Relative Chaos (5 page)

No matter how long you know a person-forty-something years
in this case-there's always something new to learn. Turns out Aunt
Millie is quite the snorer. I'm not talking a soft, snuffling sound. Hers
is a bone-jarring snore, like a freight train rattling through the room.
She had slept quietly in the car, so what had brought on this racket?
Was it the big meal right before bed?

Over our late supper, Millie had told Kevin all about the man
found in her garage while I shoveled food into my mouth to keep
from asking him about his relationship with Grayson. In fact, I'd
eaten a lot more than Millie had-so maybe I would snore, too, if I
ever fell asleep.

I tossed and turned and buried my head beneath pillows for what
seemed like nights on end before giving up and moving to the living
room couch-which didn't solve the problem, since the racket carried through the whole house, even with the bedroom door shut
tightly. Not to mention Jett, who joined me as soon as I settled on the
couch and proceeded to knead my tummy, his purr running a close
second to Millie's snore.

It didn't help that I couldn't get my mind off the murder victim.
What circumstances could have possibly led to the man ending up
dead in Aunt Millie's garage? How long would it take the police to
identify him? Was this a random murder or premeditated?

Jeez. How could I clear my mind and get some sleep? Music might
help. I went to fetch my portable CD player with headphones and ran
a finger down my alphabetized media rack to a soothing George Winston selection. I settled back on the couch. Winston's piano wasn't
quite so soothing at the volume I had to play him to drown out Aunt
Millie, but I fell asleep sometime before the music ended.

I woke at five in the morning, and Millie was still sawing logs.
Good grief. The snoring hadn't seemed to bother Kevin, but then he'd probably slept through worse during his short tenure living in a
fraternity house.

I threw back my blanket, disturbing Jett, who had slept at my feet. I
felt exhausted after the restless night filled with nightmares about the
handless corpse, but I reminded myself that worrying about things I
couldn't change was a waste of time and energy. I had none to spare.
So I got up, took a quick shower, and looked in on Kevin. Seeing him
cocooned in the blankets sent me back in time and tugged my heartstrings. I hoped Grayson hadn't hurt him too badly-and that they
wouldn't patch up whatever had sent him here last night. At the moment, Kevin believed she was the love of his life, but he'd get over
her. There was a young woman out there somewhere who was perfect
for Kevin. Grayson wasn't the one.

Back in the kitchen, I fed the cat, then took out my pre-printed
grocery list, designed to save shopping time. Of course, the list only
contained essential-food-group items I normally buy for myself. I
tossed the list back into the drawer and made a comfort-food run.

By seven-thirty, I'd stocked the kitchen. Frosted Flakes, chocolateiced doughnuts, English muffins, and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese in
the pantry. Waffles, frozen pizzas, and Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla
ice cream in the freezer. A huge bowl of fresh fruit on the kitchen
table provided a nutritious facade for the empty calories hiding behind closed doors.

I ate three doughnuts while writing a note asking Kevin and Millie to call me once they woke up so we could make arrangements to
pick up Millie's car. Then I gave Jett a good-bye pat on the head and
left for the meeting with my prospective new client.

My approach to the Featherstone house took me right past Aunt
Millie's, where crime-scene tape flapped in the early-morning breeze.
Today was cold and drizzly, a thirty-degree temperature drop from the
day before. Typical Texas winter.

If the weather had stayed cold and if I hadn't entered that garage
yesterday, no telling how long it would have been before the body
was discovered. Which made me think the killer knew Aunt Millie
well enough to know she wouldn't find anything, even a dead body, in that mess anytime soon. Hmm. I didn't see any police cars around,
so the cops weren't out canvassing the neighbors. Surely they would.
But it was kind of early in the day to go knocking on doors.

I pulled my SUV into the Featherstone driveway behind a white
Ford Taurus with an Enterprise Leasing frame around the license plate
and shifted my focus to the job at hand. The house was a two-story
Tudor and bigger than I'd realized from a distance. If Steve's grandmother was half as messy as Aunt Millie, I could be in over my head.

Remember that bonus, I told myself. You can do this.

