Scent

by Kelly, Clint L.

  In Room 207 Royce Blankenship combed Joy Spretnak’s hair and kissed her forehead. She had emerged from the coma and, joy of joys, had been moved to his old room to convalesce.

  To her hospital gown he pinned a corsage of four double orchids in pale-blue and yellow with throats of red-gold. Like magic, he produced a beautiful yellow rosebud from thin air and tucked it carefully into place over her right ear.

  A thermos of virgin strawberry daiquiris appeared next. And two glasses. “A toast to a very special night,” Royce said after pouring the drinks. “You are my betrothed and the Dixons are royalty.” He motioned to the Weather Channel on the TV bolted to the ceiling, where an overly cheery woman meteorologist was discussing the local weather. “Mild and dry,” he said. “There will be no rain on the Dixon parade.”

  They clicked glasses and Royce said, “Why must they turn every one of these awards ceremonies into an exercise in excess?” He waved a dismissive hand. “We could have thrown a street fair in the Azure parking lot and put Poochie Cunningham in a dunk tank. Don’t you think Bridgette Sigafoos would have been first in line, my love?”

  She rewarded him with a wan smile. Thus encouraged, he continued. “On Thursday I overheard those two discussing ballroom dance lessons. Bridgette insisted she was pretty good at the famous Latin dance the Casanova. The more Poochie attempted to convince her it was the bossa nova, the more she dug in her heels. She ended the argument by saying, ‘For someone so ill-informed, you should stick to the Carlton.’ When asked what dance that was, she replied, ‘You know, the one those flapper girls made famous.’ ”

  Joy’s laughter pleased him. Whatever was in her IV was working. “The corsage isn’t too much, do you think?”

  A little more laughter through yet-swollen lips. “Look at that weather girl, all stylish and pretty,” she said with a dry rasp. “Now look at me. Backless smock. Hospital-issue booties. No makeup. No jewelry. A corsage is a blessing.”

  He gazed at her, thinking how much he adored her. She shook her head.

  “Stop,” she said, flustered. “I haven’t gotten you a thing.”

  He stroked her arm. “Not true. I’m the proud owner of a new heart, and by Tuesday noon I will own a new Chrysler. Were it not for you . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. It was her uncommon kindness and grace, flowing from an inner spring, that had touched his soul. Yet that same kindness and grace had also threatened her demise. What had made those filthy raccoons turn on a friend? The world was unhinged.

  It made him sad that she yet was unable to talk about that troubled night when his life had found meaning and hers had nearly ended. Time, he told himself. Time.

  He reached behind him into a bag, and when next his hand appeared, it held an exquisite bottle of Cassandra.

  Joy caught her breath. Royce took her dazed expression for a sign of pleased surprise and pulled the stopper. The sensuous elixir fanned across the room and entrapped everything in it. “I wanted to replace the one lost in the attack. In fact, I will see to it that you are never without Cassandra. Why wait, my love? Wear this now in celebration of new beginnings for us and for the king and queen of fragrance!” He thrust the cruet toward the ceiling in homage to the Dixons, splashing scent onto the bed, the floor, and his beloved.

  The bouquet intensified, insistent, to seize the room in a mad dance between attraction and violation.

  It began as a low moan, quickly rising to a wail. Joy’s fists beat against the bed, and she thrashed side to side as if dodging unseen attackers. He stared at her face, a twisted agony, eyes darting wildly in their sockets. The wail became a keening, and alarm bells sounded in the hall.

  Royce backed away, horrified at his own thoughtlessness, flinching with Joy’s every tortured jerk. He beat his forehead with bony knuckles. How could I be so stupid? Of course the very sight and smell of Cassandra would conjure the assault, replay every awful thing she has endured.

  The room shifted. Royce Blankenship’s legs verged on collapse. Everything went out of focus.

  Why won’t she stop crying?

  There was no shaking the ghastly realization that like Dr. Frankenstein, he may have unleashed something over which there was no control.

  Slender, unseen rivers of aroma escaped the room to invade the hall. The perfumer sank to the floor.

  The ultimate burning question followed him down. Who among mere mortals held the power to force Cassandra back into its bottle?

