"Because she willed me the artwork, Peter, not the cash."

"Speaking of which, how about that garage sale you keep talking about? The frames alone should net us a couple of bucks."

"Sure," Rina said, "but give me a little time. Now that this nasty money business is over, I want to look up some of the names of the artists on the Internet. Like Hannah said, some of the works look old. Maybe a few of them are even worth something."

"Yeah, we're sitting on an undiscovered Renoir."

Rina laughed. "I'm not saying that, but you never know. Cecily had collected for a long time. And even if the artwork isn't worth anything, it doesn't matter. I look at the pictures and I think of Cecily."

"We can't keep sixty-three pieces of junky art, Rina."

"Don't worry. I don't intend to keep most of them. Just the little magnolia blossom that Hannah loves and our lucky rose painting."

Decker looked at his watch. "I have some time. Give me the names of the artists, and I'll look them up."

"I'll do it, Peter."

"No, I'll do it." Decker sat down at the computer. "That way it'll get done. So while I'm going online, get the names you want to look up. Start with the rose painting, if you're determined to keep it."

"It's our lucky painting."

"Not our lucky painting," Decker groused. "We didn't keep the cash!"

She hit his shoulder, then went over to the floral and studied the signature scrawled in the lower left side. "Franz Bischoll." She spelled it for him.

Decker plugged in the name. On the screen came the words: Did you mean: Franz Bischoff? Absently, he clicked on the name. His eyes widened. His heart started beating faster. "Rina, could it be Franz Bischoff, with two F's?"

"It could be. Why?"

"Uh, you want to come take a look at this?"

"Why? What is it?"

Decker laughed. "It's a chance for you to say 'I told you so.' And for once, I don't mind."

OPEN HOUSE.

"Open House" is another new story.

penned for this anthology. Real estate

in Southern California took a major

price jump in 2005, and there were

quite a few houses for sale. As I looked

at one of the empty homes, my warped

mind thought, What a convenient

place to dump a body! I wondered if

finding a corpse during a house

showing would cool off an overheated

market. Probably not in a city that had

an attraction called Graveline Tours. It

used to take tourists in a hea.r.s.e to some of L.A.'s most notable crime scenes!.

GEORGINA THOUGHT SHE WAS CLEVER, COMING twenty minutes earlier than the start time. Unfortunately, there were others who'd had the same idea. Two couples, plus what looked like a mother-daughter combo, were waiting on the sidewalk, sizing up the compet.i.tion. This was the second and last showing of a new listing, and the Realtors were going to take offers tomorrow night. There were no lookie-loos here: All those present were out for blood.

This meant that Georgina would have to form a plan. Hers was typically blow and go. Sign in and grab a tear sheet, doing mental calculations about house size versus lot size while giving the place a quick once-over. The living room and dining room were public s.p.a.ce, ergo usually in decent shape. If a house had a bad living room, it was probably one step ahead of the wrecking ball. Single-family homes showed their true colors in the kitchen and bathrooms; that and the size of the bedroom closets. She and Derek had lots of junk, so closet s.p.a.ce would be a priority. If the place flunked any one of the above, there were still three other houses on her list.

This newest one would go fast because it was priced reasonably and in a good neighborhood. In a hot market, Georgina knew, she'd have to move if she wanted a chance at elusive home ownership. She and Derek had already lost two chances through indecision. The next time, Georgina swore, if the place was right, pa.s.sing the kitchen/bathroom/closet test, she wouldn't hesitate.

Finally, a black Mercedes pulled up in the driveway. The listing agent was Adele Michaels, and the ad in the paper said she had sold more than twelve million dollars' worth of real estate this year . . . which translated to three houses in the flats of Beverly Hills. Of course, Canoga Park wasn't Beverly Hills, but some areas in the West Hills boasted multimillion-dollar estates complete with swimming pool, tennis court, and home theater. The two-story English-cottage-style house Georgina was looking at wasn't anywhere close to magnificent, but it wasn't a shack, either. It had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sat on a good-size lot with fruit trees and a two-car garage.

The driver's door opened, and out came a pipsqueak of a kid. She looked nothing like Adele Michaels, whose picture showed a forty-plus big-haired blonde with large white teeth. Georgina doubted if this girl was even old enough to vote. The agent had spiky black hair, wore the requisite black suit, and balanced on black spike heels. She rested her sungla.s.ses on the top of her head, then swung a large purse over her shoulder as if she owned the world. To the ten of them anxiously waiting to be let inside, she did.

Obviously, Adele had handed off the listing to one of her flunky neophytes, a house under a million bucks just not worth her time and energy. Georgina rolled her eyes. The flunky fiddled with a ring of keys and then opened the lockbox to the house. Once she'd freed up the front door, she opened it and stepped inside, the faithful gathering of hopefuls d.o.g.g.i.ng her heels in single file. The agent headed straight into the kitchen. From her leather sack-either a Marc Jacobs or a knockoff-she took out a stack of tear sheets and a clipboard that held a pen and a sign-in sheet. She plunked them down on the kitchen counter.

