Lust, Loathing and a Little Lip Gloss

There are men worth dying for and others who really just need to die.

—The Lighter Side of Death

When our marriage ended ten years ago, I figured that was it. I would never see Scott Colvin again. I certainly didn't expect him to be at the open house for this Marina District $1.4-million fixer-upper. But there he was, standing right in the middle of the living room, making it impossible for me to concentrate on the water-stained ceiling or broken light fixture. His body was angled away, so I could only make out a partial profile, but I had no doubt about his identity; that was Scott and the very sight of him brought on a slew of conflicting emotions. One of them was hope. Hope that someone had secretly dropped acid in my Frappuccino and that the thing that looked like Scott was nothing more than a messed-up hallucination.

I had taken hallucinogenics once before, during my freshman year in college. Perhaps if I hadn't allowed a magic mushroom to trample all over my brain cells I might have had the presence of mind not to get married at nineteen. Fortunately my brain cells were working again by my twenty-first birthday and I celebrated their recovery by getting a divorce.

But this moment didn't have the feel of a hallucination. The Frappuccino in my hand tasted real. The hopelessly out-of-date faux-wood paneling looked real. The mildew on the windows smelled real. And Scott looked like a real real-estate agent trying to convince a real middle-aged Japanese couple that the house we were all here to see really wasn't contaminated with asbestos. People on drugs see diamonds in the sky and riders on the storm; they don't see real-estate agents and overpriced four-bedroom houses that need new flooring. That meant that what I was hearing, seeing and smelling was all horribly real.

But the good news was that he hadn't seen me yet. I pivoted and tried to lift my wedge heel off the floor so I could quietly tiptoe out.

"Are my eyes deceiving me or is that the beautiful and talented Sophie Katz?"

Shit! I turned around again and was confronted by Scott's teasing smile. "What do you know, it is you!" he continued. The Japanese couple was now climbing the creaking staircase to check out the second floor. "Of all the open houses in the world you had to walk into mine."

I grimaced and made a sweeping gesture with my hand. "You're the agent representing this mess?"

"Apparently you didn't read the ad I ran in the paper." He handed me a promotional flyer detailing the house's few saving graces. "It's not a mess, it's an opportunity."

I almost smiled. Almost. "Save your BS for the couple upstairs. I'm out of here."

Once again I turned to leave, but Scott quickly jogged in front of me so that I had to stop to keep myself from slamming into his chest. "Sophie, we haven't seen each other in over ten years. You can't still be angry at me."

"I'm pretty sure I can be."

"Nah, you just think you are." Scott's hazel eyes were twinkling with mischief. That's usually what they did when they weren't red from getting stoned. "You're really mad at the old Scott. The kid you were married to. But we're both grown-ups now, old enough to understand the value of forgiveness. Remember, grudges always have a greater effect on the lives of those who carry them than on the lives of those they're carried against."

"Wow, that's pretty deep, Scott," I said solemnly. "So let me think about this. During the time that I've been holding this grudge, I've become an internationally published bestselling author. I have wonderful friends. My family is healthy and reasonably happy. I have a fantastic cat and a boyfriend whom I adore. I'd say this grudge is working pretty well for me. I think I'll keep it."

"Don't you want to know why I've been calling you?"

After ten years of no contact, Scott had, as of five months ago, taken to calling me every few weeks and leaving messages on my answering machine. Of course I wanted to know why, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my curiosity. Instead I shrugged and retorted, "Don't you want to know why I haven't been returning those calls?"

He chuckled, apparently finding humor in my irritation. "I think the answer to your question is a lot more obvious than the answer to mine," he said.

I hesitated a moment and studied the countenance of this new "grown-up Scott." He had the beginnings of crow's-feet, but other than that he looked exactly the same. He had the same blond wavy hair that was always a little mussed, and of course he still had one dimple in his left cheek and that golden skin tone that suggested he spent his days surfing off China Beach. Once upon a time I had thought that his looks were the perfect complement to my darker, more exotic appearance. My father was black and my mother has the fair complexion common to her Eastern European Jewish ancestry. People were always confused and delighted by my ethnicity. They usually don't know exactly "what" I am yet they find my very existence to be a sign of hope for the improvement of race relations everywhere. However, the attention I get now is a pittance compared to the attention I got when I was with Scott. Together we were a walking Benetton ad. Of course I get a certain amount of attention when I go out with my current fair-skinned, Russian-born boyfriend, Anatoly Darinsky But our differences are less visually dramatic thanks to Anatoly's dark hair and brown eyes.

"I got your latest book, The Lighter Side of Death. It's good." He inched a little closer. "I've also been reading about you in the papers. Sounds like you've become quite the amateur sleuth. According to the Chronicle you apprehended your own stalker, you helped figure out who killed your brother-in-law, and you even had a hand in bringing down the guy who killed that political aide in Contra Costa County." He gave me an approving once-over. "Sounds like you've turned into a real-life Charlie's Angel. Of course, you've always been an angel in my eyes…."

"Ugh." I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "I think I've just been slimed. I'm going now."

I started to walk around him, but Scott quickly sidestepped in front of me. "What if I told you that I had a brand-new listing for a recently renovated Ashbury Heights three-bedroom Victorian."

I hesitated. "How recently renovated?"

"Five years ago."

Only five years ago? Not bad. "Floors?"

"Hardwood. The owner has a thing for Persian rugs so the floors have been covered and protected."

"Seriously?" I was still focused on the door, but my feet didn't follow my gaze. "Okay I'll bite. Who's the owner, and why is he selling?"

"The owner's name is Oscar Crammer, and he's selling because he thinks the place is haunted."

"Why's that?" I asked. "Was anyone ever murdered in the house? Because if it's a site of a recent homicide it should be selling for at least ten thousand below market."

"Sophie, the owner's only asking for $980,000."

I broke out in a full laugh. "Yeah, right, a renovated, three-bedroom Ashbury Heights Victorian selling for under a million? Tell me, Scott, does it come with its own leprechaun, too?"

"I know it doesn't sound possible, but it's true." He hesitated before adding, "I think the guy selling may have the beginnings of Alzheimer's."

"You want me to take advantage of some guy with Alzheimer's?" I snapped.

"It has a two-car garage, Sophie."

My heart skipped a beat, but my sense of morality would not allow me to be tempted by this alluringly wicked proposal. "I won't scam a sick man, Scott. Not even for parking."

"Oscar's old money. He's got at least ten to twenty million in the bank and his son, Kane, has made millions more in the stock market. He sold off his investments...