The Sweet Scent of Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  “Of course you’ll back off that now, right?”

  “What back off? I might have a fee to earn.”

  “Damn it, give me your word that you won’t get involved in this case if it turns out to be more than a heart attack.”

  “There’s still the boy and girl to find,” I said.

  Candy’s face broke out into a grin, which she attempted to conceal behind her hand. Margaret quit chewing on her thumbnail and looked down into her lap. She had gotten quite good at that posture.

  Here we go again. Ben on the issuing end of orders. Me on the receiving end. Story of my life.

  “I don’t think I can do that, Ben,” I said softly, but firmly. “Tommy’s my client. If his case is tied to some other complications, then I’m in.”

  “Why did I know you were going to say that?” His deep voice sounded like advancing thunder.

  I shrugged for the umpteenth time that day.

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to do whatever you feel like doing?” The thunder grew closer. Lightning was imminent.

  I forced my eyes to form the most innocent of looks and shook my head. “Dunno.”

  He changed tactics on me. “I don’t want to fight with you, Mavie,” Ben said in his conniving, coaxing voice.

  “Me, neither, honey,” I said in a sugary voice that easily matched his. I slipped my left hand into his right as it rested on the table and intertwined our fingers.

  “All right then,” he said. “You just promise me that you won’t get involved in any investigation unless you absolutely have to. And I mean absolutely.”

  “I promise I won’t investigate Harrison Lawson’s case unless absolutely necessary,” I said, holding up three fingers. “On my honor.”

  He leaned forward and gave me a little peck. “Why don’t you let me take you home now?” he asked, his lips turning up into a sly smile.

  I knew exactly what he had in mind, and it was all right with me. I’d find the energy for a little cuddle. “Why not follow me?”

  After pulling on my shoes, I stood. We both turned to the girls. “Good night,” we said in unison. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, after a brief stop at the office to review the pages about heart attack and stroke that Margaret had printed out and left on my desk, I wended my way to the University of Houston main campus. I knew my friend, Stanhope, would be there. He was always there, either teaching or doing what chemists do in their labs. That’s why our love life had been so lousy back when. And how we became mere friends. But that’s another story.

  Anyway, I found him, cockeyed as ever as he peered sideways into a microscope.

  “Hey, guy,” I called out. “Got time to talk to an old friend?”

  His bald head popped up; he slid off his stool; and his face broke out into a grin as he lowered his glasses down to his nose. Leaning down to give me a hug, he said, “Always have time for you, Mavis.” Which we both knew was a lie, but that’s okay.

  “You’re lookin’ good, big fella.” Tall and as thin as vermicelli, Stanhope should have been a basketball player. “Need to eat more, though.” I whacked him in the stomach with the back of my hand.

  He feigned injury. “Did you come here to beat me up or some other ulterior motive as usual?”

  “Awww—I like that. Can’t a friend come visit a friend once in a while?”

  Stanhope nodded. “Right.”

  “Well, since you asked.” I pulled a stool over next to his and sat down. “I was at a party when this man drops down dead.”

  He rolled his eyes so far back in his head that for a moment I thought he’d become comatose.

  “Now, just wait a minute. I had nothing to do with that. I was talking to the guy, though, and later, when the police got there, I saw a little bottle, but the cops got it. It was like one of those perfume sample bottles you get in a department store.”

  “Your point being—”

  “I think he was poisoned.”

  He laughed. “Not much evidence to go on, Mavis. He drops dead. You see a bottle.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Everybody at the scene kept trying to say he had a heart attack, but the whole time I was there, he kept wiping his mouth and putting his hand on his stomach. He perspired a lot. He seemed unsteady on his feet. His eyes were like pools of bloodshot water.”

  He shook his head. “Still not enough to go on, Mavis.”

  “Someone told me that he had heart problems, but that he hadn’t had a heart attack or any trouble in a long time. I was around a man who had a heart attack, years ago, and it seems to me they fall down and make heart-wrenching, no pun intended, noises. Am I right?”

  “I’m a chemist, Mavis, not a doctor. What do you want me to say?”

  I shrugged. “Okay then, tell me what the symptoms of poisoning are.”

  Stan screwed up his face. “Any number of things. It depends on what kind of poison. Cyanide, arsenic, drain cleaner—they all have some symptoms the same and some different. Nausea, stomach pains, diarrhea, vomiting, weakness, irregular heartbeat, dilation of pupils, dizziness—”

  “Oh, I guess I wasted a trip over here. I just thought you’d be able to tell me.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. Why don’t you do an Internet search and you can read all about them and see if what you observed in the man matches any of them.”

  I jumped off the stool. “Yeah, I could do that. Or get Margaret to do it.” I grinned. I wasn’t going to tell him that Margaret told me how many sites there were. “I just thought it’d be easier to ask you.”

  “Well, thanks for your vote of confidence. See if you can figure out at least what type of poison it was, like one of the classic ones I mentioned or a household poison or a poisonous plant or a fungi or a medical poison or—”

  “Okay, okay. I got the picture. Sorry to bother you.” I kissed his cheek. “You’re a doll, as usual. You could have just kicked me out.”

