by Greta Boris
Gwen stopped mid-aisle and stared at her. "You mean like a shrink?"
"No, not like a shrink. A shrink. Mine is excelente. She's helping me process that day. You know face the fear. Get past it."
"It's no big deal. I don't like to be crowded."
Truth was, she had thought about making an appointment with a counselor. The claustrophobia was getting worse. She'd had plenty of panic attacks in grade school and high school, but in college, she'd gotten control of it through method acting of all things.
When she needed to get into an elevator, she'd put on the role of a high profile lawyer with an office on the twentieth floor. In basements, she imagined ghost hunter seeking evil spirits. In closets, attics and other tight spaces, she channeled chimney sweep or Victorian maid. Keeping her mind on someone else's story calmed her.
At least it had. Her trick wasn't working anymore. Seeing Sondra's dead body seemed to set off a cascade of old fears. The memory of the close call she'd had at eight-years-old kept popping into her mind at the most inopportune times, and the nightmares were getting more frequent.
Gwen's phone vibrated. She pulled it out of her purse and smiled at the screen. "Lance needs me to pick up another ceiling light. I'll have to stop at Home Depot."
"Hmmm...," Maricela said.
They wandered a bit farther. Gwen could tell Maricela was itching to say something. Several times, she opened and closed her mouth as if she was considering then discarding words the way she was the items on the shelves.
"Okay, what's the issue?" Gwen asked when she couldn't take it any longer.
"What do you mean?" Maricela turned to her with wide eyes.
"You have something to get off your chest. I can tell."
Maricela toyed with a candlestick she'd picked up. "Art is a good husband," she said after a long pause.
Gwen laughed. "That's it?"
"I don't think you appreciate how few good husbands are out there these days."
Maricela set the candlestick down and moved toward the counter at the front of the store. Gwen flushed with annoyance. Maricela was worried she was getting too close to Lance. She thought her friend knew her better than that.
They made their purchases and emerged into the sunshine. Gwen turned to face Maricela. "There's nothing romantic going on between Lance and me. We have a business relationship. That's it."
"I think Art is stressed about school and about you, but you don't seem very concerned about him."
They walked toward the car. Irritation tightened Gwen's jaw. In Maricela's mind, Art could do no wrong. She didn't understand the reality of living with a man who made responsibility an art form. Art championed the cause of the underdog and played Sir Galahad to all soccer moms in distress. He was every woman's hero. Except hers. The stronger and more self-reliant she became, the less interest she seemed to hold for him. What was she supposed to do, drop a hankie like Scarlett O'Hara and fake a case of the vapors just to lure him back?
There were plenty of women at school willing to play that game, like the lovely Lorelei. She was young and oh-so adoring. Besides, Gwen wasn't the one who fell asleep on Valentine's Day. She'd tried to reconnect. He hadn't been interested. "Yeah, well, I'm tired of feeling single," she said.
Maricela looked at her. "You're not, but you act like you are when you're with Lance."
When they reached the parking lot, Gwen strode across the blacktop toward her car. Maricela jogged to keep up.
"I made you mad. I'm sorry," Maricela said after they belted in. She didn't look sorry at all. "But Lance is a player, you know?"
"No, I don't know," Gwen said, her voice frosty.
"He uses people. I know his type."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yes, I do. I was married to one."
They drove in silence. Gwen churned with anger. Maricela meant well, but she was wrong. Lance was secure in who he was. He didn't need weak women to bolster his masculinity. He was nothing like Maricela's ex. But she wouldn't waste her breath defending him; it would make Maricela surer there was something going on between them.
They arrived at the Humboldt office. Gwen opened the car door. Maricela put a hand on her arm and stopped her from exiting. "Listen, chica." Her voice was soft. "You can be upset with me for telling you the truth, but I'm your friend, so I'm telling you anyway. You have a good man at home. You have a beautiful family. Don't screw it up. He's not worth it."
"Lance and I are just business partners. That's it." Gwen slammed the car door behind her.
