A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(29)
Caroline struck me as one who'd found clever ways to thwart unwanted advances. She wasn't beautiful, not like the lovely Vanna White. But she was attractive in an overblown kind of way. A climbing rose just beginning to drop its petals.
I'm sure she'd had her fair share of pimply boys asking for dates. However, she shouldn't have the innate security alarm I sensed in her based on her appearance alone. Those early warning systems are developed by only the very good-looking, the very rich, and those accosted early. Since she was neither of the former, I assumed she was the later.
"I know the decor is a bit seventies, but just imagine what this place would look like with a facelift." She turned and smiled at me. "Now don't you say you can imagine what I'd look like with a facelift."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I said. I didn't have to force the sincerity in my voice. I sympathize with the humble. It's the conceited, self-absorbed, pampered princesses I feel a need to crush.
"As you know the kitchen has already been remodeled. And that's the most expensive room to re-do." She pushed open the swinging door into the large stainless steel and red space. "I love the chickens—so cute. Don't you think?"
I wisely chose not to answer. The house was tasteless—chickens notwithstanding, but it seems the media had pigeonholed me. They were calling me the "Oceanview Killer" now. I realized my error immediately. There are no oceanview homes in Dallas, and not all expensive property in Orange County is at the beach. I needed to branch out if I was going to maintain my fiction. Obviously, identity theft isn't my strong suit.
"Of course, they don't come with the place anyway. Do you want to see the master suite again?" she asked.
"That's a good idea," I said.
It was the most interesting space in this tacky house. The bed was big enough for a romp and the bath...well the bath brought all kinds of fantasies to mind. I caught a whiff of Opium as I followed her up the stairs. Not the drug, the perfume. I hate Opium.
"Here we are." She threw open the double doors to the bedroom with a dramatic flourish. The bed was wonderful in a horrible kind of way. The size, the placement, the bedding, it was deliciously awful.
"Great spot for a party," I said and moved closer to her.
Killing is a funny thing. The more you do it, the more interesting it becomes. There's a thrill in the hunt, satisfaction in improving one's skills.
Her head snapped around. The smile she'd been wearing left her eyes. I'd said too much. Her sixth sense had been activated. I fingered the box cutter I stuffed in my jacket pocket that morning thinking it might come in handy.
"This bed is big enough for an army of kids and the family dog," I said, hoping to mollify her. Her shoulders relaxed a little.
We crossed a field of rose-colored carpet into the master bath. I withdrew the blade from my pocket and held it behind my back with one hand. I imagined Caroline dancing a different kind of dance than Ms. White had—fewer twirls and more leg kicks.
"Did I already tell you we had the Jacuzzi jets flushed by a professional?" the theme song from Titanic interrupted her. She fished in her white, snakeskin purse and withdrew a phone.
"Oh, I better get this." She looked at the screen. "Hi. Sorry, I forgot to leave it for you. Top drawer of my desk," she said into the phone. "I'll be there soon. I'm at my Coto listing."
I held my breath.
"Yes. I'm here with—" She turned and smiled at me, then said my name.
I slipped the box cutter back into my pocket.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lance was already there leaning against the front door when Gwen opened the creaking gate of the house on Cliff Drive. She was a bit late, on purpose this time. She hadn't been here since she and Maricela found Sondra Olsen's body.
It wasn't that she believed in ghosts, or curses, or bad juju, or anything like that. Gwen wasn't superstitious. But she didn't want to walk through the claustrophobic entryway with its door that led down into the house's nether regions alone. The thought of going upstairs was even worse. Up was where she'd seen Sondra.
Lance was security. She was going to pay dearly for him, so she might as well take advantage of his presence. He was emotional security as well as physical. She couldn't break down in a panic in front of him. She'd have to act as if everything was fine. She lived by the adage, fake it 'till you make it. Act like things are fine, and they will be. But she'd always found it easier to perform with an audience.
"I've already walked the perimeter of the property," Lance said. "This place is a mess."
"Wait until you see the inside." Gwen put on her brightest smile. "It's worse."
"Great."
"Hey, this was your idea." Gwen pulled the key from her purse and inserted it into the front door lock.
"No lockbox?" Lance asked.
"Not yet. I think we need to make whatever repairs we're planning to make before we expose the world to this place."
The same musty smell she remembered from her last visit assailed her as soon as she entered the foyer. It was the moldy odor of old beach homes, lakefront cabins, and ski chalets where snow clothes and sleds were left to drip dry in mudrooms. A scent she used to think of as pleasant. Once it had brought back memories of childhood vacations, of trips to her grandparents' house near Lake Michigan. Now it was forever linked with death and blood.