by Greta Boris
He decided to check on Maricela. She'd appreciate his concern. Her color wasn't good. Mascara streaked her cheeks. He squatted beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. She gripped it with damp fingers and held on tight. He was beginning to wonder how long he could maintain the position, his knees not being what they once were, when the detective came outside.
Art stood, stifling a groan of relief.
"I need to take the ladies to the station to make a statement." Sylla's tone was all business. "Follow us, if you like."
#
Five hours later, Art handed Gwen a glass of wine. She sat with her feet curled under her on the couch in the family room. She was a tall woman, but the pose made her look small and vulnerable. Like a child.
"Want to tell me about it?" he said.
She took a large swig of wine. He waited. She drank half her glass, stared at the wall for a full minute then said, "It was awful." Once the pump was primed, the words flowed. "I thought it was a joke at first. Can you believe it? I actually thought someone had dragged a naked mannequin into the house, slashed it, and put that fake blood from the costume store on it. She looked like plastic—white and shiny." Gwen shivered.
Art reached for her hand and squeezed it.
"Of course, that makes no sense when you think about it. They don't make mannequins that look like people you know. Or mannequins that have pink fingernails. Or nipples. Or pubic hair." Gwen breathed deeply through her nose like she was trying to calm her stomach. "It was Sondra Olsen. From Team One Realty. She showed the place last night. Her husband reported her missing, but the police weren't taking it too seriously. Hadn't been long enough, I guess."
"Did you know she was going to show the house?"
"Yes. I talked to her in the afternoon. I warned her it needed help, but she said she had a hot prospect—wanted to see the place right away."
"She didn't say—"
"No. She did not." Gwen snapped at him. "I have no idea who she showed it to. That detective, Sylla, couldn't seem to understand that. She must have asked me fifty times."
"She's just doing her job," Art said.
Gwen removed her hand from his. "She also said I'm not supposed to talk to anyone about what I saw, and look at me. I've already blown it."
"I'm not anyone." Irritation tightened his jaw. "I'm your husband."
"It must be okay to talk to you, right?" Gwen looked at him through tear-filled eyes.
"Of course it is." Art pulled her close, leaned her head on his shoulder and rocked her as she finally cried. He felt the iceberg that had been separating them all day melt.
Several years ago, the family had visited the Living Desert—a zoo in the Palms Springs area that featured indigenous animals. Emily, their youngest, only about two at the time, toddled past the mountain lion exhibit.
Art remembered the adrenaline-fueled surge of protectiveness that coursed through him when one of the lions charged the plexiglas of its enclosure. It was hunting his daughter. It couldn't reach her. She was safe, but his hormones didn't get the message. He had that same feeling now. When Gwen's sobs subsided, he said, "You should take a break from work."
She pushed damp, auburn hair from her forehead and took a shaky breath. "Yeah. I'll take a few days off."
"That's not what I mean," Art said. "Take a break until they catch this guy."
Gwen pulled away. She didn't say anything, just played with her wine glass and took another sip. After a minute she said, "What're the chances I'll run into another dead body? I mean, that seems like a once in a lifetime opportunity."
"This guy might be targeting agents, Gwen."
"Nobody knows who did this, or why. Most murders are personal. Maybe Sondra was having an affair with some nut case, and he flipped out on her."
"She told you she was showing the house to a client." Gwen didn't answer, just sat up a little straighter on her side of the couch. "What about Texas?" he said.
"What about Texas?"
"The murders."
"They happened in Texas."
"Maybe the murderer moved to Orange County."
Over the past ten months, three real estate agents had been found dead in vacant homes in the Dallas area. There'd only been one short article in the local papers after the last death, but the Orange County Association of Realtors had taken it seriously. Safety had been a featured topic in the newsletters Gwen brought home from the office. The concern Art felt when he first saw them now exploded into full-blown worry.
"I can't abandon Maricela. I'm the one who dragged her over there, and she's shook up. She has to work," Gwen said.
"But you don't."
Gwen was quiet. Pricks of color stung Art's cheeks. Her silence was a reminder that his statement wasn't entirely true. They had needed her income the past few years, but that could change. Soon. He stood, crossed the room and leaned on the mantel. "Hopefully, in March..." He let his words trail off. He didn't want to fight again.
