The Scent of Murder

The lights were on. I could see most of the living and dining area from where I was standing, and what I was seeing didn't look good. The dining chairs were tipped over, the black leather sofa was bleeding white tuffs of cotton wadding, and the chrome coffee table had been upended. Leaving seemed like a good idea, but then I thought about Amy's phone call, and I moved the box cutter blade up and took another step in instead. One thing was for certain, I thought bitterly. The girl definitely took after her father. Murphy had always managed to drag me into whatever mess he'd gotten himself into. It looked as if his daughter was busy doing the same thing.

My feet sank into the carpet. Once upon a time, it had been white. Now it was dingy with what looked like months of ground-in dirt. The place smelled of aftershave and incense and barbecue sauce and an undercurrent of something dark and fetid that I knew but couldn't name. A second later I saw the sole of a man's shoe protruding from behind the sofa.

That numb, empty feeling that trouble sometimes brings settled over me, as I walked around to get a better look. Dennis Richmond was lying on the floor. He looked just like his picture in the newspaper—except for a couple of differences: the big red blotch on his chest and the slash marks on his hands. If I had to bet, I'd say someone had stabbed him in the chest.

Books by Barbara Block

 

 

CHUTES AND ADDERS

 

TWISTER

 

IN PLAIN SIGHT

 

THE SCENT OF MURDER

 

VANISHING ACT

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON BOOKS

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to thank Kathy Veerbeck for her technical assistance. I would also like to thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his suggestions and unfailing kindness, and my son, Larry Block, for taking the time to read my manuscript and offer suggestions.

Although the city of Syracuse is real, as are some of the place names

I've mentioned, this is a work of fiction. Its geography is imaginary.

Indeed, all the characters portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

I
t was the middle of October, and I was up on the ladder tacking a crepe paper skeleton to the wall behind the fish tanks when the girl walked in. For some reason, that's what I'd come to think of her as—the girl. She looked about fifteen, and she'd been in Noah's Ark three times in the past week and a half. She'd run her hand over the leashes, stopped and studied the fish tanks, and become absorbed reading the labels on the bags of cat food, but as soon as I'd start walking towards her, she'd bolt.

I had the impression she was working up her nerve to approach me, which was funny, considering the way she looked. I mean, you'd figure that anyone sporting Kool-Aid blue hair, heavy black eye makeup, white lipstick, and a nose ring big enough to fit Ferdinand the Bull, wouldn't be afraid of anything. Or maybe she was actually a shy, retiring soul who was getting into Halloween mode a couple of weeks early, and I was being uncharitable—a not uncommon occurrence, I've been informed, by the person that works for me.

In either case the girl had something new with her today: a large albino ferret lay draped over her left shoulder. It looked as if she'd decorated her oversized camo jacket with an ermine pelt. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she strode over to the far shelves and paused to read the label on the flea and tick defoggers. After a minute of doing that, she turned and headed towards me. Her pace was slow, she kept stopping and pretending interest in this and that, and I'd managed to finish with the skeleton by the time she reached the ladder.

I nodded towards the ferret, as I climbed down the last rung. “He's a big boy.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across the girl's face. “He weighs almost three pounds.”

“I like the halter he has on.” It had multi-colored stones pasted on the thick, blue nylon cloth. “Where'd you buy it?”

She pulled the zipper on her jacket up and down with her free hand. “I made it.” The expression on her face gave me the impression she wasn't used to getting a lot of compliments.

“You did a good job.”

She stroked the ferret's back. “My mother hates him. She says he smells bad.”

“A lot of people feel that way.”

“Do you?”

“No. I like ferrets.”

“He's my best friend,” she blurted out. She must not have intended to say that, because she looked embarrassed and changed the subject. “I thought this store was in a house.”

“It was, but the house burned down awhile back.” Now it was my turn to change the subject. I didn't like to talk about the fire. The scars on my calves were enough of a remembrance. “I moved the business here.”

“Bummer.” The girl shifted the ferret to her other shoulder.

“That's one way of putting it,” I said, suppressing the vision of the flames licking at my legs.

The girl grimaced. Whether it was out of sympathy or boredom, I couldn't tell. “But you are Robin Light?” she asked. “You do own this place?”

“Yes. I own Noah's Ark.”

She frowned. “Somehow I expected you to look ...” she hesitated.

“What?”

“I don't know. Different.”