  “Hey, you want to have a drink sometime?”

  “Aw, that’s sweet Stan, but I’m still with Ben.”

  “Just as friends, then.”

  I headed for the door. “I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” His offer was tempting but not enough to have to explain it to Ben.

  On the way to the Lawson home, I asked myself what the heck I thought I was doing. Was I ready to commit myself to investigating Lawson’s death? My imagination had run away with me. There hadn’t even been an autopsy. No one had said he was murdered. It could have been a simple heart attack. After all, from the looks of things, he practically drank himself to death.

  When I arrived back at the Lawson home, the housekeeper again confronted me at the door. This time, the woman wore an air of dejection like a thin coat. She’d lost her drill-sergeant attitude and didn’t give me any trouble when I asked to see Hilary Lawson.

  She put me in the library, but after she left, I went out by the pool. Every sign of the party the day before had been cleared away. The flowers and shrubbery served as a barrier to outside noise. My footsteps seemed to echo as I approached the bar and stood where I had been when Mr. Lawson met his demise. I tried to remember where everyone was, what they were doing, and how they had reacted when he dropped dead.

  Out of more than idle curiosity, I opened the cabinet beneath the bar. To my surprise, the bottle with the foreign label from which Mr. Lawson had poured his drink was still there. Typical of Lon’s police work. It was some kind of schnapps, whatever that was, imported from Germany. I wanted to take the bottle with me, but my bag wasn’t large enough to hide it and then there was the small problem of an interruption.

  “Miss Davis?”

  I gave the bottle a last glance, noting that it had been opened but was awfully full, and closed the cabinet door, turning toward the voice. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lawson.” She stood in front of a gigantic philodendron, it framing her like a photograph.

  Her spike-heeled black pumps ma
de a sharp rapping sound on the concrete as she approached me with her right hand outstretched. In her left, she held a pair of black-framed sunglasses. A long-sleeved black sheath fell to mid-calf. We shook hands this time. Hers felt cold and dry, but she gave a decent shake and smiled a melancholy smile that didn’t appear genuine. “Good afternoon, Miss Davis.” Her clear blue eyes feigned puzzlement and a frown wrinkled her forehead.

  “I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, Mrs. Lawson, but we do have some unfinished business.”

  “Not at all, Miss Davis. Let’s go into the resource room where we’ll be more comfortable.” She led me inside and indicated a hard-backed chair. “Please have a seat.” I thought it was the old “put them in an uncomfortable chair and they won’t stay long” routine. She positioned herself on the sofa, her hands folded over the glasses in her lap.

  It’s not that I’m suspicious by nature, but for a moment, she rendered me speechless. Her attitude—indeed, her whole demeanor—had done a hundred-and-eighty-degree reverse, which forced me to change my own attitude and try to be as good an actress as she appeared to be.

  It seemed that we stared at each other for eons before I finally cleared my throat to speak. “Uh, I realize that you’re going through a difficult time right now—what with the passing of your husband yesterday.” I watched her face, not knowing what to expect.

  Her eyes stayed on mine, unblinking, and she nodded her head.

  “I’d like to offer my condolences to you in that regard.” I felt as awkward as a fledgling.

  “You’re very kind.”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss your husband, though, Mrs. Lawson. I wanted to talk to you about Tommy and Jeanine.”

  “Yes?” A hopeful expression sprang onto her face.

  “Have you heard from them?”

  “No . . . no, I haven’t.” Her lashes fluttered down over her beautiful blues.

  “Tommy called my office yesterday.”

  “Is he all right?” She edged forward on the sofa and her eyes grew wide.

  “I didn’t speak to him myself. He called while I was here. My assistant, Margaret Applebaum, talked to him. According to her, he said that both he and Jeanine were okay, that they were together, and that he didn’t need my services any longer.” I watched for a reaction, but she only appeared pensive. “I came over here to tell you that and to ask if you think they’re really all right or if you think I should continue to try to find them.”

  While I spoke, I noticed her hands clench into fists and her knuckles turn very white. She refrained from speaking for a good thirty seconds. She gritted her teeth, the muscles in her jaws flexing, her mouth formed a tight, little line, her dark eyebrows drew together, then her face relaxed and two little tears rolled down her cheeks, one from each eye.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She shook her head and put a small fist to her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut. Then she produced an embroidered handkerchief out of nowhere and dabbed at her face. I watched as she shivered and sniffed and then opened her eyes. She said, “I’m all right. I usually pride myself at being able to maintain control of my emotions. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” She looked as if the dam would burst at any second.

  Who was the real Hilary Lawson? She appeared to be distraught, but how could I really tell? I wondered if she was still taking the medication the doctor had prescribed. It didn’t look like it. Should I call for the housekeeper? I glanced around the room, wanting to do or say something helpful. “How about if I come back another time?” I stood to leave.

