by Greta Boris
"You okay?" she asked.
Maricela raised her eyes to Gwen's face. They were rimmed with red.
"What?" Gwen defaulted to her own worst fears and wondered if the problem lay with Maricela's daughter. "Is Julissa—"
"She's fine," Maricela said in a shaky voice. "They found another body."
The weight of Maricela's words took several seconds to fall. When they did, Gwen sat, her knees giving way.
"Who?"
"A San Clemente agent. Rachel something. They found her in her listing."
"It could be a coincidence," Gwen said without conviction.
"The police are being quiet. No details. But she was found in an empty, oceanview house. What do you want to bet she was naked and all sliced up? It's him again. I know it."
Gwen reached out a hand and squeezed her friend's arm. "Look, it's upsetting. It's bad. But forewarned is forearmed, right? We know he's out there. We can take precautions."
Maricela rested her head in her hands. "I'm scared. It feels personal. Like he's after me."
"But he's not. Who knows what he's after, but what this tells us is it isn't personal. Two different agents. Two different towns. He's an opportunist, and you and me, we're not going to give him an opportunity."
Maricela stared at her desktop without speaking.
"Look, I've got to go. I'm already late for an appointment. It's Friday. Let's go over to the Barrel and get a glass of wine tonight after work. We can talk more."
On her way to Dana Point, Gwen tried to shake off the sense of dread that followed her from the office. She needed to focus.
She wanted a strong offer on the Dana Point house before the Frobishers returned from Europe. Arnold and Etta were qualified, motivated buyers. She should be excited, but she disliked dealing with the man. She exited the San Diego Freeway onto the Coast Highway and wondered, as she often did when life was difficult, how different things might have been if she'd pursued her early dreams.
She remembered the exact moment she'd set her goal of an acting career aside.
She and Art had been engaged for two months. He was working at St. Barnabas, teaching high school English, and she was about to graduate with a degree in Drama from UC Irvine.
Gwen was performing in a montage of one-act plays at the college. Art attended. After the event, he took her out for a late dinner at a pub near the campus theater.
Gwen didn't notice his mood immediately. She was excited, riding the adrenaline high she always felt after a performance. But after receiving only monosyllabic responses to her enthusiasm, she stopped talking and looked more closely at him. Art loved to discuss all forms of literature, but tonight he was silent.
"Are you sick?" she asked.
"No," he said.
"What's with you then?"
"Hmph."
"Didn't you like the show? I thought you'd love it. There was humor, but it was thoughtful. When you realize, at the end, that the old man in the wingback chair is really the little boy from the first vignette, I mean, that got you didn't it? It got me when I read the script."
"Yeah, it was good."
"It was good? That's it? I thought it was borderline brilliant."
"Right." Art almost snapped at her. Art never snapped at her.
"Okay, maybe not brilliant, but the best thing we did all year," Gwen said, hurt.
A stony silence dropped between them. The waitress, a girl Gwen knew from the Dance department, walked up to the table with feet locked in first position. She placed burgers in front of them.
"How was the play?" she asked and leaned onto one leg so the other toe could rise to full pointe.
"Great, it went great." Gwen beamed an exaggerated smile in her direction.
"I'm coming tomorrow night," the waitress said. "I have to write papers about three live performances this semester."
Gwen waited until the waitress sashayed away. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"
Art looked her in the eye for the first time since they'd sat down. "I don't think I can do this."
"Do what?" A cold finger poked at Gwen's stomach. She pushed her burger into the center of the table.
"I know it's silly. Not sophisticated. Small minded."
"What is?"
Art drew designs in his ketchup with a French fry for an annoying number of minutes before he said, "I hate watching you kiss other guys."
It wasn't what she expected. Gwen had thought he was going to break up with her, ask for the ring back. In many ways, she felt he was too good to be true and maybe too good for her. He was smart, handsome, kind and five years older— just old enough to engender a schoolgirl crush. But this, this she didn't know what to do with.
