by Greta Boris
"Maslow's hierarchy of needs," Art said.
Olivia looked at him with a question in her eyes.
"Maslow was psychologist. He came up with this pyramid to graph human needs from basic to more complex. His theory was that a person wouldn't experience the needs at the higher points on the pyramid if the needs in the lower categories weren't met.
“For instance, if you don't have food or shelter, or if there is some circumstance threatening your safety, you're not going to be spending a lot of time worrying about your social status. I think it's pretty accurate."
"How does this apply to me?" she asked.
"Don't be hard on yourself for feeling upset with Brian for being difficult. That's normal parent stuff. You were both safe, fed, sheltered. Your basic needs were met. You were trying to fine tune life. Nothing wrong with that."
"I've been leveled." Her eyes grew watery. "Reduced to life or death. Nothing else is important."
"Exactly." Art squeezed her hand. "So, let me help with some of the other stuff. What can I do?
"Just be a friend."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I'm glad I didn't get in bed with Caroline Bartlett, as the expression goes. My father's home was for sale again, so I hadn't needed to slay that dragon after all. More importantly, it would've been a reflection of my taste.
That house... Expensive? Yes. Tacky? Yes. I like to think I have some breeding, at least on my father's side.
I went to see him when I was eighteen. My mother knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who impregnated her. When I was conceived, he was keeping her in a very nice little house and paying all the bills, so she had no need for other friends. When he learned of the pregnancy he abandoned her. Oh, he paid dearly for her silence. Gave her the house and a healthy sum of money to keep her in groceries until she got her figure back. But I never saw a dime of it.
I wanted to go to college. I'd had good grades in high school. Not good enough to get a scholarship, but good. I knew my father was quite wealthy. Since he hadn't contributed to my needs up to this point, I figured he owed me something. A college education seemed like the least he could do.
I drove to Laguna and parked on the street in front of his house. I sat and watched and wondered what to do. What was behind door number one?
After a while, a woman with brown hair I assumed was his wife, pulled out of the driveway in a white Cadillac. I took advantage of the opportunity.
When I rang the bell, my father answered the door himself. It surprised me. I'd assumed he had a maid for that kind of thing, but I guess he fancied himself a liberal, open-minded sort of man.
He had no idea who I was. He stood there in his shirtsleeves, smiling pleasantly and asked, "Can I help you?"
"Yes, you can," I said.
He cocked his head to the side and waited. He wasn't going to ask me in. He must not have noticed the family resemblance that was so apparent to me. I didn't want to break it to him on his doorstep. I would rather he was sitting down, but he gave me no choice.
"Hello, Father," I said.
I'm not sure what I was expecting. I'd fantasized about him throwing his arms around me and welcoming me into the family with tears in his eyes, but I knew that was unlikely. More probably, he'd want to maintain the secret of my birth.
I could understand that. Respect it even. He had a wife and a daughter. I would be hard to explain. But maybe he'd want to meet his only son for a drink now and again.
His pleasant, benevolent expression changed in an instant. His eyes narrowed. His face grew stony. "Excuse me?"
"Hello, Father," I said again.
"Who are you?"
"Your son." I shouldn't be a complete surprise. He'd known about my birth.
"I don't have a son." His voice was as cold as his visage.
"And yet, here I am. Can't we go inside?" I said.
He stared at me for a long moment. So long I thought he was considering letting me in, but then he said, "If you think you're going to get money from me by perpetrating a fraud, you're sadly mistaken."
The door began to close. I stuck my foot in the opening.
"This is no fraud, Father."
"Get your foot out of my doorway," he said. I could smell his anger.
"Please..."
His voice grew low and menacing. "Get off my property, or I will call the police."
At that moment, I never wanted anything as much as I wanted to be let into that elegant house. As hopeless as the idea was, I longed to walk through the hall that opened into the sunlit rooms beyond, to chat over a drink, to dine with the family.
"Can't we talk about this?" The words struggled past my tightening throat.
"I'm asking you one more time to remove your foot from my doorway."
There was no point in getting in a wrestling match. I left.
That night I walked down the public stairs to the beach. The tide was high. I sat on the bottom step, removed my shoes and rolled up my pant legs. I waded in the whispering waves down the beach until I stood under the house.
It blazed with light from the French doors and windows that faced the ocean. I could see people moving about inside. The brown-haired woman walked back and forth between rooms. My father, head bent over a book, looked up every so often and laughed at someone I couldn't see. I belonged in that room. It was my birthright.
I'm not sure how long I stayed that first night, but at some point I felt the water climb to the middle of my calves, sopping my pants. I needed to leave if I didn't want to go for a swim. As I turned away, movement in the window caught my eye.
It was a girl.
A lovely, redhaired girl. She stepped to the French doors to look out at the night. In the gleam of the lamplight, her hair glowed like a fiery halo.
Years later, I read in the paper that my father had donated a large sum of money, much more than a Bachelor's degree would have cost, to the college I had hoped to attend. They put his name on a plaque in the wing of the building he helped to fund. His daughter, my half-sister, received a master's degree from the same school.
