Page 115 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

It was after three by the time Sybil was on her way to the bungalow that was causing Tildy such a problem. Why, why couldn’t neighbors just mind their own business?

Sybil smoothed her hair over one ear and grabbed her cell phone. She was going to have to get Bluetooth. Something. Driving was such a bitch as it was.

She dialed Maureen Lundeen. How was that for a name? Using her own version of the sweety-sweety voice, she enthusiastically left a message, hoping everything was perking along toward closing. If Maureen needed anything—anything at all—just pick up the phone. Sybil would be hap

py to help with the lenders, if she could. She was at her beck and call.

As soon as she hung up, Sybil made retching noises. Good God. Sometimes she looked at the faces on the real-estate page, agents who’d hit the million-dollar mark in sales a thousand times over. They all smiled like they couldn’t stop. How did they get their names out there? Why did people choose them to be their agent?

“I wish Marla Cahill had rented it!” she declared. “Then I’d be on the news. Then I’d get some publicity!”

She pushed her toe to the accelerator, frustrated. By the time she was finally pulling onto the residential street that led to the rental, she was hot, tired, and thirsty. The green salad she’d slammed down at lunch had been wilted and swimming in acidic fat-free dressing. She’d eaten it anyway, though she’d really wanted a bacon cheeseburger. But God. Real-estate agents around here were like pencils with boobs. She had to watch every calorie, and she was relentless about it. One of these days she was going to get a break. And she was going to seize that opportunity for all it was worth.

She pulled into the drive of the house and climbed from the car, searching through her keys. If she’d forgotten to bring them and had to drive all the way back…but no, her fingers closed over the bungalow’s key ring.

She glanced over her shoulder to Tildy’s house. The place looked deserted. Sybil waved anyway, just in case, and was rewarded with a twitch of the blinds. Well, okay, Tildy was on patrol.

Sybil almost felt sorry for Elyse.

She knocked on the door and waited. Long minutes passed, and Sybil looked anxiously toward the sky. The clouds were gray, their bottoms darker, as if they were just holding in the rain, waiting to let loose with a maelstrom. Peachy.

She knocked again, but when no one answered, she slid her key in the lock and twisted open the door.

She was hit by the smell. Rotten. Putrid. Like a wet, unpleasant slap to the face.

“Oh…God…”

Almost afraid to tiptoe inside, Sybil held the front door open for some fresher air and scanned the rooms. Not a lot of furniture.

What? Did something die in here?

Maybe Mr. Timms hadn’t been so lucky after all.

Sybil pulled the lapel of her suit jacket over her mouth and coughed a couple of times. “Ms. Hammersly?” she called. “Are you here? Elyse?”

Moving carefully down the hallway, Sybil felt a shiver chase down her spine. Elyse may have been coming and going for a while, but she clearly hadn’t been here lately. Last night, Tildy had said, but the old bat had to be wrong. No one could stand the smell without finding the rotted little corpse and tossing it out.

She checked through the upstairs rooms but found nothing to account for the odor. Stopping at the top of the stairs that led to the basement, Sybil called again, “Ms. Hammersly? It’s Sybil Tomini from Treasure Homes.”

No answer.

“Screw this,” she muttered, grabbing her cell phone again and calling Rich, one of Treasure Homes’ other partners, a real prick but at least the man possessed a brain.

Creeping down the stairs, Sybil kept one hand firm on the rail, the other pressing her phone to her ear. The basement was unfinished space, she recalled, with a wall that divided off one section that could be made into a bedroom or workspace. There was a narrow doorway to access it.

As she reached the bottom step, the smell reached out to her, nauseating. Horrible.

Sybil coughed some more, just as Rich’s supercilious voice invited her to leave a message. “Rich, it’s Sybil. I’m at one of our rental properties. The Berkeley cottage, and it’s…weird.”

Beep. Rich’s phone suddenly cut her off. Didn’t even ask if she was satisfied with her message.

“Damn it.”

She clicked the phone closed but kept it in her hand as she stepped forward and spied a narrow, nearly secret, doorway to the closed-off area. Holding her breath, Sybil squeezed into the room.

She looked ahead, and all the hair on her body stood on end. In the bluish light of a television, she saw the back of a woman’s head. The woman was watching the news. She sat still as a statue.

“Elyse…?”

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