She and Maricela worked side by side for several hours without the usual banter. Gwen threw herself into her paperwork, ignoring the office noise and her hurt feelings.
"Hm," a deep voice startled her. "That must be riveting." John Gordon nodded at the mountain of paper on her desk.
"Fascinating." Gwen nodded.
"Is your Dana Point house in escrow yet?" he asked.
"No. My Chicago clients bought in Newport." Gwen's voice was flat. It still galled her that old Arnie had bought from another agent after everything he'd put her through.
"I may have an interested party." John thumped her desk with his forefinger. "I'd like to take another look at it before I show it."
"Help yourself," Gwen said and looked at her paperwork hoping to end the conversation. She didn't feel like talking.
"Want to go with me?" he asked.
Gwen looked up in surprise. "There's a lockbox on it."
"I know. Just thought you might want to give me the sales pitch." He smiled. It made him look like a ferret.
She opened a desk drawer, rummaged around and pulled out a piece of paper. "Here's the flier," she said. "Everything you need to know in black and white."
"Oh, okay. Thanks." His smile faded. He started to walk away, but turned again. "How about the Laguna house. Is there a lockbox on it?"
"I think Lance is putting one on tonight, but we're holding an open tomorrow."
He nodded and left the room without speaking. Gwen and Maricela looked at each other, and Maricela rolled her eyes. They went back to work, the air between them warmer. Nothing like uniting over a common enemy.
Another hour passed, and Gwen's stomach growled. She looked at her watch. It was 1:30. No wonder. Her breakfast smoothie had worn off long ago.
"I'm going to grab a salad. Want to go?" She asked Maricela.
"Could you bring me something?" Maricela said reaching for her purse.
Gwen took her order and headed out the door. The day was so bright it blinded her for a moment. The Santa Ana winds had waned, and the afternoon temperatures had dropped into the sixties, but the sky was still cloudless. She donned her sunglasses, and when she could see again she noticed Lance walking across the parking lot.
"Gwen." He waved at her. "I was coming to find you. I finished up the painting. We're on for the open house tomorrow."
"What about..."
"The exterminator came."
"What did he say?"
"He took care of the problem."
Gwen was dubious. "Took care of it how?"
"He checked all the likely entry spots—drains, foundation cracks near the trash area, the basement. They're all clear, but he sprayed anyway. The roaches came in through the chimney. He set off a bomb in the fireplace. I can go in and finish up the odds and ends at," he looked at his watch, "six."
"Why would they come in through the chimney?"
"There was sticky stuff inside it. Sweet sap or something. It was weird. I washed it down with ammonia before he set the bomb off."
"Are you sure they'll all be gone. It wouldn't be good if one of those creepy things ran over a potential buyer's foot."
"That's what the guy thinks. He said it's good we jumped on it. Didn't give them a chance to get too attached to the place." Lance's mouth was set in serious lines, but his eyes were smiling.
"How about the dead ones? Are they all over the place? I can't go in if there are dead ones all over the place."
"I'l
l clean them up tonight. Promise." Lance rested a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, but the warmth of his touch stayed with her for the rest of the day."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday morning was bright and cool. An onshore breeze tossed clouds about in a cerulean sky. The ocean, smooth as glass, reflected the heavenly blue. It was a perfect day to showcase a beachfront listing. Gwen, arms full of flowers, tottered a bit in her high heels on the uneven walkway.
"You okay?" Lance put a stabilizing hand on her back.
Stabilizing. That's what he'd become—a stabilizing force in her life. Despite what she'd said to Maricela, he was more than a coworker. More than a business partner. He'd become a friend.
She understood Maricela's concerns. It was hard not to be attracted to him. To say Lance was handsome was an understatement, but his looks weren't his most dangerous attribute. At least, not as far as Gwen was concerned. It was his dependability that made him perilous. She hadn't known he possessed the trait, so she hadn't hardened herself against it.
"Got it." Gwen hurried forward, away from the intimacy of his hand.
