A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(7)

I could have disposed of Sondra's body anywhere, but no. I left her in the very place I least wanted to call attention to. Well, almost. I'd taken her upstairs. I would no more have bloodied that cellar than Howard Carter would have taken a piss in King Tut's tomb. But, still, I might as well have stood on the roof of the house with a megaphone and barked, "Step right up, gentlemen." I'd made a circus of the place.

The only excuse I can offer is that I was beside myself. It was, after all, a very eventful day. I'd scaled the castle wall for the first time, killed a gorgon, and found a treasure. Lesser deeds have had entire tomes written about them.

However, I was now stymied. How was I to proceed? The house crawled with police. They'd swarmed in like cockroaches, invading every corner. They were looking for clues to Sondra's killer, clues they weren't going to find. I'd been careful about that. But the fact they were there at all worried me. There were other things they could find.

I focused on the paper in my hands for a long while, willing something to happen. I was about to give up, fold it and stick it away when all at once a line I'd read countless times before changed. It morphed from normal newspaper font to bold, neon letters right before my eyes. The words screamed from the page. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it sooner.

Investigators on the scene had no comment when asked if they believed the crime was related to the rash of murders committed against Texas real estate agents in recent months.

The investigators had no comment. What did no comment always mean? It meant there were many comments on the topic when no reporters were within shouting distance. It meant they were halfway convinced the statement was true. It meant they didn't have evidence to support their suspicions.

I saw an opportunity. I would give them the substantiation they desired. I'd been preoccupied with trying to protect what was hidden. I'd been so busy trying to come up with ways to either retrieve or bury my treasure deeper, I'd overlooked the obvious. The best way to make my house less interesting was to make someplace else more interesting.

I would create a distraction. Lay some cockroach bait elsewhere. It wouldn't be hard with attention spans being what they are these days. I dropped the paper, turned on my computer and typed in Texas real estate killings.





Chapter Six


"Donald is on line three. He's not happy, but that's nothing new. Don't let him drone on too long; you have a meeting with the fourth-grade teachers at 12:30. Here are the files you asked for." The ever-efficient Millie handed Art a stack of manila folders. "Don't let him push you around either. I'd give him a piece of my mind if I didn't think he'd send me packing."

Art grinned. Donald Pratt, president of the St. Barnabas Board of Directors though he was, wouldn't dare fire Millie. She’d become administrative assistant to the principal when Donald was still wearing shorts and swinging a book bag. She knew where all the bodies were buried—and all the best gossip.

And like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell, she was the first terror wayward children had to pass on their way to the various circles of punishment. That kind of intimidation wasn't something you easily got over.

Art opened his mouth to thank her for the files, but before he could say anything, she said, "Oh, and bad-boy Brian is sitting on the bench in my office. He needs a word of...encouragement."

"Send him in," Art said. Brian would give him an excuse to get off the phone quickly. He picked up the receiver. "Hello, Donald."

Donald had a talent for ferreting out problems where there were none. Today he launched into his ideas for rerouting the parents' cars during student drop-offs and pick-ups. Art listened with half an ear to the latest installment in his quest for a legacy issue.

The office door opened an inch, then a few more. A small, grubby fist shot through. A sneakered foot, laces untied, followed. "I hear you, Donald. I hear you," Art said into the phone.

A pair of worried looking brown eyes peeked around the doorframe. Art waved Brian in before he could run away. "I'll tell you what, Donald, I promise to look into it, but I have a student here now. You bet. You bet. Thanks for all your hard work." Pandering to the man turned Art's stomach, but it was temporary. He only had to make it to the end of the month when Donald would make his recommendations to the board.

Brian McKibben sat in the chair opposite Art, his chin hovering a few inches above the top of the desk. He looked small and nervous, not at all like the terror of the third-grade playground.

"Fighting again?" Art asked.

Brian nodded and ran his hand under his nose leaving a long, brown smudge on his upper lip.

"What's the trouble this time?"

Brian shrugged one shoulder and looked out the window.

"Was it Dwayne?"

Brian nodded again.

Dwayne Pratt, Donald's youngest, was a bully, not unlike his father. Brian McKibben was a scholarship student at St. Barnabas. He and his mother, Olivia Richard, a waitress at Enzo's Sports Bar, lived in the only HUD housing condos in Laguna Niguel. He made a big target for a kid who could afford a lot of darts, like Dwayne.

"Fighting isn't the way to handle it, Brian. You know that. We've had this talk."

Brian studied the floor as if it might hold a hidden escape hatch.

"I'm going to have to suspend you."