  Agent Heidler later tried to recall which came first, the sound of the hospital alarm code or the beguiling smell that threatened his resistance.

  In whatever order, the smell was the adversary, which he knew instinctively. It wanted to take him out, erode his defenses to dust, neutralize all he had sworn to uphold. Like the rogue cop ensnared in his own prostitution sting, he was tempted to taste the forbidden fruit, betray the sacred trust. In an instant he came that close.

  That smell is a deceiver.

  But Ladd’s altered behavior threw ice water on his human partner. One minute they were striding in step on their way to a reckoning with Roberto Esteban and the false-faced Dr. Juarez, and the next Ladd was creeping forward on all fours, emitting a menacing growl, teeth bared in preattack mode. The canine had not been trained to attack.

  “Halt!”

  For the first time in his life Ladd ignored the command. With a ferocious snarl the dog hurtled forward. Caught off balance, his partner stumbled, and the leash went flying from his hand. A nurse screamed, and people in the hall either dropped and covered their heads or fled in the opposite direction. They might have saved their energy. The shepherd had but one destination in mind.

  Room 207.

  In a split second, as if awakened from a fog, the drug agent assessed the situation. He could read his animal’s every twitch and with sinking heart made the professional decision. Assuming the stance, legs firmly planted, knees slightly bent, he gripped the service revolver firmly in both hands and took aim. “Get down!” he commanded, and anyone in the hall still standing within a hundred feet of his voice dropped like bags of cement.

  Ladd rocketed through the doorway of 207 and with a half-howl, half-bellow of primitive rage launched himself at the thrashing woman in the bed.

  Royce heard the snarl and stood, resolutely facing the doorway.

  In a millisecond his primary sense took the lead. With all the ease and unconscious thought of an experienced trucker downshifting a semi, he parsed the odors in that room.

  Others would testify that Cassandra overpowered the rest and was all they could smell. But Blankenship wasn’t like others. He smelled the toxic spill of his own fear. He smelled the deadly radiation of panic emanating from the wounded woman he loved. And God help them, he smelled the sulfur of their demise.

  Death hurtled through the door, propelled by canine rage. A tan and black blur, it launched at the bed and met the muzzle-cracking resistance of a metal bedpan. Swollen large by devotion, Royce wielded the pan with deadly accuracy. The dog twisted sideways and missed the bed at the instant the gunshot sounded.

  There was a single, anguished yelp of surprise, dead weight shattering delicate machinery, a sickening thud, and then a sudden, stunned silence.

  Silence that was at last broken by the sobs of Agent Heidler.

  Chapter 19

  Cassie drew a deep breath and smiled for the cameras. At her side Nick waved to the crowd and blew kisses to familiar dignitaries of the aroma world.

  She felt a thrill of excitement. The North American Fragrance Guild threw the biggest, glitziest party the City by the Bay had seen in a long while. In the tradition of the glamour years of Hollywood, searchlights lit up the night sky over the elegant Fairmont Hotel, Mason Street was cordoned off, and a one-hundred-foot red carpet kept all the expensive footwear dry and cushioned. According to the papers, not since delegates from forty nations met in the hotel’s historic Garden Room to draft the charter for the United Nations had there been this much excitement and self-importan
ce.

  At every turn in the Fairmont, the Dixons met with applause, cheers, and glitter. They walked a red carpet into the Grand Ballroom, which resembled a wing from the golden palace of Louis XIV. Mirrors and chandeliers, bone china and weighted cutlery, crystal goblets and fine linen by the skein, brass candelabras and velvet-coated waitstaff struck the proper tone of pomp and polish while head chefs, house managers, and maitre d’s warred with camera crews, lighting specialists, and sound technicians for the room to maneuver and treat the world to one of the year’s most lavish assemblies.

  The Dixons were told that in the great kitchen, Master Chef Dom Frederick Condolora orchestrated dinner for a guest list of eight hundred that included the presidents and first ladies of five countries; the US vice president and his wife; the mayor of San Francisco; the governor of California; six state legislators and as many federal; four state and two national Supreme Court justices; a dozen leading men and ladies of cinema; eighteen household names in fashion and cosmetic design; fragrance moguls from Faberge, Max Factor, Revlon, Elizabeth Arden, Estée Lauder, and Lanvin; industry reporters from ten magazines and newspapers; and the chiefbuyers for Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf Goodman, Lord and Taylor, Marshall Fields, Neiman-Marcus, and a dozen lesser retail corporations. DeBrieze was there, but in the form of a token vice president.