"Let me get the door." He walked around her.
Gwen let him enter first. She'd only been in the house once since the attack of the killer cockroaches, and although at the time she hadn't seen any insects, alive or dead, she was still jumpy.
"The walls look great. I love the color. Just a touch of yellow to warm—" Gwen, eyes on the freshly painted stairwell, walked into Lance's back.
"Oh, God. What is that?" Lance said.
The smell hit Gwen a nanosecond after his words.
Ripe. Sweet. Sickening. Like the smell at the top of the stairs the day she and Maricela had found Sondra Olsen. A wave of nausea broke over her, leaving its moisture on her hairline and upper lip. "I can't..."
"Stay here," Lance said.
Gwen didn't. She backed out the front door and stood under the arms of the fig tree. She took deep, cleansing breaths of ocean air trying to flush away the stench. It wouldn't leave her. Neither would the image of a white, bloodied and broken body.
She buried her face in the bouquet she'd brought to brighten the open house. But hidden under the scent of lilies and mums, she smelled death. It seemed to reach out to her from the open doorway.
She dropped the blooms, ran to the street and began to pace. The reek followed her down the block and back, down and back. It had become a part of her. Infused into her. The memory of death. The smell. Now inseparable.
Who was doing this to her? To them?
It was at least ten minutes before Lance walked out to the street. He stood, hands on hips, lips curled in disgust. "Something is dead, but it's not another real estate agent. Not unless it's a really small one. It's coming from the stove vent. A bird must have flown down, got stuck, and died. It happens."
"I thought there were caps or traps or something at the top of the vents," Gwen said.
"The cap was missing. I checked."
"Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you? Coincidental?" Gwen had a lot of time to think while she'd been waiting for him to return. "I mean, first the cockroaches, then on the day of the open house, a dead bird in the stove pipe?"
Lance massaged his temples. "Maybe. I don't know. Old places are unpredictable."
"I've never heard of a sudden infestation of roaches from a chimney flue. And how did that sticky stuff get in it?"
"No. It was weird. Definitely weird."
"And this, this, smell thing. You were here yesterday, right?"
"Yeah."
"Did you smell anything then?"
Lance shook his head.
"Wouldn't it have to kind of build up? I mean, it depends on how long the... thing... the animal has been dead. If it's this overpowering today, you'd think you'd have smelled something yesterday. Even if it was faint."
"I don't know. I was touching up the paint. Paint has a pretty strong odor. Maybe it masked it. Or, maybe it's been there for a couple of days and just started to stink."
Neither said anything for a beat, then both spoke at once.
"We have to call—"
"We'll have to cancel—"
Gwen stopped talking.
"We'll have to reschedule the open house for tomorrow," Lance said.
"How do we get the bird out of the vent?"
"I don't know. I'll figure it out."
"Lance," Gwen's voice faltered. "I'm afraid. I think someone is sabotaging us." She told him about the conversation she'd had with Investigator Sylla the day before. "What if it's him, this Moray person?"
The tense lines of his face melted into something softer. "Let's not get paranoid. It's a strange coincidence, granted, but I don't see any connection between the murders and a couple of roaches." He stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulders.
Gwen buried her face in his chest. The spicy scent of his cologne wrapped around her head and drove away the stench of decay.
#
Gwen's phone buzzed from somewhere under her desk. She followed the sound to her purse. She'd stowed it there when she arrived at the office. Someone had called on the Sailor's Haven house an hour ago, and she'd stopped by work to get her lockbox key before heading down.
"Hey." It was Lance.
"Hey, yourself. How's it going?"
"Well, it turned out the critter was a rat, not a bird. That's why it smelled so terrible. The removal guy said rats are the worst."
"Nice," Gwen said with a shudder. Her dislike for rats was only second to her loathing of roaches.
"He hooked the thing and pulled it out of the vent with a rope. Then he sprayed with some biological chemical."
"How does it smell?"