I grabbed my tote, then climbed out and pasted on a confident
smile. Steve opened the front door before I reached the porch, and I
had another chance to admire his physique in close-fitting jeans and
a white knit shirt.

"Good morning, Poppy. Glad to see you're punctual."

He glanced at his watch, a Tag Heuer.

"I aim to please."

He turned around, and I followed him into the musty foyer. I
checked out what I could of the old house from where I stood. The
place was big, all right, but it seemed like more organized clutter,
not a disaster zone like Aunt Millie's.

"I need to put this project behind me," Steve said, "and get back
to work ASAP."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"I'm behind-the-scenes in the film industry. Lighting director."

I flushed, remembering Aunt Millie's asking him if he liked
movies. I looked down to pull a folder from my tote.

"What's that?" he said.

"My new-client packet. Inside, you'll find my Organizer/Client
Engagement Terms, my Tips for Killing Klutter, business cards so
you can refer me to your friends, and-" I hesitated, self-conscious
because Steve was staring at me. "If you decide to hire me, that is."

"There's no question," he said. "You're here. The work needs doing. Let's cut to the chase."

He pulled a money clip from his pocket and unfolded a wad of
bills. He peeled off ten hundreds and handed them to me.

I wondered if all Hollywood types dealt in cash.

"Will that cover your retainer?" he said.

I hadn't even seen what I was up against, hadn't agreed to take the
job, and I don't usually collect up front. But who turns down cash? I
accepted the money, smiling.

"Certainly." I zipped the bills into the side pocket of my tote.
With this much cash I could hire contract help if I needed to. "Why
don't you give me the tour, so I can make my game plan?"

"No need." He snatched a sheet of paper from the hall table and
handed it to me. "Your copy."

I looked down at typed columns that outlined room by room,
closet by closet, shelf by shelf, precisely what he wanted me to do.
And I thought I was detail-oriented.

"Any questions?" he said.

What was with these people making their own game plan when I
was the professional? First Aunt Millie, now this guy. I looked up
from the instructions, but he didn't wait for a response.

"If not, I'll show you around, and then you can get started. Here's
the dining room."

I followed him into the room to our left. Featherstone flipped on a
spiderwebbed chandelier that illuminated tall stacks of myriad patterned dishes covering an immense cherry dining table. A collection
of teapots lined the enormous hutch against the far wall and the windowsills. Looked to me as if the lady of the house had a china fetish.

Four of ten chairs were pulled out from the table and held stacks
of folded linens of various colors and holiday designs, the whites
yellowed with age. At least a dozen ancient cardboard boxes sat in
one corner.

"Found these in the attic," he said, indicating the boxes. "More
dishes. Some may be antiques. I've arranged for an appraiser to view
the china. Crystal and silverware too, which you'll find inside the
cabinet. Take special care with the silver tea set behind the glass-it's
eighteenth-century, I believe, which grandmother brought from London when she was a girl."

I nodded my understanding, but Featherstone didn't appear to
notice.

"As you'll note on the list," he went on, "you need to unpack the boxes and group like items together to prepare for the appraiser's
visit. Day after tomorrow."

"Two days from now?" Was he serious? And where did he expect
me to put all this stuff?

"Right. Thursday." Steve crossed the foyer to French doors.

I closed my gaping jaw and followed him.

"Grandmother was an artist." He opened the doors, and the smell
of paint and thinner hit me before he flipped on the light.

I entered the room, awestruck. Easels sat around the perimeter,
holding paintings at every stage of completion. Still lifes. Landscapes.
Portraits. Her supplies filled a large table. Oil paints, acrylics, blank
canvases, paintbrushes, scenic pictures ripped from magazines.

Landscapes of every season, obviously done by the same artist,
graced the walls. I walked over to inspect a dazzling spring scene and
saw the name Featherstone scripted in the lower right-hand corner.

"Your grandmother was very talented," I said.

"Yes, she was," he said. "The appraiser will take a look at the artwork as well, see if it's worth anything. The rest needs to go. Paint's
probably dried up anyway. If you can find a needy artist who'd use
the brushes or canvases, be my guest."

I turned from ogling the paintings. "You're not getting rid of them,
are you? I mean, they're gorgeous."