  “No, no. I’m all right, really. Sit. Let me ring for tea,” she said, her voice hoarse. I watched as she seemed to float behind the bar and back again to the sofa.

  Shortly thereafter, the housekeeper appeared and Mrs. Lawson said softly, “We’ll have tea, Frankie.”

  Frankie nodded, turned, and shuffled back out of the room.

  “I didn’t mean to be a bother, Mrs. Lawson,” I said. “I just thought you’d like to know that we heard from your kids.”

  Frowning, she shook her head again. “No bother. I haven’t had breakfast anyway. Frankie will bring something for us to eat with the tea.” Her eyes steadied on mine. “Didn’t Tommy say anything else, Miss Davis?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Mrs. Lawson. It was a rather short phone call. Margaret said he hung up abruptly.”

  Another long silence.

  Eyebrows knitted together, she compressed her lips a moment and then said, “He didn’t say where he was calling from?”

  “No.”

  “No indication whatsoever?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. Oh—it was long distance, though, if that’s any help.”

  “Long distance—”

  “Yes. Must have been a pay phone because there was an operator’s voice before he began to talk.”

  She nodded, her eyes glazed as if she was deep in thought.

  I heard slow footsteps. Frankie padded to the coffee table between us and set down the silver tray and tea service. She handed each of us a peach-colored linen napkin. Tiny sandwiches filled one plate, sugar cookies, another. Two sets of thin china cups and saucers and a fat silver pot took up the rest of the space on the tray.

  “Shall I pour?” Frankie asked in an odd low voice as she crouched over the tray. I couldn’t quite see her expression.

  Mrs. Lawson’s smile did not extend to her eyes. “That won’t be necessary, Frankie. Thank you.”

  The old woman straightened up, smoothed her apron, ran her eyes across my face, and shuffled away.

  Mrs. Lawson poured. “Lemon or milk?”

  “Milk.”

  “Sugar or sweetener?”

  “Sweetener.”

  I watched as she dipped a tiny silver spoon into a powdery substance and sweetened my tea, then a drop of milk. She handed me the cup. While I stirred, she poured for herself. It was gratifying to see that she dipped the tiny silver spoon into the powdery substance and sweetened her own tea or I would have been in an awkward situation, not knowing what was in store for me. Not that I have a suspicious mind, ha. She handed me an empty plate, took one for herself, placed some sandwiches and two cookies on it, and sat back. “Help yourself, please.”

  I hadn’t eaten breakfast, either, yet considering the premises I hesitated to pig out.

  “Please, Miss Davis, make yourself at home.” She watched me, probably putting me to some kind of test. I just knew she was hoping I’d dump it. She smiled. I chastised myself for my ill thoughts. My awkwardness was probably the farthest thing from the poor woman’s mind. Having convinced myself, I decided to eat.

  I had just stuffed a sandwich into my face when Mrs. Lawson decided to pour her heart out. “I’m really concerned about the children, because if my husband murdered Harrison, the children may be next.”

  I almost choked. I hadn’t said anything about murder. Chewing vigorously, my watering eyes affixed themselves on her now-vacant-looking ones. When I swallowed, I started to speak, but she beat me to it.

  “I tried to tell the police yesterday, but they wouldn’t listen. You were still here then, weren’t you?” She took a dainty sip of her tea and patted her lips with her napkin.

  I shook my head. Was she loony? Her voice had a strange quality to it, like a child reading from a fairy story.

  “They wouldn’t listen,” she said. Then she gave me an odd look and added, “James wouldn’t either.”

  “I will, Mrs. Lawson. That is—if you want to tell me.” And how.

  She took another sip of her tea and munched a bit of cookie. Her eyes wore a distant look, as though she were caught in a daydream. “That’s why I was angry with you yesterday.”

  Angry with little old me? “What was?”

  “I was afraid he’d hurt them.”

  I tilted my head as though to clear water out of my ears. I didn’t know what the hell she meant. I couldn’t catch her eye as she seemed to be in a dream-like state, her eyes fixed in the dista
nce. Someplace like Never, Never Land, I thought. “Who, Mrs. Lawson? Who do you think might hurt the children?”

  “My husband.”

  We were getting nowhere fast. “He’s de—de—passed away.”

  “No. You don’t understand.” She finally fixed her eyes on mine. “I mean Arthur.”

  “Arthur? Who’s that?”

  “My first husband.” She looked at me as though I was quite stupid.

  I almost did dump the plate as I half rose off the chair. I caught it with my left hand, still holding my cup and saucer in my right, and steadied myself while our eyes locked. Some of what I’d learned the day before from her friend what’s-her- name was becoming clear. I smiled like I had no knowledge of the situation.

  “Arthur Woodridge,” she said.

  “Your first husband?” I asked.

  “Yes. The children’s real father.”

  “You think he’s got them?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s no other logical explanation.”

  “For their disappearance?”

  “And for Harrison’s murder.”

  “I’m afraid I got lost somewhere in the shuffle.”

  “He said he’d get me.”