A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(33)

She hefted two gallons of Soft Cotton flat enamel across the foyer and into the living room. The ocean reflected the newly risen sun. Flecks of gold and silver glimmered on its surface. If this were her home, she'd decorate to complement the daily show outside. She imagined herself lounging on a deep maroon couch settled across from both the brick fireplace and the wall of windows with a cup of steaming coffee.

She wouldn't put up curtains or shades. She'd welcome the sky and ocean into the space. Privacy wasn't an issue. No one could see in. Not unless they stood on the sand and peered up, and who would do that?

Lost in thought, it was a minute or two before Gwen noticed the scurrying near her feet. Blinded by the light from the windows, at first she couldn't discern what the black specks scuttling across the hardwood were. When her eyes adjusted, she screamed.

The room was alive.

A brown river of cockroaches streamed from the fireplace. It parted before her and joined together behind. A few of the insects took a detour over the top of her running shoes. Huge water bugs crawled over their smaller cousins like military tanks crushing an enemy army.

Gwen dropped the cans of paint, ran from the room, through the front hall, and slammed the door behind her. She hugged herself, then thinking she may have carried a few revolting bugs out with her, she began kicking and stomping her feet.

She gave her purse three or four hard shakes before sticking her hand inside to rummage for the house key. Disgust made her fingers thick and clumsy. Once she found it, she couldn't seem to fit it into the lock. The key dropped from her hand and clattered onto the stone stoop. When she reached down to retrieve it, she saw two brown insects crawling up her leg. Gwen yelped, slapped them to the ground and trampled them in a crazy jig.

Panting, she turned to the door. Two more attempts, and she locked it. She retreated to the street, brushing down her arms and legs as she jogged. Get away. Go home. Get clean. She had a sudden compassion for people with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Get away. Go home. Get clean. The phrases revolved mantra-like through her brain.

She climbed behind the steering wheel of her car, and her eyes fell on the two boxes of ceiling lights she'd promised to deliver. She stared at them stupidly for several seconds. Get away. Go home. Get clean. The words ganged up on a another thought vying for her attention: Lance needs those.

It was another five minutes before Gwen could convince her feet to walk toward the house. Roaches were disgusting, yes, but they weren't dangerous. She'd over-reacted, she told herself, then shuddered. Some people hated snakes; some hated spiders. Gwen had a pathological aversion to roaches. Funny, she'd so recently had a conversation about this at the Barrel, and now here she was facing an apocalypse of the damn things.

She set the boxes on the porch and fit the key into the lock. Her hands were slippery with sweat, but she held on to it this time. The bolt clunked back. She knelt. With one hand, she pushed the door open a crack. With the other, she slid the boxes through. The last thing she saw before slamming the door shut again, was a water bug about a foot from her nose, antennae waving.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


After a long, hot shower and copious amounts of scrubbing, Gwen dressed for the office. She called Lance on her way and filled him in on the infestation at the house.

"That's strange." He yawned into the phone. "I've been over there for thirty of the past forty-eight hours, and the only bugs I saw were silverfish and a couple of spiders."

"There was a roach monsoon this morning."

"Bet it woke you up." Lance gave a small laugh.

"It did."

"I'll call an exterminator as soon as we hang up."

"You don't think we should cancel the open house tomorrow?"

"No. We may have to pay extra, but I'll get someone out this afternoon."

They disconnected as Gwen pulled into the Humboldt parking lot. She hurried past the reception desk toward her office. "Ms. Bishop." A voice stopped her.

Investigator Sylla rose from the visitor couch. "Do you have a moment?"

Gwen, startled to see the woman, paused before saying, "Of course." She led her to the conference room past the curious glances of coworkers and shut the door behind them.

"How can I help you?" Gwen said as they took seats across from each other at the long table. She wondered what she could say that she hadn't already.

"Just a few loose ends." Sylla smiled, her teeth brilliant against her dark skin. Gwen hadn't realized how attractive she was the first time they'd met, but, of course, she'd been distracted. "You said you'd received an email from Sondra Olsen informing you she'd be showing the property on Wednesday, February third, correct?"

"Yes." Annoyance niggled at Gwen. She'd been over this territory a hundred times already.

"You also told us she never said who her client was."

"Correct."

"Does the name Moray mean anything to you?"

Gwen shook her head. "No. Should it?"

"It's the surname of the former owner of the property on Cliff Drive in Laguna."

"I thought..." Gwen started to say she'd thought it was Randall, then realized Randall was Fiona's married name.

"Yes?" Investigator Sylla widened her eyes.

"Nothing. My client goes by Randall, but she's married."