "I can pencil you in, after
I'm finished with Aunt Millie's house."

"Nonsense," Millie said. "She can start in the morning. Bright
and early. My Poppy's an early bird."

I tightened my grip on her arm. "Mr. Featherstone, I'm afraid my
aunt is-"

"Call me Steve," he said.

"Steve," I went on. "Aunt Millie seems to be reacting badly to
some medication."