  “Table for one,” quipped Nick in Cassie’s ear, nodding in the direction of the unfamiliar deBrieze executive. “I’m glad it’s not you-know-who!”

  Cassie felt regally stunning in the Luisa Beccaria original. She shimmered in the lustrous light and graciously acknowledged the many appraising and appreciative looks she received from men and women alike. Her coiffure had been worth the wrathful tongue-lashing from an indignant Figare, the man who had had his fingers in the hair of royalty and cover models on five continents. By the time he added up all the surcharges, what he called “inconvenience taxes” for her tardiness and for not treating him with proper respect, the swirling layers of burnished hair and sapphire sparkles had set her back in the low four figures. All for a single night’s froufrou. But what a night!

  And Nick’s adoring glances were worth every cent. He beamed like a young suitor to whom the homecoming queen said yes she would love to go with him to the dance. Besides, Cassandra would be in the stores on Monday, and she could afford to put finicky Figare on retainer.

  “Great Scott!” exclaimed Nick, taking in the spectacle of silver, crystal, and flame. “This is no time to get one’s cummerbund in a bind. New York might worry it’ll ever get the Crystal Decanter Awards Gala back!”

  They were seated at an immaculately laid table just below the lectern. Their tablemates were the mayor, the governor of California and his wife, and representing the North American Fragrance Guild, President Perry Montague, Vice President Benjamin Lynch, and their wives.

  Cassie watched the arrival of a hot appetizer consisting of roasted quail filled with brioche and foiegras on napa cabbage with truffle sauce. Her expert sense of smell announced the cream of artichoke soup dusted in toasted hazelnuts and dark rye croutons before it appeared. “Yesterday at this time, I was having cream of tomato and grilled cheese,” Nick joked.

  They soon made way for a salad of Sonoma greens with pears and gorgonzola sprinkled in champagne vinaigrette.

  Mayor Grant Hodgson nodded earnestly. “My kind of dinner party! There is nothing too good for the people who put us on the map. Anything we can do at city hall to make Azure comfortable, you say the word. We haven’t had this much positive attention since Tony Bennett left his heart here!”

  With precision clockwork, no sooner were the salads at an end than the main dish floated into place, a trilogy of beef tenderloin, Chilean sea bass, and grilled prawns in shiitake sauce with Israeli couscous.

  Governor Mitch von Bruegger, a large mustachioed man vigorously working a mouthful of sea bass, added his praise. “I quite agree with the mayor. If you folks can corner this state a nice slice of the global personal care market, there are some sweet tax incentives in it for you. And should you, Nick, or you, Cassie, for that matter, ever get an itch in your political aspirations, I’ve got people who’d scratch it for you like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Cassie stopped her fork midway with its sliver of tenderloin and blushed. There was an expectant hush at the table until the governor realized how coarse his words had sounded, and laughed in a way that was half-hearty cover-up, half apology. It was a sound with which the taxpayers of California were quite familiar.

  Relieved laughter erupted from the others. “Men!” said Jillian von Bruegger, a large, powdered woman in robin’s egg blue, who rolled her eyes in disapproval. “Subtle as whoopee cushions. But really, Cassandra, we could use a woman of your moxie in the capitol.”

  Cassie was flattered but not in the least tempted. “Thank you all, but I know my limitations. Our daughter has campaigned for a home-cooked meal now and then, but that’s about the extent of our politicking.”

  They laughed appreciatively. Nick blew her a kiss and said, “With regrets to such fine company, a fragrance legend does not mix in the affairs of mortals. Her tasks are those of a goddess.”

  Had Cassie’s mouth been full, she would have choked. Still, she took a generous swallow of water to be on the safe side. “You’ll have to excuse Mr. Dixon,” she said to the rest. “He suffers the lingering effects of the jungle madness.”

