A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(73)

Art wanted to shake him. To push him up against a wall and demand the truth. The guy was hiding something, and Art wanted to know what.

"If you think of anything, maybe you'll give me a call?" Art said.

"Of course," the goat man smiled again. It was an unpleasant smile, more like a baring of teeth.

"Here's my card," Art said, placing it on the bar and walking out of the shop.





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


I hustled from table to table filling wine glasses and refilling platters of chocolate bonbons. It was demeaning, waiting on a room full of women. I should be served, not serving. Soon, I comforted myself. I would come into my own soon.

I had my first wedding shower at the shop two years ago. Not only did I sell several cases of wine and sign thirteen women to my membership program, but the mother-of-the-bride purchased the wine for the wedding reception from me instead of serving the swill the venue provided.

Since that time I did showers whenever I could get them, but today was decidedly a bad day. I would have closed up the shop if it wasn't for the event. It forced me to open. I guess it was just as well. It would have been a mistake to do anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious.

The bride sat at a high top table—princess for a day—opening gifts while another girl created a ribbon bouquet from a paper plate. I used to think it was an absurd ritual. As if catching a wad of trash could assure a marriage proposal.

At a shower I hosted a year ago, however, the most unattractive girl in the room rammed through a lineup of women and tackled the festooned plate like a football player. I didn't believe there was a bouquet with magic powerful enough to make a man want her, but she scheduled a wedding shower with me six months later.

I wondered who the poor slob was. What I wouldn't have given to be a fly on the wall the morning the spell was broken. The morning he saw her for what she was—a gargoyle. By then it would be too late. He'd be trapped.

I opened the last two bottles of the white I'd been serving and realized I'd forgotten to bring more from the back room. I was having a hard time concentrating. All I could think about was returning to my father's house.

"Oh, how cute." The bride waggled sheer white panties and a matching bra in the air and all the women cooed.

It was obscene. Why did women feel it was not only fine, but necessary to display their underclothes? If I waved my briefs around like that, I'd be arrested.

I was about to go get the other case of wine when the bell rang. A short, dark woman in khakis and a white blouse entered. She walked across the room with an economy of movement I found both fascinating and disturbing. There was something about her I associated with the male gender, but she wasn't masculine. Still, she was as out of place in this gaggle of giggling females as I was.

"Mr. Cotton?" She wasn't American, at least she hadn't grown up here. Her accent was continental.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"Investigator Sylla, Orange County Sheriff's Department." She showed me her badge and the hair on the back of my neck rose. I tipped my head to one side and smiled as agreeably as I was able.

"I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?" British. She sounded British.

"I'm right in the middle of a party," I said, lacing my words with an apology.

"I'll only take a minute. Is there somewhere we could talk?"

I started toward my office, but stopped short. Gwen's clothes. They were still there in the wine crate. I hadn't had time to get rid of them. Even if the detective didn't see them, she'd smell them.

"On second thought," I said turning. "I'd better stay out here. Keep the party going."

Investigator Sylla narrowed her eyes. "Very well then. On Thursday, the twenty-fifth, Gwen Bishop met with Lance Fairchild here in your shop."

It was a statement, not a question, so I didn't respond.

"I understand they're both frequent patrons of yours?"

"Yes. They work at Humboldt." I pointed in the direction of the brokerage.

"What did they talk about?"

"I'm not in the habit of eavesdropping on my customers."

"Sometimes we can't help but overhear things," she said in a warm manner, as if we were old friends.

"I didn't," I said.

"What about the tone of the conversation then? Did it strike you as friendly? Angry? You're used to dealing with the public. What were your impressions?"

The more she tried to cozy up to me the warier I became. "What is this about?" I made my tone indignant.

"Mr. Fairchild is dead, and Ms. Bishop is missing." Her voice became flat. “Anything you can tell us would be most helpful."

I was saved from having to answer by the mother-of-the-bride to be. "Mo. More white, please. We're out." For once, I appreciated the high-need women I was waiting on.

"How terrible. What happened?" I attempted to look shocked and dismayed.

"That's what we're trying to discover." Her face was solemn.

I matched her expression. "Let me think about it. I'm a bit distracted at the moment."

"Right." She handed me a card. "Call me if something comes to you."

"Of course." I smiled sadly until the door banged shut behind her, then stumbled into my office. The smell hit me as soon as I entered. Thank God I'd remembered the clothes before I'd brought her here. I had hidden the wine crate with the soiled garments under the floor with the clothes from the other agents. If those had been found... I tasted bile.