by Greta Boris
"Hello, the house." Lance's voice rang through the empty rooms.
"In here," Gwen called from the kitchen.
"Hey, our crazed pit bull is looking pretty good this morning."
"Funny."
He dropped three bags onto the counter. "Candles—scented just in case. Crackers—to go with the cheese plates. And toilet paper. We're going to be here all day."
"Good thinking." Gwen opened the package of toilet paper, selected a candle and headed to the guest bathroom off the front hall.
"Have you been upstairs yet?" Lance followed her.
"No. I haven't had a chance."
"I put a few chairs up there, that's it. I didn't want to haul up beds and dressers. But I thought we could add pillows or a throw blanket to warm things up."
"There's a big, plastic garbage bag full of that kind of stuff in the kitchen. Help yourself." Gwen busied herself with the toilet paper holder, taking longer than necessary to insert the roll and make a triangular fold in the first sheet.
Lance watched her for a moment then disappeared into the kitchen. She'd go upstairs, just not yet. She'd used up all her courage credits opening the house by herself this morning. As she lit a candle to leave on the side of the sink, she heard Lance's footsteps on the stairs.
Several minutes later, he joined her in the kitchen. "Can I take those?" He pointed to the last bunch of flowers, bright red gazanias in a milk white jar. "The master needs a little something else."
While Lance finished the second story, Gwen ran to the car for the box she'd packed with coffee pot, cups, cream and sugar. Wine was fine for the afternoon crowd, but she for one wanted to start the day with caffeine.
"Can I help you with that?" John Gordon pulled up to the curb as Gwen lifted the cardboard crate from the trunk. John, Taryn, Eric Woo and Caroline climbed out of the vehicle.
"What are you doing here?" Gwen said.
"That's a nice greeting." John took the box from Gwen's arms.
"We wanted to see the mystery house," Eric said. "It's the highest price listing in the office."
"I brought donuts." Caroline held up a greasy bag.
The group followed Gwen inside and scattered when they hit the front hall. She could hear the click of heels on the wood floor, creaks overhead and raised voices from all around the house while she made coffee. She poured the first cup for herself and carried it into the entryway. "Coffee's ready." From that vantage point, her voice carried into every room.
John walked down the stairs a moment later and accompanied her to the kitchen. The rest entered through the door off the dining room.
"It's a bit beat up, but it's a great location," John said.
Lance moved a bite of donut into his cheek then said, "You should have seen it before we spruced things up."
"The place gives me the creeps," Caroline said.
Taryn looked at her over the top of her glasses.
Caroline's hand fluttered in the air as if she was trying to wipe away her words. "I mean, I'm sure it'll sell. The view is amazing. I just wouldn't want to be..."
Taryn put a fist to her mouth and coughed. Caroline stopped talking.
"I'd better get the signs up." Lance wiped the donut crumbs from his hands onto his pants and walked out of the kitchen.
"Do you need help with anything?" Taryn said.
"No, I think I'm good." Gwen smiled at her. Taryn never showed up at her agents' open houses, but then none of her agents ever had a multi-million dollar, beachfront listing in Laguna before. Gwen could tell she wanted to stay and make sure she and Lance didn't screw things up.
"Let's get going then," Eric said. "I want to stop by a couple of other places on our way out of town if that's okay with everybody."
The watchful silence of the house closed around Gwen when the agents left. She felt the raw edge of claustrophobia and hurried to the living room to look out at the ocean. The view from the windows usually had a calming effect on her, but while they'd been in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating donuts, a fog had blown in. The house was now shrouded in gray. The line between sea and sky invisible. She'd heard a storm front was moving in next week.
Gwen shivered.
Caroline was right. The place was creepy. They could groom it, put a bow on it, but she still didn't trust it. Once you've been bitten, it was wise to be wary.