“Different how?”

“I thought your hair would be redder. I thought you'd look more put together.”

I didn't know who this girl was, but she was definitely beginning to get on my nerves. Okay, so maybe my hair was getting a little brownish—red does fade out when you get older—and maybe my clothes—jeans, a black tee shirt, and an old flannel shirt—weren't a fashion statement, but, given that I was cleaning out cages and feeding animals, the outfit seemed appropriate. More appropriate, I wanted to say than hers. Instead, I did my customer smile and asked if I could help her.

“Maybe.” She began petting the ferret. He raised his head, twitched his nose a couple of times, then put his head back down, obviously exhausted by the effort.

I reached over and scratched him under the chin. “I used to have an albino once. His name was Snow.”

“What happened to him?”

“I had to give him away. My other ferrets kept attacking him.”

“That's what happened with this one. My friend gave him to me because his other ferrets were biting this one's tail.”

I was about to say something about how it was interesting that animals seem to instinctively dislike what Victorians called “sports of nature” and how people do too, but I looked at the girl and decided it might be more politic to keep quiet instead. Contrary to what some people say, I do not have a terminal case of foot-in-the-mouth disease.

She ruffled the ferret's fur. “Poor Mr. Bones.”

“Mr. Bones?”

“You know. White. Death. Bones. Get it?”

“It's not that difficult,” I snapped. I'd just given up smoking three days ago. It was not doing wonders for my disposition.

The girl scrunched up her face as if I'd just slapped her. Jesus. One moment, she was Tank Girl, the next, she was Little Orphan Annie. I wished she'd get her act straight. “So what can I do for you?” I repeated, trying to keep my growing irritation out of my voice. I had a long list of things to do before Tim, my employee, came in and I could go home. Playing Twenty Questions wasn't one of the things on the list.

“I want to leave Mr. Bones with you for awhile.”

“I'm sorry, but we don't board animals. We don't have the space.” I reached in my pocket for a square of bubble gum. It wasn't a Camel, but it was going to have to do. “Why don't you try one of the vets,” I advised, as I unwrapped the gum and popped it in my mouth. Its sickly sweet aroma filled the air. “I hear Grace out in Liverpool is good with exotics and I know he boards animals. Why don't you call him?”

The girl's glance strayed to the door, then traveled back to my face. “I don't have a car. I can't get out there.”

Zsa Zsa, my cocker spaniel, came out from under the counter where she'd been sleeping and rubbed against my leg. “Maybe one of your friends can take you.” I bent down and petted my dog. She had a mat on one of her ears. That was the trouble with cocker spaniels. They always needed to be groomed. The girl didn't move. I straightened up. “I'm sorry, but I really can't help you,” I repeated.

“You have to,” the girl insisted.

“Actually, I don't.” And I turned to go. My patience had run out.

“But Murphy said you would.”

I stopped dead. Suddenly the room seemed unnaturally bright. “Murphy?” I could hear my voice crack on the name. “Murphy is dead.” He'd O.D.'d on cocaine and left me as chief suspect in a murder case awhile back. It was something I hadn't been able to forgive or forget.

She gave me a look of contempt. “I know that. But he told me if I ever had any problems, I should come to you. Well I have a problem, and I'm coming to you.”

How classically Murphy, I reflected, shaking my head in wonder. Even when he was dead, the son of a bitch was still causing trouble. A nerve twitched behind my left eye. I rubbed my temples. “How do you know him?”

The girl didn't answer. She was too busy looking at something over my shoulder. I turned and followed her gaze. She was staring out the front window. Two men were standing on the pavement in front of the store, talking to each other in the late afternoon gloom. I looked back at the girl. She seemed to have shrunk into herself. Her jacket highlighted her pallor.

“Who are they?” I asked.

She didn't answer my question. Instead, she touched a shaking hand to the base of her throat. “Is there another way out of here?”

I pointed to the door on my left. “Through there. What kind of trouble are you in?”

“Enough.” And before I knew what was happening, she leaned over and put the ferret on my shoulder. “Be good, Mr. Bones,” she whispered. Her eyes were glazed with tears.

“Wait,” I cried. But it was too late. By the time I'd gotten the word out of my mouth, she was through the door to the back.

I was just about to follow her, when the front door banged open and the two men I'd just seen standing outside lumbered in. They were both in their early thirties. Dressed in Windbreakers, jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers, they both looked like high school jocks who'd never forgotten their moment of glory on the field.