"I aired everything out and burned a few candles. Smelled fine when I left."
"Thanks for handling that," Gwen said, her voice growing soft.
"Not a problem. On my way out, I noticed the flier box on the curb is empty. Is there a chance you could refill it this afternoon? It might help pull people in tomorrow. If not, don't worry about it. We can bring down more in the morning."
"I can do that." Gwen opened a drawer and found the master flier for the house. The color photograph printed on it was lovely. The landscape company they'd hired had done a great job cleaning up the vines and bushes. Lance had repaired the rickety fence. Even the fig tree had been tamed by a good pruning. "The house looks so benign in this picture. No one would believe what's happened there."
"Gwen..." Lance's voice sounded tired.
"I know, I know. You think my view of the place has been tainted by the murder. Of course, it has. You're right. But, things haven't gone exactly swimmingly since."
"I've worked on a lot of renovations. The older the house, the more booby traps it has. I've seen stuff you wouldn't believe."
She wasn't going to argue, especially because she didn't know what to think. The idea that someone was trying to undermine the sale of the house did seem a bit farfetched. But she also had a hard time accepting the cockroaches and the rat were just coincidence. "I'm at the office now, about to head to Dana Point. Someone wants to see Sailor's Haven. I'll swing by Laguna on my way."
"You sure you're okay with dropping off fliers alone? I already put the lockbox on the side of the house, so you don't have to do that. Don't even have to open the gate." She could hear the laughter in his words.
Gwen made a stack of fliers on the copy machine in the office then headed out to her car. A pebble of anxiety dropped into her stomach as soon as she turned north on the Coast Highway. The ripples spread in wider and wider circles the closer she got to Cliff Drive. By the time she pulled up to the curb in front of the house a whirlpool of stomach acids churned inside her.
All she needed was to open the plastic holder underneath the "For Sale" sign and drop the fliers in. She wasn't afraid. Not exactly. What she felt was more a marriage of dread and disappointment.
This listing was going to make her career. That's what she'd once thought. Now
she couldn't wait to unload the place. She put the papers into the box, got in her car and turned south. She had fifteen minutes to get to Dana Point.
Before she'd hung up with Lance, Gwen told him her theory about houses. . She believed they were like family dogs—emotional vacuums that picked up the moods and attitudes of their owners. The Sailor's Haven house had been decorated with a loving hand. Mementos of a life well lived were everywhere you looked. The very walls of the house exuded contentment. Cliff Drive was like an abused animal, dangerous in its hunger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Gwen got to Laguna early on Sunday morning. If there were going to be any surprises, she wanted to know about them before anybody else did. Shoving down the distaste rising in her throat, she unlocked the front door.
She thought about waiting for Lance before entering, but didn't want to give him any more ammunition. He'd teased her enough about her theory on the similarity between houses and family pets when she shared it with him.
She hurried through the entryway past the baleful basement door and into the kitchen. While she ran water into the vases she'd bought in San Juan, she pulled three bouquets of flowers from a paper sack. Instead of fully staging the house, she and Lance had decided to use some of the furniture he'd found in a basement room, some odds and ends from her home, and flowers to make the place as homey as possible.
Gwen refused to go down to the cellar with him, so she had to trust his judgment. He did okay, she thought when she entered the living room. An old sofa table with claw-foot legs sat in front of the picture windows gleaming with polish. Gwen glanced across the expanse of the floor before crossing to it. No bugs. No dead rats. No surprises. Her vase of yellow tulips made a striking contrast to the blue of sky and sea beyond.
A square wood table, gray with age, sat between two black, ladder-back chairs under an ancient crystal chandelier in the dining room. An arrangement of white hydrangeas and roses with celery green grass looked elegant against the severe backdrop.
As Gwen moved from room to room adding a throw pillow here, leaning a picture there, her mood lightened. The bones of the house were lovely. The freshly painted walls hid the scars and bruises of the past. It wasn't cheerful, but it had drama. Maybe they could sell this place after all.
