A Margin of Lust

by Greta Boris

  "Principal Bishop." Brian's grandfather was at his side, speaking low.

  Art sucked in his breath. "Mike," he said.

  "Thanks for coming, for waving the school flag. Olivia needs the support. She's beating herself up right now."

  "Of course. Brian's a favorite of mine."

  "I'm glad to hear that. I know he was in trouble, suspended I heard."

  "Yes." The word felt heavy in Art's mouth.

  "He isn't a bad boy, just impulsive. He needs a father in the home. I try to spend as much time with him as I can but..." The man mopped at his eyes with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief, balled it up and stuck it in his pants pocket.

  "He's a good kid," Art said and stared at the gray institutional carpeting under his feet. He thought of his own kids. Impulsive, foolish, but at heart, good kids. Emily had been after Art to take her camping for months. He'd make reservations for a campsite in Big Bear next week. Spending time with his children suddenly seemed critical.

  "Mike, I'm so sorry about your grandson." Amy left the group by the couch, walked right past Art like he wasn't there and offered her cheek to Mike.

  He dutifully delivered a kiss. While the two talked, Art's eyes wandered to Olivia. Some of her visitors were saying their goodbyes. He should talk to her; find out what he could do to help.

  "So, I heard they were raped."

  The strange comment boomed in the hushed room. Art's attention lurched to the conversation between Amy and Mike.

  "I'm retired. I get my news from the papers like everyone else," Mike said.

  "Oh, come on. You must hear things from your old buddies at the department." Amy's voice took on a wheedling tone.

  "Not much." Mike shifted his weight and looked over the top of her head.

  "Not much is more than the rest of us." Amy's eyes locked on Art. "Your wife is a real estate agent, isn't she?"

  "Yes, she works for Humboldt Realty in Dana Point," Art said.

  "You see, Mike, you'd be doing a good service if you let Art in on the details. Now that they've found a third body, there's no doubt is there? It must be the Texas killer, right?"

  "What are you talking about?" Art hadn't heard anything about a third body.

  "It was on the news this morning, didn't you see it?" Amy's face was solemn, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. "They found another dead agent in a house in Newport Beach."

  Art wondered if Gwen knew about the killing but hadn't told him because she was afraid he'd get back on the anti-work bandwagon.

  "The poor woman was stabbed to death in a theater," Amy said.

  "I thought you said—" Art started to say, but she cut him off.

  "It was one of those Newport mansions with a gym and library and theater. This guy likes high priced real estate. First, that Laguna Beach house, then San Clemente, now Newport. If I were an agent, I wouldn't show any beachfront properties that's for sure."

  Art was glad the police had kept Gwen and Maricela's names out of the papers. Very few people knew they had been the ones to find the first victim. Letting Amy in on that tidbit of information would be tantamount to announcing it through a bullhorn at the next school basketball game. Gwen wouldn't have a moment's peace. Bored women with too much time on their hands, like Amy, would be pumping her for information every chance they got.

  Mike moved away from the couch toward the lobby. Amy and Art drifted with him. He lowered his voice. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the women weren't raped. At first, the police thought they had been because their clothing was missing, but the coroner says, no rape."

  "They were naked?" Amy's voice carried in the stone-tile lobby. Several people turned to look at her.

  Mike took her arm and steered her toward the hospital exit. Art followed. He wanted to hear more. "Yes, and their clothing was removed from the scene," Mike said.

  The three stepped outside into an arid gale. A hot wind whistled through the corridor between the hospital's wings. Mike loosened his tie. "And that's all she wrote. Don't know anymore."

  "But—" Amy said.

  "Thanks for coming, Amy," Mike said.

  "Why would the killer take their clothing?" Amy's eyes were wide.

  "Who knows? The guy's a psycho." Mike bent and deposited another kiss on her cheek. "Great to see you, Amy. Really."

  "I'm sorrier than I can say, Mike. Let me know what I can do. I want to help." Art held out his hand. The older man shook it, turned and walked inside.

