Relative Chaos (31 page)

Tate removed some folders and envelopes from the briefcase and
gave me a stern glance. "I think the detective would agree that that's
not something we should discuss."

"Sorry," I said, watching his unsuccessful attempts to force the
file into the case. "Let me help."

I knelt by the briefcase and quickly rearranged the contents, then
easily slid the folder into place. "Hope you don't need to fit any more
in there."

"No. My second meeting is a quick stop at the courthouse. I'm
still trying to get Steve Featherstone everything he needs."

I nodded, my mind on the Becker report. I didn't think Tate would
appreciate my nosing in by calling the PI myself, so I skirted the issue. "Before you go, I saw a note about a second investigation done
by that California PI firm, but I couldn't tell which case to file it in."

Tate closed up the briefcase and stood. "Becker Investigations?"

"Right," I said.

"There's no second case, only the one. They worked on Featherstone."

"Oh." I tried to sound casual. "The note seemed to reference a
different investigation."

"I hired them one time," Tate said. "Cost Ida Featherstone a good
bit too. I wouldn't call on them again unless something urgent
came up."

I hesitated. There was no way to ask if he knew anyone in Vancouver without giving away my true purpose.

"I need to get out of here," Tate said. "By the way, you've done a
superb job. More than I could have hoped for. Why don't you take
off early?"

"I've got a good couple hours left in me." I forced a smile. "I want
everything tidy for Monday when your temp comes in."

"Well, don't kill yourself," he said. "They lock up downstairs at
seven, so-"

I waved him off. "Go to your meeting. I'll be fine."

He didn't argue, and when the front office door slammed behind
him, I jumped into action. That report had to be somewhere, and I
was betting that it contained something important. Urgent, even.
According to Sam Becker, Dawn had been eager to get the results,
and that knowledge made me even more anxious. Sure, I could call
Troxell and tell her what I'd learned. And she'd probably think I was
nuts-or trying to draw attention away from myself and my son.

No, I'd rather have something to show her.

I explored the file cabinets thoroughly. No report.

Emptied Dawn's desk drawers. Nothing.

Lay on the floor and looked at the underside of her desk, in case
she'd taped the report there the way I'd seen done in the movies.
Nada.

I went into Tate's tidy office and stood inside the door, guilt nagging me as I scanned the room. I had signed the confidentiality agreement, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. Tate might have the
report in here without realizing it. The document might hold important details. I had to look.

I spied a small pile of unopened mail on Tate's credenza and
crossed the room quickly. I leafed through the envelopes. Nothing
from Becker. I checked the bookcase and inside Tate's spectacularly neat desk drawers. I folded my arms over my chest and surveyed
the lawyer's office. Peeked behind every one of the dozen certifi cates decorating his wall. Checked the backs of all the office artwork. No dice.

One more room to inspect-the small kitchen-before calling
Olive Hurley to ask if her daughter had received any unusual mail at
home.

But luck was with me in the kitchen. A thermal lunch sack sat on
a cupboard shelf next to cans of Campbell's Chunky Soup and packets of instant oatmeal. The bright blue nylon bulged unnaturally, and
my heart raced as I opened the Velcro top. And there was the report,
rolled up next to a Hostess cupcake.

Goose bumps prickled my arms as I pulled it out and plopped into
a chair at the miniature dinette table to read.

Tate had been right. Becker hadn't worked on two cases, only one.
The Featherstone case. I already knew the initial investigation had
occurred months ago, before Ida Featherstone's death. This report
was dated last week. Client name-Dawn Hurley. Billing addressher home. Status-rush. My conscience eased up a bit. I hadn't signed
any confidentiality agreement with Dawn.

The narrative described Sam Becker's visit to Ventura Pictures in
LA, where she hoped to track down and meet with Steve Featherstone.

I stopped reading for a second. Why was she looking for Featherstone last week? He'd been here in Richmond, hadn't he?

My eyes scanned quickly ahead. Becker met with Steve Featherstone's immediate superior and learned about Featherstone's work
on a movie being shot in Canada.

Next stop Vancouver, British Columbia, where Becker spoke with
the manager of the hotel housing the movie's camera and lighting
crew. They'd holed up in the hotel for five bad-weather days before
production went on hiatus. To the best of the manager's knowledge,
Featherstone was among those headed home for the break after his
checkout on the twelfth.

These dates were screwy. And this little investigation with the
travel to Canada must have cost a bundle more than the first one.
Dawn must have had a darn good reason to put Becker up to this.

I sat back and stared at the wall, chewing my lower lip. Tried to think like Dawn, the people person, the secretary who asked a lot of
questions, kept up with clients' personal lives, cared about them
when no one else did. She had sent the PI on a mission to find Steve
Featherstone. Who had already been found.

I bent over the report again and scanned through to the end.
Found a reference to enclosed photos and located them in the lunch
bag's slim outer pocket.

A chill ran up my spine as I studied the photos. Bile rose in my
throat. I knew this man, though he'd looked a hell of a lot worse
when I'd seen him. I shoved my chair back and fled down the hall to
Dawn's office, clutching the pictures. I opened the drawer holding
the Featherstone file and yanked the accordion folder off the shelf so
fast that I lost my grip. Papers spilled out, across the floor.

I dropped to my knees and shuffled through them, frantic to find
the photos I'd seen earlier in the day. There was a resemblance, sure.
Enough to get by, but not identical.

Facts clicked into place.

The missing family portrait.

Photographs destroyed.

The sense of urgency.

The bird-watching outing.

The peanut allergy.

Steve Featherstone biting into Aunt Millie's fresh, thick peanut
butter cookies without a care in the world.

