Free Relative Chaos by Kay Finch Page A

could pick that sucker out of a lineup."
    I hadn't liked thinking of McCall as the murderer, but I liked this
neighborhood-informant persona even less.
    "Seeing someone on the golf course isn't exactly suspicious," I
said. "Droves of people go out there every day. And you know how
golfers can act kind of crazy." I attempted a laugh.
    "Yeah, but the guy I'm talking about isn't a golfer," he said. "First
off, he didn't have clubs. And I just had this feeling about him."
    Screw McCall and his feelings.
    "Standing around and speculating isn't getting our work done," I
said.
    "You're right." He looked back at the men and said, "Could be
an eBay business. Never know." Then he turned and headed for the
house.
    I followed on shaky legs and checked my watch. No point calling
Doug this soon. He hadn't been gone long enough to make it to
Austin. But he'd better find Kevin. Fast.

     

By seven that night I had handled enough outfits to dress the Red
Hat Society of Greater Houston. After removing everything from the
closet rod and the dresser drawers, I'd discovered vacuum-packed
clothing under the bed, behind the TV, in the cedar chest, and stuffed
in the guest bath cabinets. Ida had used the storage bags that convert
a big pile of clothes into a skinny packet when you suck the excess
air out with a vacuum cleaner. I wanted to strangle whoever invented
the nifty, space-saving packets when I opened them and found myself knee-deep in yet more apparel.
    After designating every stitch of clothing for either the theater,
Goodwill, or the trash, I moved straight to jewelry sorting. Ida had
a unique collection, and I might have enjoyed the task if I'd been in a
decent mood. But between the clothing overload and Doug's call a
few hours earlier, I was physically and mentally exhausted. Worry
gnawed at my gut.
    In Austin, Doug had learned that the music festival activities
wouldn't kick off for two more days. He had talked to the other
mother again, but she couldn't reach her son either. I couldn't imagine where he would begin to look for Kevin in a city overflowing
with UT college students.
    Work hadn't taken my mind off the problem, but at least I'd made
progress. The costume jewelry was packed up in boxes, and Ida's
nicer pieces rested on the dresser top for the appraiser to view.
    I sat on the edge of the bed and inspected the open closet from a
distance. Mangled wire hangers lay on the floor along with dust bunnies, lint, and broken buttons. The closet's upper shelf held a mountain of handbags-every color, size, and material imaginable. I pulled
them out and dumped them onto the bed. Had the woman kept every
purse she ever owned or what? I'd have to go through them all before disposing of them-you never knew what might be hidden inside-but I could hardly move and wasn't sure I should tackle the
project tonight. If Featherstone remarked about the mess I'd made of
this room, I could explain that in the professional organizing business,
things always got worse before they got better. He'd see more results
tomorrow.

    McCall had been banging up a storm in the kitchen, and I headed
downstairs to check his progress. Voices drifted out to me as I got
closer. Steve Featherstone was home.
    I entered the kitchen and blinked hard to make sure I wasn't dreaming. The gray-speckled Formica countertops were cleared. Most of
the white cabinet doors stood open to reveal empty shelves. Empty
and clean shelves. I might have let out a subconscious gasp, because
the men turned toward me.
    "Your colleague does good work," Featherstone said. "I'm impressed."
    Me too. "Where is everything?" I glanced around the room and
noticed that several items sat on the kitchen table.
    McCall read from Featherstone's priority list. "Says right here,
dispose of kitchen paraphernalia unless antique." He pointed at the
table. "Those things might fit the bill. The rest is outside, either in
the Goodwill pile-by the way, I've scheduled a