"But, you've been to my perfor—"
"I know. That's why it's so miserable of me to say this now. I've known all along you want to be an actress. It's just... well, everybody wants to be an actor, you know?"
"So, you didn't think I would make it? Is that what you're saying?" Gwen's voice rose. A couple at the next table glanced over.
"No, honestly, I guess I didn't, or maybe I hoped you wouldn't. But, tonight, you were so good."
Gwen softened. "Thank you for your half-assed compliment, I think."
"That movie we saw Thursday, the love scenes, the actors were all over each other. I put you in that bed and me in the audience. I couldn't stand it, watching you rolling around naked with some buff actor. It was the first time I thought about it."
"I won't do nude scenes. I told you that," Gwen said, trying to lighten the mood.
Art's eyes lifted to her face, "Technically, it wasn't a nude scene. We couldn't see anything with them lying on top of each other."
Gwen nodded. Technically, he was right. "I couldn't work if I refused romantic parts, unless all I did was TV commercials."
Art looked hopeful.
"That's not going to happen." Gwen shut him down.
"You could teach," Art said. "St. Barnabas has a Drama teacher. She runs the school plays."
Gwen wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wanted to be in the spotlight, not buried backstage. But the conversation turned to their post-wedding plans, and she was saved from having to comment. As Art talked, an understanding of his vision of marriage and family dawned on her.
She got it. Frequent trips to L.A. for a soap opera role in which her character jumped from steamy bed to steamy bed didn't fit the plan. She also realized a good man—the kind of man she wanted—would be protective, would cherish her but would struggle with seeing her embrace another man, even if the passion was only pretend
In that moment, she loved him more than ever. The shallowness of tinsel town became so obvious; she wondered why she hadn't seen it sooner. Gwen graduated with her degree in Drama, but other than directing the church Christmas pageant each year, she never used it. She’d had Jason a year after they were married and settled into a life without acting.
Gwen turned onto Sailor's Haven Drive and pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Most days weren't as hard as today, and most of her clients weren't as difficult as old Arnie, she reminded herself. Real Estate wasn't a bad gig, and some of the acting techniques she'd used came in handy.
Over the years, she'd learned something about herself. She'd learned her chosen profession wasn't as important to her as success. She also knew it was more likely to get to the top of the real estate ladder than it would have been to climb Hollywood's slippery slopes.
The Pauls' rental car was already in the driveway. Great. She was ten minutes late, and sure she'd hear about it. The driver side door opened and Arnold unfolded himself from the compact vehicle. Gwen walked wide, around the passenger side, so she wouldn't interfere with Etta's exit, but the door didn't open.
"I thought you said three o'clock." Arnold Paul raised an eyebrow above his bifocals.
"I'm so sorry, traffic..." Gwen gave him her brightest smile.
"Well, let's take another look. Shall we?" He ma
rched toward the front door. Gwen peeked through the tinted windows of the car on her way past. Empty.
"Where's Etta today?" she asked.
"At the hotel. Migraine," he answered.
Gwen popped the key from the lockbox and opened the front door. She shouldn't be entering the property with Arnold, alone. Especially after the conversation she'd just had with Maricela. There had been two Realtors murdered in Orange County in as many months. This was foolish.
What was she going to do about it now, though? After putting up with Arnold's insults and condescension, she'd be damned if she would risk losing the fruit of her labors. He was interested in this house. If he purchased it, not only would she have a buyer before the Frobishers returned home, but she would double her profit having both the buyer and the seller as clients.
The door closed behind Arnold, snuffing out the noises of the street and leaving the house dim and quiet. Gwen flicked a hall switch on and fumbled in her purse for her phone. She planned to text Lance. Even though she felt silly doing it, she'd promised Maricela she'd get on board with the safety buddy program. Her cell was buried somewhere in the bottom of her bag.
Arnold shoved past her into the living room and began examining the woodwork. Gwen didn't think he'd find anything wrong with this house, but you never knew with someone like him. He could ferret out flaws in the Mona Lisa. She gave up trying to find her phone and walked over to the beautiful, bright windows.