She wished Lance would get back, but she knew he'd be a while. He had to pound in signs on the highway, north and south, and up and down all the neighboring streets. It was strange how much she'd come to rely on him even though they'd only been working together a short time. Well, not that surprising really.
Art had always been her rock—solid support, the one she depended on. Not lately. The nasty voice she'd been trying to ignore since she'd seen him and Lorelei together on the steps of St. Barnabas earlier that week crept into her mind. She's younger. She's adoring. He won't be able to resist her. She was tired of quieting that voice, of fighting it. What if he did leave her for Lorelei?
Gwen was about to sell the most expensive property of her career. Granted, she had to split the commission with Lance, but it was still a hefty sum. One listing at this price point would lead to others too. Real estate was all about groups and communities. Neighbors and buyers with a lot of money to spend would be stopping by today along with the curious and the lookie-loos.
This house, as difficult and traumatic as it had been, was an incredible opportunity. She wouldn't be dependent on the generosity of her ex-husband like her mother had been. Not that she thought Art was actually going to become an ex-husband, but she needed to look at the worst-case scenario, face her fears.
If Art left her, she'd be okay. She'd found a profession she was good at, and she had a partner. Her face softened when she thought of Lance. Not romantic thoughts. He was younger. Probably not interested anyway. But it was nice to have someone to rely on.
"Anybody home?" A voice, loud and male, made her jump. Mo stood behind her under the arched entrance to the living room. She'd forgotten she called and rescheduled the food for today.
"You startled me."
"Sorry. The door was open. I let myself in."
"That's okay. Can I help you carry?" Gwen pulled herself together.
"I've already unloaded."
Covered cheese platters were stacked on the counter in the kitchen next to plates of chocolate covered strawberries and fruit pastries. "There's a case of wine with four varietals in it—three of each. The pinot noir goes with the sharp cheddar, the Riesling with the Camembert. The Cabernet is for the chocolate, and the Viognier for the peach tartlets." He opened the top of a box on the floor to show her the wines inside.
"How long have you been here?" Gwen was surprised she hadn't heard him come in and out. He had to have made at least two trips.
"Long enough to unload." He flashed his teeth in what Gwen supposed was a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "Well, I'd better be pushing on."
Gwen walked him to the front door and watched him disappear through the gate. She turned and faced the entryway. "It's just you and me again," she said. Her voice reverberated through the still house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lance returned with some of the neighbors in tow—an older couple, both with short, tousled gray hair, dressed in running shoes and walking shorts. Gwen watched them as they traversed the courtyard, laughing with Lance as if they were old friends.
"We've been wondering what was going on around here this week," the man said.
"We figured all the banging and buzz saws must mean something good," the wife said.
"There's a lot more that needs doing, but we did fix things up a bit. Come on in." Lance ushered them forward with an extended arm.
"Welcome." Gwen plastered her best real estate agent smile on her face.
"This is my partner in crime, Gwen Bishop. Gwen, meet Bob and Betty, from three doors down." Lance made introductions.
While Bob and Betty toured the lower s
tory of the house, Gwen and Lance retired to the kitchen. Every new agent learned in Open-house 101 that etiquette demanded you allow the potential client to wander through the property alone. You made yourself available to answer questions when and if you were needed.
"I think we're going to be busy." Lance poured himself a cup of coffee. "This house is kind of famous with the murder and all. Lots of curious people."
"That's not a good thing," Gwen said.
"Oh, I don't know. They say all publicity is good publicity. Even if people aren't interested in buying this house, they might want to buy another one. Gives us a chance to charm the heck out of them."
Betty from-three-doors-down popped into the kitchen. "Do you have a flier? My cousin's husband just retired, and they're thinking about moving down to the beach. This place might be too big, but you never know."
Lance handed her paperwork and his business card. "I'd love to show her what's available in the area." His voice dropped to a sexy baritone. Betty simpered.
