A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(40)

"That's not a good thing," Gwen said.

"Oh, I don't know. They say all publicity is good publicity. Even if people aren't interested in buying this house, they might want to buy another one. Gives us a chance to charm the heck out of them."

Betty from-three-doors-down popped into the kitchen. "Do you have a flier? My cousin's husband just retired, and they're thinking about moving down to the beach. This place might be too big, but you never know."

Lance handed her paperwork and his business card. "I'd love to show her what's available in the area." His voice dropped to a sexy baritone. Betty simpered.

Gwen used to think he flirted on purpose. Now she thought it was an unconscious act, like a puppy tilting its head and looking adorable when it wanted you to throw a ball, or give it a treat. Somewhere in his life, Lance had learned when he smiled a certain way, talked a certain way, looked at women from the corner of his eye in a certain way, he got what he wanted. It used to annoy her. Not anymore. He was her partner now, so it was as much her secret weapon as his.

Bob stuck his head into the kitchen. "I'm heading upstairs, Betty."

The fascinated expression Betty had been wearing while listening to Lance talk about his experience as a Realtor, faded. "Coming," she said without so much as a glance toward her husband. "I'll give your card to Stella. I'm sure you'll be hearing from her." With that, she turned and followed her husband from the kitchen.

Gwen shook her head at Lance.

"What?" he said.

"You."

"What?" His voice rose a half-octave.

"You know what."

"I don't."

"Drink your coffee," Gwen said.

Footsteps sounded in the foyer. It was Gwen's turn to meet new prospects. She left the kitchen. This time it was a mother-daughter team. The daughter lived in the area. Mom was visiting and thinking of moving. Based on their accents, clothing, and the awe the property inspired in them, Gwen was sure neither woman could come close to affording the home. She invited them to look around. They disappeared down the hall toward the living room.

She was just thinking about heading to the kitchen to refill her coffee cup, when a loud cry and a thud echoed through the stairwell. A moment later, Bob from-three-doors-down appeared on the landing.

"I think you'd better come up here," he said.

Gwen hesitated. She wanted to run for Lance. Send him instead. But she grabbed the newel post and climbed.

Betty leaned against the wall outside the master bedroom, a hand covering her mouth. Bob stood back to let Gwen walk by. Neither spoke.

Gwen looked at her feet. They were clad in expensive pumps she'd gotten on sale at Nordstrom's. They looked confident. They took one bold step after another. She tried not to think about where they were taking her, or what she'd see when she got there. She just focused on her self-assured shoes. When her feet reached the end of the hall, Gwen forced her eyes to enter the bedroom.

At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at. She saw only colors—white and red—no distinct shapes. It was modern art. Something that gave the effect of a thing without being that thing.

The interpretation came to her all at once, like one of those pictures you have to stare at for several minutes before you can see the dragon hidden in it. It was an impressionistic tableau depicting the death of Sondra Olsen. The last thing Gwen saw before a wash of black covered her vision was the milk white vase of scarlet gazanias sitting on a small table under the window.

#

Gwen lay on the floor in one of the small bedrooms atop a throw blanket she'd brought from home. A pillow was under her head. Betty from-three-doors-down sat next to her, a glass of wine clutched in her hand.

"Want some?" she said, lifting her glass a couple of inches.

Gwen eased herself onto her elbows. "Where's Lance?"

"He's... cleaning things up."

A wave of nausea pushed Gwen back.

"Who would do a thing like that?" Betty said.

Who would do a thing like that? A rhetorical question. No real answer, so Gwen didn't say anything.

"The poor cat. I'm not a cat person. I have a Pekingese. But, really, who would do that to a defenseless creature? It's unconscionable," Betty said.

Unconscionable, good word. The kind of person who would kill a cat and leave its body on display exactly where Sondra Olsen was found had to be without conscience.

"Someone must not want this house sold, that's all I can think. But such a cruel prank. There must be other ways to stop the sale of a house." Betty gulped her wine.

Something switched on in Gwen's frazzled brain. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Occam's razor: The simplest explanation is probably the correct one. Someone didn't want the house sold. That someone had planted the roaches and the rat, and when that didn't scare her and Lance off, they resorted to killing Sondra Olsen again in feline effigy.

"This house used to be such a nice place." Betty was still talking. "Lilly Moyer was a lovely person. When she was alive, the front yard was immaculate. I was only inside once or twice, but the decor was stunning. I thought she'd used a professional decorator, but she said no. She'd done it all herself."

The name Moyer made Gwen flinch, but she pushed the emotion aside. K. Moyer, whoever he was, probably didn't give a fig if they sold this place. So who did? Gwen's mind spun with possible narratives. Could there be an insurance policy that would yield more than a sale? She rejected that idea almost at once. This property commanded a huge price tag in the current market. Insurance companies would use comparable sales. Nothing had sold in this neighborhood for at least a year, giving an adjuster an excuse to lower the payout. Besides, why would Fiona hire her, sabotage the sale, then risk arson or something else illegal? A sale was a clean, legitimate path to income.