The dead man in her garage.

My hands slid across pages, throwing documents aside. Where on
earth were those pictures?

My teeth chattered. Blood pounded at my temples. Hard and
loud, but not loud enough to cover the metallic click that sounded
behind me.

I jerked upright and turned.

Steve Featherstone, or whoever the hell he was, stood in the office
doorway, a gun in one hand and a fistful of pictures in the other.

"Looking for these?"

I stared at the man I thought I'd known. My heart thudded so hard,
the building seemed to vibrate. He knew I was on to him. Fear
coursed through my body, but I was ticked off too. And that's the
part of me that couldn't keep quiet.

"I don't believe we've met," I said. "My name is Poppy Cartwright,
and yours is ... ?"

"Shut your mouth," He strode across the room and snatched the
photos from my hand, then stuffed them into his pants pocket along
with those he'd already confiscated from the file. He eyed the folders strewn on the floor. "Put this mess back together. Hurry it up."

"Why bother?" I forced myself to maintain eye contact.

"Because you'll be leaving this place exactly as Tate would expect you to leave it, Miss Neat Freak."

I gulped. "And then what?"

He grinned. "Then we'll take a little trip over to the Brazos
River."

My insides churned as I stared down the barrel of his gun. Likely
the weapon that he had used to murder the real Steve Featherstone.
This couldn't be happening. I thought of dying, of never seeing my
son again.

"I'm in the middle of a job here," I said. "I can't just leave."

Stupid. Weak. Why couldn't I think of a way out?

He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed, sending a bolt of pain
down my arm. "I said, clean it up."

"Ow!" I pushed his hand away. "Give me a chance."

With my heart in my throat, I swept the papers from the file into a
heap. Tears filled my eyes. I glanced at my purse next to the desk.
My cell phone was inside, a mere six feet away, but it may as well
have been a hundred.

Think, Poppy. Stall.

"Mr. Tate went to get those Letters Testamentary for you at the
courthouse," I said. "Shouldn't you be there?"

"I was. Clerk's office didn't have them ready yet, and now they're
closed until Monday. Unfortunately for you"

I swallowed. "Then he'll be back here shortly."

He smiled at me as if I was mentally challenged. "I saw him head
out of town. Time he shows, we'll be long gone." The smile faded.
"Move it."

I stuffed papers into the accordion folder, knowing what he really
meant. He'd be gone. I'd be dead. Just like Dawn, whose frequent
visits and strange lines of conversation made perfect sense to me
now. If only she'd told someone about her suspicions before it was
too late.

I got to my feet, shaking, holding the file in front of me. My only
smidgen of hope was that he wouldn't shoot me here. Wouldn't look
good for another body to be found in this building so soon. At least
not before he had his money.

"Dawn saw through your charade immediately, didn't she?" I
said.

"Shut up," he said. "You don't know anything."

"Apparently you think I do, or you wouldn't be threatening me"

"If that nosy secretary had left me alone, things would have been
quick and simple. Same for you. I paid you good money to do a job,
so why did you have to come nosing around here?"

"I'm working for Mr. Tate. The same way I worked for you. I
thought you appreciated my help, Steve."

His face went as cold as a statue's. "I'm not Steve, and you know
it."

"So do the police," I lied. "You won't get away with this."

He laughed, a rude cackle. "I had that line once in a film. Should
have been my grand debut, but the script was riddled with cliches.
Got one star and didn't deserve that"

"You're an actor?"

"You've never heard of the great Mason Teale?" He used a KingArthurish tone, then lowered his voice to Dustin Hoffman's Rain
Man, cocking his head and shaking it. "Not surprising. No one has.
No one"

His sudden change of persona raised gooseflesh on my arms. "You
decided to step in and play the part of Steve Featherstone. Heck of a
performance."

He snapped out of performer mode and waved the gun at me. "Put
that file away. Let's go."

I turned to the cabinets, my thoughts racing as I slid the file onto
the shelf. How could I stop him without a weapon? The car keys in
my pocket were no match for Teale's gun. The best I could come up
with was to heave the heavy file at him and make a break for the
door.

The outer office door slammed open as if it had heard my thoughts,
followed by a woman's voice.

"Poppy? Are you here?"

"Janice," I shouted. "I'm busy. Leave me alone."

Teale raised the gun menacingly and stepped behind the door,
shielding himself from view. He sliced a finger across his mouth, a
zip-your-lip signal.

I nodded quickly, grateful that he wasn't bent on murdering everyone in sight, and stepped into the doorway. Teale's eyes peered at me
though the crack by the hinges. If I tried running now, he might panic
and shoot us both. Not a good idea.

Janice stomped down the hallway toward me, her eyes as wild as
a drug addict's. "Don't tell me no. You hand my things over right
this minute."

"What are you talking about?" I fought to keep hysteria out of my
voice. "And what are you doing here?"

"Taking back what's mine." She came at me, palms first, and I
could see she planned on bulldozing past me.

"Don't come in here." I grabbed the doorjamb, arms outstretched
to barricade the entrance.

"Don't tell me what to do." She shoved me with both hands,
trying to break through. "You have no right to my personal belongings."

"What belongings?" I shook my head to clear the cobwebs.

Before I had a chance to respond to her shoves, Janice raised a
hand and slapped me hard on the cheek.

I stepped back involuntarily as my hands flew up to protect my face. From the corner of my eye I saw Teale making a rolling motion with his free hand. Hurry this up or else.

But Janice had other ideas. She marched past me into the office,
looking around as if she expected what she'd come for to jump out
at her. "That box is worth a small fortune. Where is it?"

"We have bigger problems than any stupid box," I said, holding
my cheek.