Gwen used to think he flirted on purpose. Now she thought it was an unconscious act, like a puppy tilting its head and looking adorable when it wanted you to throw a ball, or give it a treat. Somewhere in his life, Lance had learned when he smiled a certain way, talked a certain way, looked at women from the corner of his eye in a certain way, he got what he wanted. It used to annoy her. Not anymore. He was her partner now, so it was as much her secret weapon as his.
Bob stuck his head into the kitchen. "I'm heading upstairs, Betty."
The fascinated expression Betty had been wearing while listening to Lance talk about his experience as a Realtor, faded. "Coming," she said without so much as a glance toward her husband. "I'll give your card to Stella. I'm sure you'll be hearing from her." With that, she turned and followed her husband from the kitchen.
Gwen shook her head at Lance.
"What?" he said.
"You."
"What?" His voice rose a half-octave.
"You know what."
"I don't."
"Drink your coffee," Gwen said.
Footsteps sounded in the foyer. It was Gwen's turn to meet new prospects. She left the kitchen. This time it was a mother-daughter team. The daughter lived in the area. Mom was visiting and thinking of moving. Based on their accents, clothing, and the awe the property inspired in them, Gwen was sure neither woman could come close to affording the home. She invited them to look around. They disappeared down the hall toward the living room.
She was just thinking about heading to the kitchen to refill her coffee cup, when a loud cry and a thud echoed through the stairwell. A moment later, Bob from-three-doors-down appeared on the landing.
"I think you'd better come up here," he said.
Gwen hesitated. She wanted to run for Lance. Send him instead. But she grabbed the newel post and climbed.
Betty leaned against the wall outside the master bedroom, a hand covering her mouth. Bob stood back to let Gwen walk by. Neither spoke.
Gwen looked at her feet. They were clad in expensive pumps she'd gotten on sale at Nordstrom's. They looked confident. They took one bold step after another. She tried not to think about where they were taking her, or what she'd see when she got there. She just focused on her self-assured shoes. When her feet reached the end of the hall, Gwen forced her eyes to enter the bedroom.
At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at. She saw only colors—white and red—no distinct shapes. It was modern art. Something that gave the effect of a thing without being that thing.
The interpretation came to her all at once, like one of those pictures you have to stare at for several minutes before you can see the dragon hidden in it. It was an impressionistic tableau depicting the death of Sondra Olsen. The last thing Gwen saw before a wash of black covered her vision was the milk white vase of scarlet gazanias sitting on a small table under the window.
#
Gwen lay on the floor in one of the small bedrooms atop a throw blanket she'd brought from home. A pillow was under her head. Betty from-three-doors-down sat next to her, a glass of wine clutched in her hand.
"Want some?" she said, lifting her glass a couple of inches.
Gwen eased herself onto her elbows. "Where's Lance?"
"He's... cleaning things up."
A wave of nausea pushed Gwen back.
"Who would do a thing like that?" Betty said.
Who would do a thing like that? A rhetorical question. No real answer, so Gwen didn't say anything.
"The poor cat. I'm not a cat person. I have a Pekingese. But, really, who would do that to a defenseless creature? It's unconscionable," Betty said.
Unconscionable, good word. The kind of person who would kill a cat and leave its body on display exactly where Sondra Olsen was found had to be without conscience.
"Someone must not want this house sold, that's all I can think. But such a cruel prank. There must be other ways to stop the sale of a house." Betty gulped her wine.
Something switched on in Gwen's frazzled brain. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Occam's razor: The simplest explanation is probably the correct one. Someone didn't want the house sold. That someone had planted the roaches and the rat, and when that didn't scare her and Lance off, they resorted to killing Sondra Olsen again in feline effigy.
"This house used to be such a nice place." Betty was still talking. "Lilly Moyer was a lovely person. When she was alive, the front yard was immaculate. I was only inside once or twice, but the decor was stunning. I thought she'd used a professional decorator, but she said no. She'd done it all herself."