  Easy laughter ringed the table and greeted the coconut caramel cake in fresh lychee, chocolate, and mango sauce. Cassie wondered if it was proper etiquette to ask a master chef for the recipe.

  He watched the comings and goings at the Fairmont. A convention of peacocks soon to crown their king and queen. Pity to poison the program, but hey, that’s what hotel contingency plans were for.

  Bribe a member of the waitstaff who happens to be a cousin twice removed. He takes the gun inside three days before they erect metal detectors the morning of the gala and places the weapon on a ledge on the underside of the stainless steel prep table inside the southwest entrance to the main kitchen. At exactly 7:45 p.m. he wraps the gun in a linen napkin and slips it into a pocket of his white waiter’s jacket.

  Sometime in the next fifteen minutes dear cousin springs the huge surprise planned just for the guests of honor.

  While he wanted the pleasure of wreaking havoc in Nick Dixon’s life for himself, he knew that mayhem was not an exact science. That’s what distant relatives were for. The helpful waiter was prepared with sufficient prepayment to take matters into his own hands. To save your own neck sometimes required letting others have all the fun.

  He checked his watch. Six twenty-nine. He’d drop by Brenda’s penthouse, pay his respects, and establish an alibi. She was a witch but they’d had something, however brief. Tonight he’d take the time to remind her of just how much she’d thrown away.

  Besides, he was dying to know. Had she even noticed the gun was missing?

  Beth Dixon popped through the privacy hedge separating the Dixon brick trilevel from the Gaylors’ brick colonial. She’d finally gotten the energetic Gaylor twins, toddlers Max and Martine, to sleep and realized she had forgotten her chemistry textbook at home. It contained the homework she’d started at school. It was a mystery why she had to commit the covalent tables to memory when she knew she would never ever use them again in her entire life.

  But Mr. Kenshaw did not look kindly upon slackers, especially females like Beth who obviously were in class only to fulfill the state’s science requirement and flirt with their male lab partners.

  Since Andre, though, there had been a lot less random flirtation. Beth now flirted with a purpose, saving it for her hero at J. Primo’s. While it was the only chemistry she really cared about, boring boron and Mr. Kenshaw would not be denied.

  “Mags? You in?” The security system was disarmed, and the television was blaring one of those entertainment programs prehyping the gala at the Fairmont. Beth had it on over at the Gaylors’ too.

  �
��Maggie?” She could hear Gretchen whining in the laundry room down the hall from Mags’ room and suspected she had shut the Dane in — unattended, the dog was a chewer — while running to the market for snacks. Beth knew they were low on the essentials, but who had had the time to restock? The family friend loved her popcorn, and Gretch had picked up the habit.

  The snacks at the Gaylor home were more varied and heavier on the chocolate. Beth saved her candy cravings for babysitting.

  Mags should have reset the alarm. Much as she liked her, Beth thought she was overly dramatic and had too much of Cassie’s ear and too much run of the place. Just once, though, Beth would have liked to be invited along on trapeze night.

  She ran upstairs, found her chem text, ran down, and detoured to the laundry room and freed the excited Dane. “Oh, baby Gretchy not like solitary confinement? Poor Gretchy, poor baby!” The Dane stood tall on hind legs, plopped giant paws over Beth’s shoulders, and with the slap of a meaty tongue gave her a good wash.

  “Ugh, Gretch, that breath! Have you been into Mom’s fertilizer again?” She giggled and fought the dog down. “Enough, young lady! I have to get right back to the twins.”

  Beth dashed into the adjoining bathroom to wash off the dog slobber, Gretchen at her heels. She stopped and stared at a message smeared on the mirror in red lipstick: “To my fragrant Mags. Thanks for catching me! Love, Cass.”

  There was a crude drawing of a stick figure hanging upside down from a trapeze and crying for help. A squiggly arrow pointed playfully down to the counter and a beautifully distinct box of Cassandra parfum. A flash of anger and jealousy swept over Beth, and she almost threw the box in the toilet.

  She shut the door. “So, Gretch, what do you think? Do I drain the bottle, throw it out, and leave the empty box, or what?” Gretchen sat patiently by, mouth wide, tongue lolling, pink and black gums and bone white teeth bared as if she got the joke.