“Where's the girl who was in here?” the taller of the two demanded, as his eyes swept the store.

Zsa Zsa ran out from behind the counter and began barking at him, something she did when she didn't like someone. Usually I've found her judgement coincides with mine.

I blew a bubble and popped it, before I replied. “Why do you want to know?”

He glared at me. “This is why.”

I blew and popped another bubble as he strode over, reached into his Windbreaker, took out a cheap plastic card carrier, opened it, and handed it to me.

“Detective, huh?” I said, after I'd read the card inside. Not that I was surprised. It was hard to miss the handcuffs peeking out of his side pocket. Camouflage was obviously not his forte.

“That's right. Now where is she?”

I didn't answer immediately. Maybe it was her mention of Murphy, maybe it was that she looked so small and the detectives looked so large, or maybe it was because she seemed like a lost soul. But something about the girl made me want to give her some extra time.

“Where is she?” the detective repeated.

I looked around the store. “She's not here.”

“I can see that.”

I blew another bubble. “Well she could have been hiding behind the rabbits.”

His eyebrows came together as he beetled his brow. “I heard about you.”

“Something good I trust,” I replied, even though I knew it wasn't. I didn't need the expression on his face to tell me that. I'd been involved in solving three homicide cases since my husband's death and was not particularly liked downtown.

Before he could answer, his partner walked up and pointed to the door behind me. “Where does that go?”

“To the storeroom.”

“Is there another way out?”

I nodded. I wasn't going to lie for the girl, either.

The two men exchanged glances and headed towards the door.

“Be careful of the boa constrictor,” I called, as they opened it. “I think he's out of his cage.” It was a juvenile thing to do, but the therapist I used to go to told me I should cultivate my inner child.

They didn't answer. A moment later, I heard the side door slam. They were probably running through the alley towards Devon Street, which is where the girl had most likely gone—unless, of course, she'd gone in the back door of Phil's Grocery and out the front. Or, if she were smart, she would have cut through the backyards and run towards Geddes Street. There were more people and stores there, making it easier to hide. But not for her, I realized. With her blue hair, she'd stand out anywhere. Mr. Bones began sniffing at my neck. His stiff whiskers tickled my skin.

I held the ferret up. “So what did your mistress do?” I asked. But he didn't answer. I guess this wasn't the day for questions. I put the animal back on my shoulder. He just lay there. This was one very mellow ferret. Most of the ones I've known would be racing up and down my arm and trying to burrow beneath my shirt, by now.

I was blowing another bubble and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, when the detectives walked back in through the front door, bringing the late afternoon October darkness with them.

“Do you know where she went?” the taller one asked. He must have been the designated talker for the group.

I popped the bubble. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He walked over and planted himself in front of me. Zsa Zsa scooted back out from behind the counter and barked at him again. She had a small dog's piercing sound. It was very annoying. I could tell, from the expression on his face, that the detective thought so too.

“Can't you shut her up?” he demanded.

“Probably.” And I shushed Zsa Zsa. She tossed her ears and pranced back behind the counter.

“What did the girl want?” the detective asked.

I told him the truth. “To board the ferret.” And I pointed to Mr. Bones.

“What else did she say?” I could see that the animal didn't interest him.

“Nothing.” I didn't see any reason to drag Murphy into the conversation. “What do you want her for?”

Instead of answering, the detective took out a business card and gave it to me. He'd penciled in his name at the bottom. Paul Marvin. I guess money was tight at the Syracuse Police Department. “When you get bored, do you reverse your names?” I asked.

He pressed his lips together. He probably got that comment all the time. “Call me when she comes back,” he said.

“What makes you think she will?”

“The rat.” And he pointed to Mr. Bones.

“Ferrets aren't rodents.” Everyone always says that, and it annoys the hell out of me. “They belong to the mink family.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“Do you?”

His jaw tightened, and he turned away.

“I guess you're not interested in taxonomic niceties.”

Before Marvin could reply, his partner came up and told him they had to get going. I blew another bubble as I watched them leave and thought about what had just happened. It was all a big puzzle and there didn't seem to be much I could do at the moment to solve it, but that didn't prevent me from thinking about it, while I fixed up a home for the ferret in an old aquarium. It wasn't the best place to keep him, but since I didn't have a ferret cage around, it would have to do for the moment.