"The view is wonderful, isn't it? You don't find harbor views in this price range very often," Gwen said.
Arnold came up behind her to take it in. He stood close. Too close. His hot breath crawled across her shoulders. Gwen's pulse quickened.
Silly. Arnold didn't even live in California, and the chances of there being two murderers with a penchant for real estate agents was too much of a coincidence. Still. She slid past him and moved toward the kitchen.
"I wish Etta was here," Gwen said, and meant it. "I forgot to show her the oven yesterday. It's convection. That's a big plus if you like to bake. Does Etta bake?" Etta didn't look like a baker, she was too thin and spindly to be a cookie devotee, but Gwen wanted to keep the conversation going.
"Poorly," he said, opened the oven door and looked inside. "Is this the fan here?"
"Yes," Gwen said without coming close enough to see it.
Arnold flipped the door shut with a bang. "I want to see the bedrooms again. I need to make sure all our furniture will fit."
Gwen dropped her purse onto a side table holding a vase of dead roses at the foot of the stairs. The yellow petals, crumbled and fallen, looked like old lace on its dark lacquer. Gwen made a mental note to toss them when she came down.
"I saw a house I liked in San Clemente with another agent a couple of days ago. It's a strong possibility." Arnold sniffed.
Gwen's first response to that news was indignation. You didn't run an agent all around town one day, then look at homes with another agent the next. Then, on the sixth riser, she froze. He rested a hand on her back, probably to stop himself from colliding with her. San Clemente?
Hadn't Maricela said that agent was killed in a San Clemente listing the day before yesterday? And hadn't Arnold told her he was in town looking at houses in Laguna last week? That would put him in the right place at the right time for both murders.
She jerked away from his touch and sprinted up the last of the stairs. He followed with heavy footfalls. Gwen stood on the landing with her back pressed against the hallway wall.
"Which way is the master again?" he asked.
Gwen pointed. He looked at her with unreadable, reptilian eyes for a moment then walked the way she'd directed.
What had she been thinking to come into the house alone with him? Arnold was not a nice man. He was rude and demeaning. An egotist. His wife had been cowed and bullied until she was nothing but a wraith.
"Do you know the square footage in here?" He stuck his head through the bedroom doorway.
"No. No, not exactly, but I have that information at the office. Maybe we should—"
"I drove all the way down here to see this place again," he interrupted her. "I'm surprised you didn't come prepared."
Gwen bit back a retort. She felt the anger that percolated under Arnold's dissatisfied facade. She didn't want to fuel it. He huffed into the bedroom.
Anxiety slicked Gwen's palms. She rubbed them on her skirt. The idea he was the killer was absurd. Shake it off, Gwen. Shake it off.
If she even hinted that she was suspicious, he was sure to be offended. He was the kind of person who'd buy the San Clemente house instead of this one just to spite her. Then how would she feel? Losing a deal over nothing.
Gwen went as far as the master bedroom doorway and leaned on the jamb. She wiggled one foot in her pump and wondered how quickly she could kick her shoes off if she needed to run.
Arnold went into the bathroom. She could hear him turning on the tap, opening and closing the medicine cabinet, vanity drawers, and cupboard doors.
The Frobishers' things were still in there. Gwen knew she should follow him in and ask that he respect the owners' privacy, but she couldn't. Entering that small, close space with him was unthinkable. She licked her lips with a dry tongue. Her phone. She'd left it in her purse on the table downstairs.
"This'll work." He exited the bath. "Let's look at the smaller bedrooms. I'm planning to use one as an office."
It was his turn to gesture forward. Gwen had no choice but to walk down the narrow hall in front of him. She almost jogged, but Arnold's long strides ate up the space between them.
"I like backsides." His voice was gruff.
Gwen leaped through the doorway she'd just reached and spun around to face him. Her heart rate went wild. What did he mean “backsides”? Her backside?