Art had been acting principal at St. Barnabas Lutheran School since September. At the end of this month, he would be reviewed and either get the job permanently, along with the commensurate raise, or he wouldn't. Gwen couldn't seem to understand he needed her help. The job was political, and like any candidate running for office, his family was under almost as much scrutiny as he was. Gwen couldn't, or wouldn't, show up for school events, run for a position on the PTA, or do any of the things necessary to romance the board of directors.
That morning he'd made what he thought was a simple request. Could she, please, attend a school orchestra concert next Friday night? It was one of the year's biggest events and he was giving a short address before it started. She'd said she was busy.
When he reminded her how important the wife of a St. Barnabas principal was, she reminded him she had a demanding job too. Then he'd committed the unpardonable sin, he suggested she quit when he got the new position. She'd frozen over like a shallow pond in below zero weather.
"I can't believe you're using what happened today to manipulate me. I repeat what I said this morning. I need to work. I want to work. I love my career. I'm not going to quit, go part time, or stay home and be the little woman behind the big man."
Her words bit like hail, and the temperature in the room dropped to that morning's frigid degrees.
Chapter Four
Gwen tapped out her frustration on the steering wheel. "What is going on up there? You'd think they were being dropped off for a six-month tour with the Peace Corp instead of six hours of school."
The twice-daily traffic jam at St. Barnabas Lutheran School reminded her of a herd of cattle headed for a watering hole. Mothers in minivans rattled their horns and jostled each other to best position their young.
"Everyone have their backpacks? Lunch?" Gwen said when she was able to pull forward. Art was the principal at St. Barnabas, so he took the kids to school on most days. Gwen was only called upon to be the designated driver on Mondays when he had an early breakfast meeting with the board. This also happened to be the only day Humboldt Realty had a meeting. Mondays were stressful.
"Just keep driving, Mom," Tyler said. "We'll jump and tuck and roll." Tyler was eleven, and the funny man in the family.
Emily, never one to be outdone by her older brothers, said, "I want to tuck and roll."
"You'll mess up your hair," Gwen said. "I'll stop."
She jockeyed to the curb. Tyler and Emily tumbled out of the back seat and Jason, her oldest, exited the shotgun position.
"You have your sister," Gwen said when Jason came around the driver side. "Take her to her classroom, please." Jason gave her a quizzical look. Emily was in third grade and had been walking to her class alone all school year, but Gwen's protective instincts were running wild. She and Art had decided not to tell the kids anything about the murder, no reason to give them nightmares too.
Gwen had been plagued with them since last week. Some revolved around the basement of the Laguna house. She'd find herself walking down the st
airs, terrified, but wake before she discovered the source of her fear. In others, she found Emily instead of Sondra in the upstairs bedroom. She'd even experienced a return of the recurring dream she'd had all through her childhood and teen years. It had been years since she'd had that nightmare. She was trying hard to maintain a business-as-usual front for the kids, but they were smart. They could tell something was up.
Her children turned to walk toward the brick front building.
"Hey. Goodbye." She called after them.
Emily returned and wrapped her arms around Gwen's neck and leaned in for a sticky kiss. Tyler, smelling like soap and cereal, was next. Jason stooped; the top of his red head entered the window first. He pecked her on the cheek. He was getting so tall.
Then they were off. Jason loped with the awkward gait of a teen whose brain hasn't figured out how to handle the extra inches. The two towheads jogged to keep up with him. Gwen watched until they reached the double glass doors of the school. A car horn sounded. Work. She was late.
By the time she arrived at the office, there was standing room only in the conference room. She found a piece of wall to lean on next to Maricela.
"Anything interesting?" Gwen whispered.
"Taryn's talking about the murder again." Maricela looked sick.
"She's been fixated on it," Gwen said. "It's sad, but it's over. Time to move on."
"We need to be on high alert. Especially the women." Taryn Humboldt, the owner of Humboldt Realty, addressed the room. "I called around. The Texas police recommend establishing a buddy system. It's working at Western State Realty and in Concord Realty's Houston offices. Nothing has happened since they began taking precautions."
"You really think that's necessary?" John Gordon, forty-something with a fringe of black hair encircling a balding pate, reclined in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. He was one of only three male agents in the office.
"Maybe not for you," said Caroline Bartlett—a teased blonde in leopard print pumps with a sweater that reminded Gwen of a shedding Pomeranian.
"I'd be happy to partner with one of the women. The men in the office should do what we can," Lance Fairchild said. Gwen could have sworn she heard a sigh float up like a cloud of pollen from the estrogen producers in the room. Lance was handsome—extremely handsome. Eric Woo, the only other man in the room, stared at the ceiling.
