A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(72)

The words "crime scene" wouldn't compute. Crime scenes were things in CSI episodes and news stories. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea they also existed on bright sunny days in suburbia, or that his wife had anything to do with one.

Mike McKibben's call hadn't been encouraging. Maricela was correct. Lance was a player. According to many who knew him, he'd had several affairs in recent months. The police were tracking down his various lovers. However, the cops' favorite scenario to date was that Gwen had murdered Lance in a fit of jealousy and was now hiding out.

The fact that both Gwen and Lance were real estate agents and three other agents had recently been murdered was looked at as coincidence. This seemed even more illogical to Art than sitting in front of Humboldt Realty and waiting for Gwen to appear.

A man walked out the front door of a small shop a few doors from Humboldt. He placed an easel next to the entrance and walked inside. A minute later, he came out again carrying a blackboard. He adjusted the board on the easel. Art could read the writing from where he sat. "Wine tasting from 1:00 to 5:00. Flights of five for $15." The name of the establishment was printed in bold, black letters on a sign above a large display window—The Leaky Barrel.

That was the place Maricela said she'd seen Gwen and Lance on Thursday. Art also had a hazy memory of Gwen telling him she'd discovered a red wine she loved that could only be purchased at a small shop near her office. The wine had a funny name, Ravishing, or something like that. It had reminded him of a romance novel.

Mike told him the police found several opened bottles of red wine in the Dana Point house. He knew this was at best a fuzzy clue, but it was the only clue he had. He got out of the car.

He didn't know what he'd say to the proprietor. He had no plan. Social niceties no longer mattered. He placed himself somewhere near the bottom of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs right now. All he cared about was getting his wife back. He'd worry about what she did or didn't do when he found her. If this was the last place people had seen her and Lance together, maybe he would find out something about what happened.

He opened the door of the shop and jumped. The clanging of a ship's bell rang in his ears. The man Art had seen outside appeared through a doorway behind a small bar and smiled through a neatly trimmed goatee.

Art had never thought about where the word "goatee" came from, but when he looked at this man, it was suddenly obvious. The shopkeeper looked like a well-groomed mountain goat. He was Pan or Bacchus from a classic painting—-appropriate, or ironic depending on how you looked at it, for the owner of a wine shop. Art half-expected to see a pair of horns jutting from the cap on his head.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"I hope so." Art walked toward the bar. "My name is Art Bishop. My wife frequents your shop."

The man cocked his head to one side but didn't speak.

"Her name is Gwen. She works at Humboldt." Art gestured in the direction of the brokerage.

"Oh, Gwen. Yes, I know your wife. She stops in every so often for a bottle of Ravish."

"Right." Art brightened. The man knew who she was anyway. "Gwen is... I'm trying to find my wife. I thought maybe you could help me."

"How would I do that?"

"A friend told me she saw Gwen coming out of your shop on Thursday afternoon."

The goat man looked at the ceiling and stroked his beard. It was a theatrical gesture. Almost as if there was a director in the wings signaling him to strike a pose that would indicate "thinking" or "remembering."

"Maybe she was," he finally said. "She bought some wine last week. It might have been Thursday. I could check my records if you'd like?"

"There was someone with her," Art said. "A man named Lance Fairchild. He's also a Humboldt agent."

"Oh, yes. Yes. I remember now. Gwen, Mrs. Bishop, came in first. Lance, a few minutes later. They ended up sitting at that table over there." He pointed to a high top nearby. "They had a glass of wine and talked for a while."

"Did you hear what they were talking about?" As soon as Art asked he felt foolish. If the man had been eavesdropping it would be the last thing he'd want to admit. Just as Art guessed, a look of horror crossed the proprietor's face.

"No. I wouldn't dream of listening in on a private discussion. My patrons know their privacy is always respected." He turned away and reached for a case of wine sitting on the floor near the register. "I have a party coming in for a wedding shower in an hour. I have to set up. Is there anything else?"

"Listen, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just at the end of my rope," Art said.

The man stood, holding the case of wine, and waited.

"Gwen is missing. I'm afraid something may have happened to her. I'm looking for information, anything...."

An odd look, a mix of unwholesome excitement, hunger and fear, flickered across the man's face. It happened so fast; Art wasn't sure he'd seen it when he thought about it later. But it was the moment everything changed.

"I'm sorry for you. Gwen seems like a lovely woman, but I don't know what I can tell you. She and Lance Fairchild had a glass of wine and left. That was the last time I saw either one of them."

Art knew he was lying. It wasn't anything he could take to the police, but he knew. Art was a professional when it came to spotting deflection, evasion, and fabrication. He'd been judge and jury at more juvenile crimes than he could count over the past fifteen years. This guy stank, from the top of his stupid ship captain's hat to the bottom of his superior attitude.