The room must have been one of the Frobishers' children's. They'd never redecorated. An old brass bed topped with a patchwork quilt took up most of the space. The framed posters on the walls were of things a young girl might enjoy: a Monet waterlily print, the feet of a dancer on full pointe, a kitten tangled in a ball of pink yarn.
Gwen scanned the space for a weapon. There was a lamp on a side table topped with a frilled shade. Like everything else in the room, it looked delicate. She needed something sturdier, wood or metal. Something blunt.
Arnold slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. Did he have a gun? A knife? He'd gone through the bathroom cabinets. Could he have found a straight razor? Gwen's mind filled with the memory of Sondra Olsen's bloodied corpse.
She heard the whine of a siren in the distance, and her chest tightened. No one was coming to her rescue. No one knew she was here with this man. She hadn't even told Maricela.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Gwen sidled along the edge of the bed toward the lamp with the lacy shade mumbling a prayer under her breath. She promised God she'd become more thoughtful, more cautious, that she'd slow down if only...
"The back side of a house is always quieter," he said. "I find street noise so distracting when I work." And out of Arnold's pocket came a tape measure.
Chapter Nine
"So, wait, you were going to hit him over the head with a lamp?" Maricela asked, eyes wide over her wine glass.
"It was all I could find," Gwen said. "I almost fainted. I was so relieved when I saw that tape measure come out of his pocket."
“What did he say? He liked your butt?" Caroline had squeezed up to the table next to Maricela.
It was happy hour at The Leaky Barrel, a wine shop and tasting room a few doors down from Humboldt. It wasn't the most elegant spot in town—too dark and dim. It had been decorated to look like an old sailing vessel. Everything was lined with wood: wood shelving, wood floors, wood paneling on the little bit of wall visible between bottles. Gwen half-expected to feel the sway of waves beneath her feet when she stepped through the doorway. After a few glasses of wine, the illusion was known to cause seasickness. But it was convenient, and it was a Friday night tr
adition.
"No, I thought that's what he was saying. He said," Gwen lowered her voice in a fair imitation of the now infamous Arnold Paul, "'I like backsides.'"
A loud gong announced Lance's entrance. A ship's bell—large and brass and covered in a green patina as if it had been exposed to the elements for years—was affixed to the front door of the shop. It was another affectation; one Gwen found annoying.
Lance walked across the weathered floorboards toward the women. "What's so funny?" He glanced at their smiling faces.
Most of the regulars from the office had filtered into the Barrel between 5:00 and 5:30 to enjoy their T.G.I.F. celebration. It was now quarter past six, and their first glasses of wine had taken effect. Camaraderie flowed like the libations. The week's victory stories were more impressive, and the jokes were funnier. Humboldt agents had become "us," their clients, "them". Gwen wondered why she'd hadn't done this more often.
"Gwen thought the Real Estate Killer was after her," Maricela said.
"But it turns out he just wanted to measure her hips." Caroline giggled.
One-half of Lance's mouth turned up, and he raised his eyebrows at Gwen.
"It was nothing. That Chicago couple I've been carting around wanted to see my Dana Point listing again, but only the husband showed up. I let my imagination run away with me."
"Wait a minute," Lance said and raised a finger to summon the proprietor. "What happened to the buddy system?"
"I didn't have time—"
"She didn't think," Maricela said. "She's very impetuous. She's like my daughter, Julissa, always getting into trouble then telling me, 'Mama, I didn't know.' But, Julissa has an excuse. She's fifteen, not almost—"
"What was I supposed to do?" Gwen interrupted before Maricela mentioned her age. A vanity maybe, but she was feeling self-conscious about her fortieth right around the corner. "He was at my elbow the entire time. And he's very sensitive—not a chip on his shoulder, a two-by-four. I could see it, 'Excuse me, Mr. Paul, I need to call my office just in case you're a murderer. Can you hold up a minute?'"
"Mo, can I have another merlot please," Caroline said when the wine shop owner came over with Lance's glass.