Steve sighed. "You probably think I'm one cold so-and-so, but
Grandmother and I weren't close. Fact is, I hadn't seen her in a very
long time. I figure guilt prompted her to leave me everything."

"Guilt?"

"Long story," he said. "Short version-Grandmother had one child,
my father. She never accepted my mother when they married, which is
a great understatement. She hated my mother. Tormented her. One day
my mother couldn't take any more. She committed suicide."

A deadly mother-in-law? How odd.

"I know what you're thinking. There must have been other problems." Featherstone looked me square in the eye. "There weren't. She
belittled her. You had to be there."

"What about your father?" I said.

"My father disowned his mother. We moved away, and he died of a heart attack years later." Steve's shoulders sagged, and he looked
at the floor.

"I didn't mean to pry."

He straightened and inhaled as if gathering resolve to go on.
"Don't worry about it. Happened a long time ago."

I tagged behind as Steve showed me the rest of the first floor. I felt
awful for bringing up the bad memory, which reminded me of my
own childhood tragedy, not nearly as profound as Featherstone's,
though I'd let it affect me more than his seemed to affect him.

But his story had struck another nerve with me. The mother's disapproval of the son's wife hit too close to home. I'd said some harsh
things to Kevin about the woman he claimed to love. As we headed
upstairs, I vowed to keep my mouth shut in the future. Kevin was a
grown man now, capable of making his own decisions.

In the master bedroom, Steve dispassionately gave me permission
to dispose of his grandmother's clothes however I saw fit. Looking at
the old dresses, shoes, and handbags, I felt like I'd been transported
back in time. I made a mental note to check with the Fort Bend Playhouse first to see if they were in need of costumes.

I was drawn to boxes of jewelry in the dresser drawers-more
than a hundred, I guesstimated, some bearing names of department
stores long since out of business.

"The appraiser will look at the jewelry too," Steve said, "so I'd
like you to make sure it's all gathered in one spot."

"Okay." I walked over to a chifferobe and opened the double
doors. More clothes hung on the right side. I pulled out a drawer on
the left and found several bundles of photographs wrapped in soft
cloth and tied with grosgrain ribbon tucked in beside yet more
jewelry boxes.

Steve reached around me to pick up the bundles. "I'll take those.
Thought I'd already collected all the pictures."

After the depressing story he'd told, I was surprised he had an interest in them.

We went down the hall, and he opened a bedroom door just wide
enough to reach in and leave the photo bundles on a dresser top before
closing the door again. "My room. I've gathered everything I want to
keep in here."

"Okay." Good. One room down.

"That's probably enough to keep you busy today," he said. "I have
some catching up to do while I'm in town, so I'll be going out. I
hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all." I was accustomed to people staying to work with me
on my jobs, and I sure could have used the help here, but that was
his decision.

Steve pointed out a row of garbage cans he'd lined up out back to
hold the enormous amount of trash he expected to collect. He showed
me where to find coffee and soft drinks and told me to help myself,
then left me alone with the work.

I was eager to get started. Any client as generous with cash as
Steve Featherstone deserved top-notch treatment. First prioritymake sure everything's ready for that appraiser. The dining room
headed Steve's instruction sheet and seemed as good a place as any
to start.

I began by sweeping the spiderwebs from the chandelier, then
started unpacking boxes of dishes. Two hours into the job, the china,
crystal, and silver were all sorted according to pattern and type, and
I had convinced myself that I needed to hire a subcontractor to get
through the week. As a member of the local National Association of
Professional Organizers chapter, I knew just where to go for help. I
put in a call to our chapter president, Bailey Devine, but got her
voice mail and left a message.

I consulted Steve's list. The family room was next. He had directed me to discard all silk and dried flower arrangements but to
make sure to keep the containers, as some of them were Depression
glass and might be valuable. The curio cabinet, packed with miniature glass and porcelain figurines, should be left intact until the appraiser looked them over. Magazines and books could be tossed,
except for first-edition hardbacks that might be collector's items. I
hoped Aunt Millie didn't get wind of this, or she'd haul all the discards over to her place.