She also gained the house. It was on the market again, but that didn't solve my original problem—how to remove my inheritance. What I needed most now was time to think, time to plan. If I could put off the sale, I wouldn't have to worry about new owners locking it up tight against me before I was ready to make a move. I became more cheerful as I pondered my options. Maybe there was a way I could get my inheritance, and my sister would get what she deserved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The past few days on Cliff Drive were productive ones. Gwen developed a whole new appreciation for Lance. He wasn't just a pretty boy after all. With hammer in hand, he reminded her of one of those Nordic gods of wind or waves. She decided there ought to be a hurricane named after him.
He'd located the source of the mold smell in the attic. It was the result of a leaky section of roof. He summarily patched the tiles and moved on to the bathrooms, just in case they were contributing to the home's pervasive perfume. He replaced two toilets, four faucets and a showerhead. Then gave each room a coat of fresh paint. Even the towel racks and electric switch plates gleamed.
Lance installed things as fast as Gwen could purchase them. Which was the reason for her trip to the house this morning. He planned to paint the hallways and put up new overhead lighting as soon as he could get away from the office. She'd shopped last night, gone for an early run on the beach, and stopped by to drop off the paint and lamps.
In the front hall, Gwen noted that bleach and a strong fan—Lance's idea—had worked wonders on the attic mold. The old musty odor had been replaced by the clean, sharp smells of new paint, wood polish and cleaning products. It gave her courage.
If you'd have told her forty-eight hours ago she'd be coming here in the early hours of the day, alone, she'd have laughed. Yet here she was with only a slight jogging of her pulse. The renovation affected more than the house. Gwen's fears became less and less marked with each coa
t of new paint.
She hefted two gallons of Soft Cotton flat enamel across the foyer and into the living room. The ocean reflected the newly risen sun. Flecks of gold and silver glimmered on its surface. If this were her home, she'd decorate to complement the daily show outside. She imagined herself lounging on a deep maroon couch settled across from both the brick fireplace and the wall of windows with a cup of steaming coffee.
She wouldn't put up curtains or shades. She'd welcome the sky and ocean into the space. Privacy wasn't an issue. No one could see in. Not unless they stood on the sand and peered up, and who would do that?
Lost in thought, it was a minute or two before Gwen noticed the scurrying near her feet. Blinded by the light from the windows, at first she couldn't discern what the black specks scuttling across the hardwood were. When her eyes adjusted, she screamed.
The room was alive.
A brown river of cockroaches streamed from the fireplace. It parted before her and joined together behind. A few of the insects took a detour over the top of her running shoes. Huge water bugs crawled over their smaller cousins like military tanks crushing an enemy army.
Gwen dropped the cans of paint, ran from the room, through the front hall, and slammed the door behind her. She hugged herself, then thinking she may have carried a few revolting bugs out with her, she began kicking and stomping her feet.
She gave her purse three or four hard shakes before sticking her hand inside to rummage for the house key. Disgust made her fingers thick and clumsy. Once she found it, she couldn't seem to fit it into the lock. The key dropped from her hand and clattered onto the stone stoop. When she reached down to retrieve it, she saw two brown insects crawling up her leg. Gwen yelped, slapped them to the ground and trampled them in a crazy jig.
Panting, she turned to the door. Two more attempts, and she locked it. She retreated to the street, brushing down her arms and legs as she jogged. Get away. Go home. Get clean. She had a sudden compassion for people with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Get away. Go home. Get clean. The phrases revolved mantra-like through her brain.
She climbed behind the steering wheel of her car, and her eyes fell on the two boxes of ceiling lights she'd promised to deliver. She stared at them stupidly for several seconds. Get away. Go home. Get clean. The words ganged up on a another thought vying for her attention: Lance needs those.
It was another five minutes before Gwen could convince her feet to walk toward the house. Roaches were disgusting, yes, but they weren't dangerous. She'd over-reacted, she told herself, then shuddered. Some people hated snakes; some hated spiders. Gwen had a pathological aversion to roaches. Funny, she'd so recently had a conversation about this at the Barrel, and now here she was facing an apocalypse of the damn things.
She set the boxes on the porch and fit the key into the lock. Her hands were slippery with sweat, but she held on to it this time. The bolt clunked back. She knelt. With one hand, she pushed the door open a crack. With the other, she slid the boxes through. The last thing she saw before slamming the door shut again, was a water bug about a foot from her nose, antennae waving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After a long, hot shower and copious amounts of scrubbing, Gwen dressed for the office. She called Lance on her way and filled him in on the infestation at the house.
"That's strange." He yawned into the phone. "I've been over there for thirty of the past forty-eight hours, and the only bugs I saw were silverfish and a couple of spiders."
"There was a roach monsoon this morning."
"Bet it woke you up." Lance gave a small laugh.
"It did."
"I'll call an exterminator as soon as we hang up."
"You don't think we should cancel the open house tomorrow?"
"No. We may have to pay extra, but I'll get someone out this afternoon."
They disconnected as Gwen pulled into the Humboldt parking lot. She hurried past the reception desk toward her office. "Ms. Bishop." A voice stopped her.