  Mike was clever. It was pretty smooth the way he got rid of the problem in the room. Must be a talent leftover from his law enforcement days. He'd lured Amy outside with the bait of information, and now she stood staring at the hospital doors like a cow at a new gate.

  Art wanted to talk more with Olivia, but after a handshake from a family member it seemed inappropriate. Frustrated, he leaned into the wind and pushed toward his car.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gwen followed her GPS instructions through the winding hills of Dana Point. A few agents from the office were touring homes that had been recently listed by other brokerages, and she decided to go along.

  She parked across the street from the first property. An offshore breeze caught her hair and whisked it into her face. The Santa Ana wind wasn't quite as hot and miserable here as it was farther inland. It was tempered by a hint of humidity from the sea.

  Lance pulled up behind her. Damn. She hadn't wanted to see him today. She'd talked to Fiona yesterday, and she was ready to list the Laguna Beach house again.

  As soon as the police released the property, Fiona hired a trauma scene cleaning company. They'd whisked and scrubbed away all but the memory of the crime, so there was no reason not to put it on the market. But Gwen was dragging her feet. Returning to the sight of the murder wasn't an attractive prospect, and she hadn't made up her mind whether she wanted Lance involved or not.

  On the one hand, it would be great to have help from someone with expertise in construction. Fiona's budget for repairs wasn't big. She didn't want to borrow against the house and be stuck making payments for months if it took a while to sell. On the other hand, Gwen wasn't sure she trusted Lance, and there was always the commission. One and a half percent of ten million dollars was a lot of money to give away. Then again, if she couldn't move the property, she wouldn't get anything at all.

  "Gwen." Lance trotted to catch up with her.

  She was saved from having to respond by John Gordon who stuck his head out the front door. "Leave this open when you come in, okay? The place stinks."

  And stink it did. The home was mid-sized, about 2,200 square feet, and every inch of it oozed cigarette smoke. On the walls were pale patches surrounded by nauseating brown stains where pictures had been removed. Every room was covered in a different hue of old, corroded carpeting. It had been pulled back in one of the bedrooms to reveal an army of mold spores marching across the concrete beneath.

  "Some people are pigs," Lance said walking up behind Gwen as she made notes on the guest bathroom.

  "Hm..." She grunted.

  "I listed a house in Nellie Gail last week. I could probably get two million for it if it were in decent shape, but the owners lived like hillbillies. I'm not kidding. I don't think anyone's taken the trash to the curb in a month. They’re calling the pile a 'compost heap'. Crazy."

  "Excuse me," Gwen said and looked past him toward the doorway he was blocking.

  "Oh, sure." His forehead furrowed.

  She slipped by him and headed up the hall to the master bedroom. The smell was slightly better here. A sliding glass door leading to the backyard was open, and the scent of foliage rode in on a breeze.

  "What a dump, huh?" John said as he entered through the slider.

  "You aren't kidding," Gwen said.

  "I don't get it. You have a home worth, what, eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand? And, you treat it like this? No maintenance, no nothing?" He shook his head.

  "Money doesn't equal class, no matter what peop
le say," Gwen agreed.

  "Right. Then you take your listing, just up the road in Dana Point. I went by again the other day. The place is a gem. Spotless."

  "The Frobishers are classy people."

  "They picked a classy agent to represent them." John smiled.

  "Thanks," Gwen said. "I bet you say that to all the agents."

  "He never said it to me." Caroline Bartlett's disembodied voice entered the room a second before she did. Lance was right behind her.

  "Me either," Lance said.

  "Some deserve the compliment, some don't." John stalked from the room. Apparently, he was still angry with Lance.

  "He's such a poop," Caroline said looking after him. "So, what do you think it would take to put this place in shape—a hundred grand?" She turned to Gwen and Lance.

  "At least," Gwen said.

  While Gwen and Caroline discussed the home's potential or lack thereof, Lance stood, arms crossed over his chest. Gwen felt his gaze fixed on her like a heat lamp.

  "I think I'll check out the yard," she said when they'd exhausted the money talk.

  "It's the best spot on the property. Most of the plants are dead, but at least it doesn't reek," Caroline said.