"Everyone sign in, please-name, phone number, and agent, if you have one. This is the last showing, we've already got offers. All offers will be entertained tonight, so if you're interested, you'd better act fast."

First to reach the pen was the mother-daughter combo. Georgina waited her turn to sign in, noting that the living and dining rooms had hardwood floors. The kitchen countertops were tiled. She had hoped for granite, but in this case, she'd make an exception because she loved the design of the kitchen. It had been done Tuscan-style, filled with warm golds, and there was a copper hood over the stove. Newer appliances: a side-by-side fridge and a dishwasher.

Things were looking way up.

Georgina finally picked up a tear sheet and signed in. Scanning the paper quickly, she saw that the house had twenty-two hundred square feet on a ten-thousand-square-foot lot. This was getting better by the millisecond. The house wasn't going to last through the showing. Immediately, she put in a call to Derek. He picked up on the third ring.

"You have to come now! I haven't even checked out the bathrooms, and already I want it."

"Remember that we agreed not to get swept away in ma.s.s hysteria."

"Okay." Calm, she told herself. "All right, I'm in the master bedroom. Not so big. We can fit our bed in it. But one of the dressers may have to go." She slid back a mirrored door. "Good-size closet. That'll help . . . Oh, Derek! The master bathroom is marble, with a huge Jacuzzi tub!"

"I'll be right over."

"It's going to go above asking, I just know it! The agent already said they have offers from the Sunday showing-"

"Don't panic, Georgie, we'll deal. And don't do anything until we call up Orit."

"What if we don't get hold of her?"

"I'm sure they're not going to consider offers right on the spot."

"No, that's true." Georgina went back into the kitchen. Oh, how she loved the kitchen. "Derek, the kitchen is just perfect. It's got good appliances and plenty of cabinet s.p.a.ce." She opened a drawer. "The cabinets are all on sliders. And it's got a pantry and . . . what's this door? Looks like a broom closet." She yanked on it. "I think it's stuck."

"Georgina, I'm going to hang up now. I'll see you soon."

"Bye." She stowed the phone in her purse and turned to the Realtor. "Excuse me. I think this door is stuck."

The agent ambled over and gave the door a hard tug. "It may be locked." Without another word, she walked away and began to chitchat up a promising-looking young couple.

Little snot, Georgina thought. And I bet those two don't even qualify. With determination, she pulled on the handle with all her strength, and the door finally gave way. A large blue plastic garbage bag tumbled out and spilled onto the floor. The tie to the top broke open, and something popped out. It took about a toe tap of time for Georgina to realize what it was.

Then she screamed.

"How long before the coroner's investigators get here?" Decker checked his watch and didn't wait for an answer. "You want to give them a call, Sergeant Dunn? Find out if they'll be here in this century?"

Marge smiled. She had been promoted over a month ago and her new t.i.tle was a kick to her ears. "I just called the office, Loo. Soon."

They'd been waiting almost an hour. Normally, that would be a good thing. Although they couldn't deal with the body until the coroner released it, Decker and his detectives utilized the time by going over the crime scene. In this case, one thing was immediately clear: The house wasn't the crime scene. The place was spotless. For his effort, Decker found only a couple of fibers that could have been dragged in by someone's shoe and an empty can of soda in the garbage can under the sink. It was possible that they'd lift something off the items or from the body itself.

Marge hung up her cell and rocked on her feet, her five-foot-ten frame swaying from side to side. "Techs should be here soon, Pete."

"To do what?" Decker snarled. "Sweep the floor?"

"They can dust. Check out the drains-"

"Crime wasn't committed here."

Marge shrugged. "An empty house is a good place to lure a victim."

"No spatter anywhere, no wet spots on the floor . . . it's not the crime scene." Decker raked his fingers through his hair, a combination of copper and silver. "I mean, I'm not positive, but I'd bet a winning lottery ticket on it."

That was Decker's experience talking: thirty years as a cop, most of them with Homicide, and the last ten as a detective lieutenant.

She said, "Hardly any bloat on the face."

"She's fresh, probably dumped last night. There's no heating inside, and the cool night air probably helped to preserve her."

"The face looks Hispanic, maybe Mideastern."

"Yeah, she's out of her element in this solidly middle-to-upper-cla.s.s area. The residents are by and large white. She also has a front tooth rimmed in gold. That's not white American dentistry."

"A housekeeper?"

"That's what I'm thinking. It would have been nice if there had been clothes on her. You can tell a lot by a person's clothes." Decker smoothed his ginger mustache. "This isn't some g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger's crime. A group of Latinos carrying a body and entering a house would stick out in this neighborhood. This feels like a white man's crime. Some guy s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the maid, and when she threatened to tell the wife, he panicked. I bet the perp lives nearby and knew the house was empty."

"There's no forced entry," Marge added.

Decker thought a moment. "Maybe it was someone in real estate who had a key to the place. Who's out canva.s.sing the neighborhood?"