"Everyone needs to use a little common sense." John bristled.
"The old rooster doesn't like the competition," Maricela said out of the side of her mouth.
"Take the most recent case." John liked to hear himself talk. "She met the guy alone in an empty house. Not the brightest bulb on the tree if you ask me."
"You probably meet people alone all the time." Caroline's over-painted lips pouted.
"In his dreams," Gwen said under her breath.
"Maybe I do. But I'm not a woman." John sneered ever so slightly.
"Anyone who is willing to buddy up please write your name on a slip of paper and put it in this basket." Taryn held up the container normally used for sweetener packets in the coffee room. "I've also printed up a new list of safety tips issued by the Board of Realtors. Take one and read it please."
Maricela leaned closer to Gwen. "Put your name in."
"Why?" Gwen said.
"Don't even ask me that."
"We've had our fun. Things like finding dead bodies in empty houses don't happen to people twice in one lifetime."
Maricela reached for a pen and a slip of paper and wrote her name. She handed the pen and another piece of paper to Gwen when she was done. "Write."
Gwen obeyed. "Now can I get to work, Mom?" She turned from the conference table and collided with a white shirt and striped tie. It was Lance.
"I'm glad you're being smart," he said. Then he winked, threw his name in the basket and walked away.
Gwen's face grew hot. The other women in the office might find him irresistible, but she found him insufferable. He'd only been at Humboldt eight months, but he strutted around like he owned the place. The fact that he'd bagged the top sales position for five of those months and Gwen, who'd been there for years, had never had the honor, only deepened her animosity.
She sank into the chair behind her desk, flipped her laptop open and logged into her email. Today was going to be busy. She had three listings. Two were nothing to write home about, a condo and a 1,500 square foot tract, but the third took some of the sting out of temporarily losing the Laguna Beach house. It was currently a crime scene, barricaded and off-limits. She didn't know when or if Fiona would put it back on the market. She wasn't sure if she could face it if she did.
Gwen had acquired the third listing a couple of weeks ago at the end of January. It was a five-bedroom, oceanview home in Dana Point. It wasn't oceanfront, but it was in mint condition. The owner was a builder, and he'd designed the place himself.
"Are you showing the Sailor's Haven house today?" Maricela asked, as if on cue.
Maricela's desk was next to hers, which was one of the great blessings of Gwen's life. Three years ago, Gwen had sat at her empty desk for the first time with a mix of pride and dread.
She wondered how, or if, she was going to get this new enterprise off the ground. Real estate seemed like such a great idea when she and Art had discussed it, but there she sat on day one staring at a phone that wasn't ringing and a calendar as pristine as a field after a snowfall. Then Maricela sat at the desk next to hers.
They'd seen each other at St. Barnabas events but had never spoken. Once Maricela found out Gwen was Art's wife, she lit up like one of those crazy neighborhoods that go all out at Christmas. She was a fan. He had lots of them.
Within hours, Gwen was out the door previewing other agents' listings, had two appointments to show properties Maricela was too busy to handle and was scheduled to hold her first open house that Saturday.
Since then Maricela had learned to appreciate Gwen for herself, and they'd become best friends. Sometimes Gwen felt life was a constant battle with suburban obscurity. Around St. Barnabas, she was known as Art's wife, sometimes Jason, or Tyler, or Emily's mother, but never as Gwen.
"Next week," Gwen said. "I have a couple coming in from Chicago. I'm trying to bump them up to that price range."
"Bueno," Maricela said and picked up her phone.
They worked companionably for about a half hour. Gwen, engrossed in updating her listings in the Multiple Listing Service, didn't notice Taryn Humboldt's presence until a slip of paper dropped onto the calendar in front of her. Gwen picked it up and swore under her breath. Lance was her safety buddy. To her great annoyance, her heart tapped a few extra beats and her face grew hot for the second time that morning.
Chapter Five
I pulled the wrinkled newspaper article from my drawer and stared at it as I had countless times over the past week. It was illogical, but I hoped that if I looked long and hard enough the answer to my dilemma would leap from the page into my consciousness.
But I saw what I'd seen a hundred times before, a color photograph of the house with yellow, crime scene tape encircling it like a ribbon around a gift. I had handed it to them. Made a present of it. It galled me I'd been so shortsighted.
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 clue
s 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."