  The air, though warm, was refreshing after the stench inside. A large avocado tree occupied one corner of the brown backyard. Gwen stepped under its shade and looked over a rusting metal fence at a crystalline view of Saddleback Mountain. The only nice thing about the dry Santa Ana winds was the clarity of the air left in their wake. There was no humidity or smog to cloud the vistas.

  She heard a crunch of gravel, but didn't turn. She knew it was Lance. She smelled cinnamon and allspice—the aftershave he always wore.

  He came and stood beside her. The only sound for several minutes was the whistle of wind traveling through the hills into the eaves of the wreck of a house behind them. Lance broke the silence.

  "So have you given any thought to my proposition?" His question was simple, straightforward.

  Gwen's thoughts were anything but. "I have."

  "And?"

  "I took your advice. I called Fiona, the owner."

  "Good for you. What did she say?"

  "The police cleared the scene and she's ready to move forward."

  "Great. That's great."

  Gwen didn't respond. After a beat, Lance said, "I hope today's news doesn't rattle her."

  "What news?"

  "The body they found. In Newport."

  Gwen felt a sinking in her gut. "What body in Newport?"

  "You didn't hear?"

  She didn't bother answering him. Of course, she hadn't heard. If she'd heard she wouldn't have asked.

  "They found another agent, dead, in a vacant home in Newport. She'd been there a couple of days. I guess nobody had shown the place because of the holiday. It sounds like it's the same guy. Same M.O."

  The world spun. The dirt beneath Gwen's feet became a whirlpool. It was as if she stood on an unstable patch of earth about to drop into a dark, subterranean place. A place she didn't want to go. She put a hand to her forehead. Lance caught her arm as she stumbled.

  "You okay?" His eyes were filled with concern. "I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. I'm sorry."

  The idea of stepping foot into the Laguna house now seemed an impossible task. He was still out there. The man who had turned Sondra Olsen into a lifeless, bloodied corpse was still out there.

  She'd tried to convince herself she was safe. That statistically she and Maricela were the most unlikely people to become his victims since, in some sense, they already were. Lightning didn't strike twice in the same place. A shark didn’t attack the same person twice in one lifetime. Unless, of course, a person lived under a lightning rod, or regularly dove in shark-infested waters. This was the truth she'd been avoiding.

  The house on Cliff Drive was a lightning rod. It was an ideal habitat for this killer. He was drawn to vacant, oceanfront properties like a shark to chum. What had she been thinking? Art was right. She should go home, become a full-time mom again, get out of what had become a dangerous profession.

  But then she thought about calling Fiona to tell her she wouldn't represent the property after all. When she tried to formulate the words she'd use, she couldn't find them. Gwen wanted this listing. She wanted it more than she'd wanted anything since she'd decided not to pursue an acting career.

  She couldn't face the Laguna house alone, however. Not now. "It's all right. It's just I hadn't heard." She pulled her arm from Lance's grasp and stood straight. "I want you to help me with the place on Cliff Dr. I'll split the commission with you."

  His mouth broke into a grin. "You sure?"

  She nodded.

  "Terrific. We're gonna make a killer team."

  Gwen would have chosen another adjective.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Gwen thumped two grocery sacks on the kitchen counter.

  "What's for dinner?" Jason added three more bags to the assortment.

  Gwen began sorting through foodstuffs and putting things away. "How about hot dogs?"

  "For dinner?"

  "I like hot dogs." Tyler, who had been busy dunking chocolate chip cookies into a glass of milk, spit crumbs across the kitchen table as he spoke.

  "Gross. Don't talk with your mouth full." Jason pulled a towel from the refrigerator door and snapped it at his brother.

  "Stop!" Tyler scooted sideways to avoid it.

  Jason flicked the makeshift whip toward Tyler again and landed a blow on his upper arm with a loud thwack. Tyler howled in pain. Jason began twisting the dishrag for another strike. Gwen reached from behind and yanked it from his hands. "Enough."

  Jason turned on her, his face set in defiant lines. She stared into his eyes until he looked at his shoes.