The name Moyer made Gwen flinch, but she pushed the emotion aside. K. Moyer, whoever he was, probably didn't give a fig if they sold this place. So who did? Gwen's mind spun with possible narratives. Could there be an insurance policy that would yield more than a sale? She rejected that idea almost at once. This property commanded a huge price tag in the current market. Insurance companies would use comparable sales. Nothing had sold in this neighborhood for at least a year, giving an adjuster an excuse to lower the payout. Besides, why would Fiona hire her, sabotage the sale, then risk arson or something else illegal? A sale was a clean, legitimate path to income.
"When Lilly died, Edward let the place go. He was bereft, the poor man. Almost a hermit. I think the only person he saw regularly was his daughter—the dancer. She would come by on Sundays. It was a shame." Betty prattled on, but Gwen no longer listened.
Another agent. Another agent was the only kind of person who could want Lance and her to lose the listing. An agent who wanted it for him or herself. Gwen had met some competitive Realtors in her time, some who would sink pretty low to get a good listing, but killing a cat and leaving its bloodied corpse in the master bedroom? It strained the imagination.
"When Edward couldn't manage alone anymore, his daughter put him in a nursing home in San Juan. I don't know what was wrong with him. Hazel, next door," Betty pointed right, "thought he had Alzheimer's. Anyway, the place fell into disrepair after he left."
"Maybe I should have some wine." Gwen didn't really want a drink, only a moment to think in peace.
"Certainly, dear." Betty patted her arm and left the room.
Gwen stared at the ceiling and began to sort through possible suspects. Taryn didn't work with clients anymore and stood to gain when the property sold. She was out. Caroline was ambitious, but too flighty to carry off the kind of complex campaign that had been waged. Besides, Caroline was a soft touch for animals. She'd wouldn't kill a rat, never mind a cat. One by one, Gwen evaluated all the agents in the office and dismissed them, until she got to John Gordon.
John was a possibility. He couldn't stand Lance. He was competitive, mean-spirited, and he was a man. Gwen thought the attacks seemed masculine in nature. Women didn't like to get their hands dirty. A woman would be more inclined to use slander, innuendo, or psychological assaults.
The more she thought about it, the more pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
She sat up. She was sure. John Gordon must be the culprit.
Fury revived her. She pushed herself off the floor and came to her feet in one motion. She needed to talk to Lance. If John thought he could intimidate them, get them to walk away from the listing, he was wrong. Dead wrong.
She traversed the hallway in long strides, her aversion to the master bedroom washed away in a flood of outrage. She found Lance squatting next to a bucket full of pink, sudsy water scrubbing the wood floor with a large sponge. He looked up at her as she entered, concern etched into the lines of his face.
"I know who did this," she said
Lance rocked back on his heels. "You look like you're feeling better."
"John Gordon."
Lance's eyebrows rose, but he didn't speak.
"Think about it. This... this person," Gwen waved a hand at the floor, "must have been trying to stop the sale of the house. What other motive could they have?"
"You think John wants that top salesman plaque so badly he'd resort to this?" Lance's voice was skeptical.
"No. I think he wants the listing. Money is a big motivator."
"He might want the listing, but even if we lost it, or walked away from it, what's to say he'd get it?"
"If he's the one sabotaging us, he knows what's happening behind the scenes. He thinks he can predict what we're going to do, when we're going to do it." A surge of anger coursed through Gwen like caffeine. She marched to the far wall and back. "He's probably had his pitch to Fiona prepared for weeks, so he can swoop in as soon he gets the word."
Lance dropped the sponge into the bucket and stood. "I'm not crazy about John, and I know he's not the most ethical guy in the world, but this seems like a stretch."
Gwen threw up her hands. "Who else then? Who else could possibly have done this?"
"I don't know, Gwen, but it's not our job to figure it out." Lance's voice was annoyingly soothing.
"You're not talking about getting the police involved?"
"I don't think we have a choice. Sondra Olsen's murderer might have been the one who did this."