A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(42)

"We can check with the security company. See if he's used his key since the box has been on."

"I'll do it on Monday, but meanwhile, let's not call the police. At least, not yet. If John didn't enter the house last night, I'll call Investigator Sylla. Okay?"

Lance inhaled and exhaled slowly. "All right. I guess we can wait a day or two. But, as far as motive goes, I still say it's a crapshoot whether John would get the listing or not. I mean, Fiona could decide to pull the house off the market, or give the listing to a friend or relative who just got a license. Anything could happen."

"True. But John can't stand you. I think he'd be happy just to take the listing away from you even if he didn't get it. It's a no-lose situation for him."

Lance picked up the bucket. "Supposing you're right. It's John. What's the plan? We can't confront him. We have no proof."

Gwen followed him into the hallway and down the stairs. "Well, for one thing, we don't cancel the open house."

"The only sign I took down was the one out front. I could put it up again."

"We don't tell anyone. We act like nothing happened."

"That would piss him off." She could hear the smile in Lance's voice. "What do we do about Bob and Betty?"

"Let me handle them," Gwen said.

Lance headed outside to clean the bucket, and Gwen went in search of the neighbors. She found them in the dining room. Bob sat in a chair and Betty stood, a wine glass in each of her hands. "You must be feeling better," she said when she saw Gwen.

"I am, thanks." Gwen took one of the glasses from her. "Can we talk?"

Betty sat across from her husband and folded her hands on the table like a schoolgirl waiting for instruction.

"I'm so sorry you were exposed to this. I feel responsible." Gwen held up a hand when they began to protest.

"How could you be responsible?" Bob said. "This was obviously the work of a reprehensible deviant. The price of the homes may make this neighborhood exclusive to live in, but you don't have to present a credit statement to visit. There is constant coming and going of all sorts, scuba divers in the mornings, beach bums and tourists all afternoon. I have to tell you; I've been thinking about selling. Moving to a gated community."

A small smile tickled at the corner of Gwen's mouth. It would be a wonderful irony if all of John's efforts to steal this listing from her and Lance resulted in their acquiring another one. "If you're thinking about selling, you'll understand when I ask you to please keep what happened here today quiet. For Fiona's sake."

"Fiona?" Bob repeated the name.

"Ed's daughter," Betty said. "I assume she owns the property now."

"Yes," Gwen said. "She was very shaken by the death that occurred in the house. She might be afraid this incident was directed at her in some way. I don't think it was. I think your assessment of the situation is the correct one. It was a random act by a transient, or some kid taking a dare. But it might be hard to convince her of that."

"I'd hate to upset her, but..." Betty let her words trail off.

"Plus, you know how people are," Gwen said. "If word got around about this, it could affect the sale of the house. Actually, it could affect values in the whole neighborhood, your house even. Nobody wants to spend several million on a home and then have to worry about vandals."

Bob and Betty looked across the table at each other, communicating without words the way people who've been married for many years do sometimes. The way Gwen and Art had done until recently. Seeming to come to an agreement, they rose as one.

"I believe you're right," Bob said. "It's not like there's a crime wave on Cliff Drive. No need to involve the police, or the gossips."

"Exactly," Gwen said. "Now, you have my card, right? I'd love to help you if you decide to relocate."

By the time Bob and Betty from-three-doors-down left the premises, Gwen had them securely in her camp.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


Art stopped by the hospital on his way to work Monday morning. Brian had woken up, but was still groggy and slept a lot. He was sleeping now, and no one else was in his room. Art offered up a small prayer, and crept out.

On the way out of the hospital, he ran into Mike McKibben.

"He awake?" Mike asked.

"Not yet," Art said.

Mike looked relieved. "I'd better get up there. I'm late. Olivia had to go back to work. The family has been taking turns sitting with him." He headed toward the elevators.

"Wait, Mike. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

They walked out of the main lobby into the smaller waiting room they'd been in the other day.

"I want to do something for Brian, for Olivia. Something practical. What does she need? I can't get anything out of her."

Art couldn't explain why it was so important for him to have a task. Maybe he was reaching for control. Maybe he needed a string of Hail Marys to assuage his guilt.

"Moral support. That's probably what she needs most," Mike said.

"I have to do more. Please."

Mike must have heard the desperation in Art's voice. "Well, she'd kill me if she knew I told you, but she might be getting kicked out of her apartment."