  "Do I need to talk to your father?" she asked.

  "I'm going upstairs." He mumbled something she was glad she couldn't understand and left.

  Tyler sat on the window bench struggling to hold back his tears and rubbed his arm. There was only three years difference between him and Jason, but Tyler seemed much younger. It wasn't only the angelic blue eyes and blond hair that gave him the air of innocence; it was his nature. Gwen sat beside him and pulled him close. No matter how hard he fought against it, he was the sweet, sensitive one in the family.

  "You okay, buddy?" she asked.

  "Why is he so mean?" Tyler's voice broke.

  "Teenagers are... difficult."

  "No, he's really mean. A lot meaner than last year and he was a teenager then."

  "Yeah, well there are these things called hormones," Gwen said.

  She gazed out the kitchen window. Her eyes fell on the rusted swing set in the backyard. She remembered the Christmas Eve Art assembled it in the dark while she held a flashlight. All three of her children had a note from Santa in their stockings instructing them to go to the yard for their gift. Over the years, those swings had been transformed into rocket ships, pirate vessels, and flying carpets. They were good years. Safe years. When had life gotten so difficult?

  After a subdued supper, the kids went to their rooms to do homework, and Gwen and Art settled in front of the TV. Art picked up the remote, but left it unused in his lap. "I was thinking."

  Gwen waited.

  "We should get out of town for a couple of days. Get away from the craziness."

  "Just you and me?" She could hear the hope in her voice. It sounded pathetic.

  Art looked up. "I thought we'd bring the kids. Emily's been asking to go camping."

  Disappointment settled on Gwen's shoulders. He was a good father, an excellent employee, a stellar friend and coworker, but not very interested in being a husband these days.

  After previewing property that morning, she'd stopped by the school to drop off the lunch Jason had left on the counter. As she was driving away, she saw Art. He and the pretty school counselor, Lorelei Tanaka, were standing on the front steps deep in conversation. So deep, he never looked up to sm
ile or wave when she drove by. He never even saw Gwen.

  The image of them so close together, her hand on his arm, gazes locked onto each other's faces rose in her mind like an unwanted ghost. She was sure it was nothing. She was being paranoid, insecure, but she closed her eyes to shield herself from it the way a child pulls the covers over their head.

  Lorelei, although she had the dark hair and Asian eyes of her ancestry, had the same petite, youthful frame as Jenny, her father's second wife. And Art reminded Gwen of her father in many ways. Paul Goddard wasn't a school principal. He'd been a veterinarian before he retired, but he was the kind of veterinarian who volunteered at the local wounded, indigenous, animal shelter, did spays and neuters on a sliding scale based on income, sponsored Little League teams and never turned away a kid with a stray kitten. He was a local hero of sorts, beloved in their small town, and he'd been her hero.

  She didn't blame him for leaving her and her mom, not at first. She was sure her mother had let him down somehow. She must have, or he wouldn't have run off with Jenny.

  At twelve Gwen didn't understand the distinction between Jenny's thirty years and her mother's forty. Old was old. Besides, attributing a motive to her father as shallow as trying to bolster his ego by seeking the adoration of a younger woman was unthinkable.

  After he married Jenny, Gwen became convinced his new wife had been the problem all along. She hated Jenny with a hatred so pure only a child could manufacture it. But it had done no good. Instead of seeing Jenny for the schemer she truly was, her father had only reprimanded Gwen for her rudeness.

  One Friday afternoon she perched on the front steps outside her mother's small apartment, her pink Barbie suitcase by her side. She'd been waiting a long time. It was her Dad's weekend, and he was late. Again.

  As she sat, an idea struck her. When she was small, her dad took her on his big animal rounds on Saturdays. He would introduce her to the ranchers as his assistant. He always said, "Don't let her size fool you. She's the best vet-in-training in these parts."

  But then at eight, she'd had what her dad referred to as "the close call." After that, she was too afraid to go with him, afraid of dark barns and small pens and big animals that crowded and blocked out the light. When he'd wake her early Saturday mornings, she'd roll over and feign illness. In time, he stopped asking.