A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(3)

Fiona Randall, a woman she'd sold a three-bedroom to a few years back, had inherited the family home on the cliffs in Laguna Beach. This was a listing that made careers, moved agents out of the scrabbling masses and into the elite ranks of real estate brokers. Gwen had dreamed breaking into that echelon since she started in the business.

She and Maricela stepped outside onto a veranda of cracked cement and looked down onto a sandy beach. A crisp breeze carried the sounds of crashing waves, children squealing in the surf, and the clanking of diver's equipment. It was a symphony to Gwen's ears. She still had a hard time believing that she, Gwen Bishop, was representing oceanfront property in Laguna.

"Look. It has beach access." Gwen pointed to a rickety railing rising out of the ice plant at the end of the neglected garden.

Maricela folded her arms across her chest. "If you want to die young."

"I know. It needs a little work."

"This place needs more than a little work, chica."

"That's why you're here. You're a pro. If you had ten thousand to throw at it, what would you do?"

Maricela's dark hair reflected the sun as she shook her head. "I'd start by putting a barrier across the top of those stairs. If someone breaks their neck, it'll decrease the value."

"Sudden violent death has a way of doing that," Gwen said and pulled a pad of paper from her purse to make notes.

"Show me more," Maricela said.

Gwen reentered the gloom of the house and led the way through the living room to the foyer and up the carpeted stairs. "I've been looking at the comps, and nothing with beach access has sold for under twelve million in the past year and a half. Fiona has her hopes set on ten."

Talking about numbers like ten million and twelve million made Gwen feel like a child playing at real estate agent. When she was small, she had a toy cash register on which she rang up plastic food and empty cereal boxes. The prices she set then had no more meaning to her than the price of this house. There were too many zeros for it to compute. But, the zeros still made her happy.

A sweet odor, delicate at first, grew stronger with each riser until it overwhelmed the mold bouquet. "I'm afraid to ask what that smell is," Maricela said.

"Probably a dead rat in the attic. They love figs. I'll have it removed," said Gwen, keeping her voice cheerful. She needed Maricela's expertise. She'd been an agent for much longer than Gwen, and she was a successful one. She knew how to maximize a home's assets and hide its deficiencies. When she staged a house, it sold. But optimism wasn't on the short list of her wonderful qualities.

"I think you should get a cleaning crew, make the place smell better, and price it under market."

"Wait until you see the view from the master bedroom," Gwen said, ignoring Maricela's comment, and the reek in the air.

The hardwood floor groaned under their feet as they walked toward a room at the end of the hall. A triangle of light pointed outward from a partially opened door. She looked over her shoulder to monitor Maricela's reaction.

"Ta-da," she said and pushed the door ajar.

Maricela's eyes widened.

"It's spectacular, right?" Gwen said still looking at her.

Maricela's jaw dropped, but nothing came from her mouth.

"You can see Catalina on a clear day," Gwen said.

Maricela's caramel skin turned ashen. The stench was worse here. Was it making her ill? Gwen looked into her friend's eyes. They were focused on a spot over her right shoulder. Before she could follow her gaze, Maricela pitched forward and gagged.





Chapter Three


An ambulance and three police cars, all with lights blazing, blocked the house on Cliff Drive. There was nowhere to park. Art threw the minivan into reverse and backed up, engine grinding, then made a three-point turn onto one of the perpendicular streets.

He circled the North Laguna neighborhood, tires squealing, four or five times before giving up and crossing Coast Highway. He found a parking spot in the Boat Canyon shopping center and jogged back to the mayhem.

Gwen had called him a half hour ago, not hysterical like most people would be, but cool and steady. She explained that she and Maricela had stumbled on a body in the same tone of voice she would use to dictate a grocery list.

Art knew from fifteen years of marriage; it was the calm before the storm. His wife often went "into character" when faced with uncomfortable situations. It was a technique she learned in method acting and now employed in life. She was probably channeling a detective or crime reporter, but at some point, he knew reality would come crashing in. He wanted to get there before it did.

He slowed his pace as he approached the emergency vehicles. Two officers, a male and a female, guarded the street in front of the house.

"Stay back, please, sir," the man said.

"My wife is in there," Art said.

"Her name?"

"Guinevere Bishop."

The cop spoke into his radio. A few minutes later, a woman emerged. At first, Art thought she was young—too young to be the officer in charge. But as she drew close, he saw small crow’s feet around her almond-shaped eyes. Her build and smooth complexion created the image of youth. She was slender, but well-muscled, with skin was so uniformly dark it looked like polished ebony against the white of her blouse