Investigator Sylla rose from the visitor couch. "Do you have a moment?"
Gwen, startled to see the woman, paused before saying, "Of course." She led her to the conference room past the curious glances of coworkers and shut the door behind them.
"How can I help you?" Gwen said as they took seats across from each other at the long table. She wondered what she could say that she hadn't already.
"Just a few loose ends." Sylla smiled, her teeth brilliant against her dark skin. Gwen hadn't realized how attractive she was the first time they'd met, but, of course, she'd been distracted. "You said you'd received an email from Sondra Olsen informing you she'd be showing the property on Wednesday, February third, correct?"
"Yes." Annoyance niggled at Gwen. She'd been over this territory a hundred times already.
"You also told us she never said who her client was."
"Correct."
"Does the name Moray mean anything to you?"
Gwen shook her head. "No. Should it?"
"It's the surname of the former owner of the property on Cliff Drive in Laguna."
"I thought..." Gwen started to say she'd thought it was Randall, then realized Randall was Fiona's married name.
"Yes?" Investigator Sylla widened her eyes.
"Nothing. My client goes by Randall, but she's married."
"I was referring to her father."
"What does this have to do with anything?" The question snapped from Gwen's lips. The conversation seemed irrelevant, and she had so much to do to get ready for the open house tomorrow.
"The name came up on the schedules of all the Orange County murder victims in the week before they were killed. Seems a bit of coincidence."
Gwen inhaled sharply. "Not the Texas victims?"
"No. Not Texas."
"Moray is a pretty common name, isn't it? Was there a first name?" Gwen could hear the defensiveness in her own voice, and wondered why this bit of news made her throat constrict.
"No. Only an initial on one of the victim's calendars, K. The others just wrote Moray. Nothing else."
"What was Fiona's father's name?" Gwen wanted it to be Michael, Bob, or Andrew—anything but Kevin or Kurt.
"Edward. Not a fit. But, we're following all leads. I've already spoken to your client, but thought you might have heard something from another agent."
"No," Gwen said.
"Well," the woman pushed herself away from the table and rose in one fluid motion. "I don't recommend setting appointments to show property with anyone named Moray." Investigator Sylla showed herself out.
Gwen sat and stared at her hands folded on the table before her. The hair on her forearms stood at attention. Tension flickered across her skin like static electricity. Attaching a name, any name, to the killer gave him form, substance. He'd only been an amorphous shadow in her mind before this. He'd become a person. That he shared Fiona's maiden name was even more unsettling. An image of evil, born from the dark basement womb of the Cliff Drive house rose in her mind.
"You okay?"
Gwen jumped.
"It's just me." Maricela leaned through the doorway. "I saw that woman cop driving away when I pulled into the center. What did she want?"
"Do you know anyone named Moray?" Gwen asked.
Maricela shook her head. "Why?"
Gwen filled her in on the conversation. Maricela sank into the chair Investigator Sylla just vacated, worry clouding her face. "What do they think? Do they think it's some relative of Fiona's who's killing people?"
"She didn't say."
"You look upset?"
"I am. For some reason hearing a name terrifies me."
"Everyone has a name, chica." Maricela covered Gwen's hand with one of hers.
"I know."
"It seems good to me. Like the cops are maybe getting somewhere, closer to catching him."
"Right. You're right." Gwen said. "It's been a crazy morning."
"You know what you need?"
"What?"
&
nbsp; "You need to go shopping."
#
A half hour later Gwen and Maricela were wandering through an antique mall downtown San Juan Capistrano looking for things to dress up their listings. Gwen held up a ceramic Toreador lamp topped by a frolicking bull lampshade. "You could do a Mexican theme."
"Or, I could shoot myself," Maricela said. "We're going tropical. Rosie—she's the decorator my clients hired—said the colors should remind people they're close to the beach. She's really good. You should talk to her about the Laguna property."
"We can't afford an interior designer. Our goal is to clean things up, downplay the house and focus attention onto the views. I just need a couple of vases. Fresh flowers cover a multitude of sins."
"I wonder what's in here?" Maricela stood at the open door of a storage room stuffed floor to ceiling with merchandise. Chairs and tables were piled one on top of another dimming the light from overhead neon bulbs.
Gwen pointed to a "sale" sign with an arrow directing buyers inside.
"Let's check it out." Maricela disappeared down a narrow path between mountains of furniture.
"I'll wait here," Gwen called after her.
"Be right back." Her voice echoed from the doorway.
Gwen browsed the booths near the entrance until Maricela returned with two vases. "How do you like these?"
"Perfect. I'll take them."
"Chica, what's with you and tight places?"
"Not sure what you mean," Gwen said. "What do you think of these bowls? You could fill them with sea shells for the coffee table—kinda tropical."
"Bonita." Maricela took them from Gwen. "But don't change the subject."
"I have a touch of claustrophobia, that's all." Gwen said.
"A touch? You wouldn't try on that skirt at the mall because the changing room was too small."
"It was too small. And dark. It was dark too."
"Have you thought about seeing someone?" Maricela asked.