A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(68)

Now she'd have to vacuum before she did the dusting. She liked to vacuum last, so as to leave the carpet all nice and smooth with no footprints. But she didn't want to risk grinding that dirt deeper into the rug.

She told Mary Beth putting a lockbox on the house was a bad idea. No telling who'd come in or what kind of things they'd do. Agatha heard stories about people putting those boxes on their front doors then coming home to find everything from pot parties to beds full of strange panties. Real estate agents were a racy bunch. Always wearing animal print skirts and spiked heels.

She shook her head, scratched around the mole on her nose, and headed to the broom closet. She vacuumed her way up the stairs. "Jeezum," she said to no one when she reached the top. Piles of dirt like the scat of an over-sized rabbit marked the carpet all the way along the hallway into the master bedroom. She poked at one with the extension hose and realized it wasn't dirt at all. It was a blackened, dried rose petal.

Someone had some nerve. Rose petals only meant one thing, an assignation. Disgusting. Doing the deed in your own bed was bad enough, she couldn't imagine doing it someone else's.

Well, it was no use getting her gorge up. What was done, was done. She turned the suction on, swept the floor with the hose, and dragged the machine behind her. She slowed as she reached the bedroom doorway, worried about what she might find around the corner.

If she saw a pair of black lace panties, or worse, red ones, she wasn't going to touch them. Not with her bare hands. People who leave their underwear in other people's beds are the kind of people that carry diseases. No sir. She loved Mary Beth, but she wasn't touching anything like that.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the bedroom. "Jeezum," she said again. The room was a mess. The bedclothes had been pulled this way and that, the broken bits of what had once been a lamp littered the floor. Mr. Charles' golf trophy lay on the carpet next to a big, brown stain.

The room smelled funny too. She sniffed—Mary Beth's favorite bath salts. Now, wasn't that the cherry on top of the crap heap? "Can you imagine?" she said aloud with her hands on her hips.

Wait until the Frobishers found out. She wouldn't say, "I told you so." Nope. She didn't want to rub their noses in it. They could see for themselves she'd been right. Right as rain.

She picked up what was left of the lamp and vacuumed up the broken glass around it. She started to straighten the bed then stopped. Mary Beth and Charles would be home in a few days. They ought to have fresh, clean sheets for their homecoming. Especially since she was none too sure about what had been going on in that bed while they were gone.

She tore the linens from the mattress and was grateful she didn't find any unmentionables. Then she headed to the bathroom hamper. When she reached the open door, she sniffed again. There was something rotten under the sweet floral scent of the bath salts. Not wanting to look but not daring not to, she dragged her eyes to the source of the smell. The linens fell to the floor with a swoosh. Bobbing in the bloody tub was the bloated, white body of a naked man.

"Jeezum."





CHAPTER FIFTY


"Daddy," an insistent voice buzzed in Art's ear. "Daddy, I'm hungry." Why Emily felt waking him with a whisper was any better than shouting, he didn't know.

"There's cereal." He rolled to his other side, turning his back to her.

"I want donuts." She climbed on top of him, riding his hip like a pony.

"Later, okay?"

"I'm hungry."

A small earthquake erupted under his bed. A moment later a hot tongue slapped his cheek, and dog breath filled his nostrils.

"Good morning, Rocket," Emily said and hugged the dog to her chest. Rocket attempted to wiggle out of her grip, tongue seeking her face now. She giggled.

Art squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the wrestling match taking place on top of him. It was useless. Sleep was gone.

After settling Emily and the dog in front of the TV with instructions to wake the boys if she needed anything, he left the house in search of breakfast. His first stop was the market for milk, bread and eggs. Then he noticed the fuel gauge in the van. Almost empty. He made it to the gas station and filled up before heading to the donut shop.

When he turned onto his street forty-five minutes later, panic punched him in the chest. Two cars, a police cruiser and a plain sedan, were parked in front of his house. He pulled into his driveway and ran up the walk. A uniformed officer and the same female detective he'd seen at the Laguna Beach crime scene, Investigator Sylla, stood outside his door.

"The kids. Are they—" he said.

"They haven't let us in, so I can't say," Sylla said.

"Gwen?" A new kind of dread filled him.

"Your wife is fine as far as we know, Mr. Bishop. But I need to speak with you. Can I come inside?" Tyler and Emily peered out through the front window.

"What's going on, Dad?" Jason opened the front door.

"I don't know, J-Man," Art said. "But I need you to take your brother and sister into the den. Keep them busy, okay?"

Emily flew out from behind Jason and tackled Art. Tyler was right behind her.

"Dad, we didn't know what to do. You said don't let anyone in, but they're police." Tyler's face crumpled.