The Sweet Scent of Murder

by Susan P. Baker

  “Maybe I will sometime.”

  “There’s this other one where—”

  “Margaret.”

  “What?”

  “I hate to interrupt your reverie, but don’t you think we ought to give some thought to what we’re doing here?”

  “We’re watching the cabin.”

  “Yes, Margaret, but I mean, what we’re going to do next?”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess so.” She sounded disappointed.

  “I was thinking that the more intelligent thing to do would be to wait until dark.”

  “There was a movie by that name.”

  “Please, Margaret . . .”

  “Sorry.” She leaned forward in a slouch, elbows on knees, and stared at the clearing.

  Feeling like a tough taskmaster, I said, “It’s just that we’ve got to have a plan, that’s all.”

  She wouldn’t look at me. “I know.”

  “Okay,” I said, “stop trying to make me feel guilty. You’re doing it, you know. Help me think this thing out.”

  “It’s just that lately you never seem to want to talk,” she said in a whiny voice.

  “I’d love to talk, Margaret. Just not now. I’m a little nervous about this, okay? I thought you wanted to be in on things—well, now’s the time. Let’s make a plan.” I knew I should have left her at home.

  Her eyes lit up. “I’ve got it. After dark, we’ll sneak up on him. We can separate. One of us can go to the front door of the cabin and one, the back. We’ll rush him.”

  “Are you nuts? You want to get shot?”

  Her face fell. “I didn’t think about that. I just thought we could catch him in-between us.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “In the first place, if he’s a maniac, when he heard someone at the front door, he’d shoot without asking questions. In the second place, wouldn’t it be better to try to get a peek in the windows and see what the layout is and where the kids are?”

  “Oh, right, and then we can decide what to do.”

  “I was thinking that if the kids are all right, maybe we should wait for the police.”

  “Mavis, I can’t believe you’re saying that.”

  “I don’t want to place Jeanine and Tommy in any jeopardy, Margaret. What if he hurt them on account of us?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s settled then. In a few minutes, it will be dark enough to go take a look. One of us will have to do it.”

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Margaret said.

  “That’s what I thought. Better yet, why don’t you go back to the car now, before it’s too dark, and get your flashlight and come back here.”

  “Okay. You’ll wait for me before you go?”

  “Yes.” I watched her as she wound her way through the trees and out of sight, giving me a wistful look—or was it fearful—before she left.

  I sat in the silence, still staring at the cabin in the clearing, waiting for night to fall. When it did, it seemed sudden. I couldn’t see the sunset through the trees. It did cross my mind to wonder what in the heck we were doing there, but I pushed that thought away. Amid much thrashing, Margaret reappeared, flashlight in hand, and in the wink of an eye, everything went dark.

  No lights appeared in the cabin at first, then I could detect a dim glow, like that of a candle, shining through the window. The night sounds began abruptly. It was as though a conductor raised his baton and signaled the orchestra to begin. Who knew how many varieties of creatures and critters populated the forest and all of them sent a representative to play.

  I gathered my courage and stood, brushing myself off. “Margaret, I’m going,” I whispered toward her outline in the dark.

  “Good luck,” she whispered back.

  I crouched and ran at an angle to the cabin, toward the corner between the front and side windows, praying no one was peering out. I held my shoulder bag with my left hand, my right inside on the butt of my .38.

  When I got to the cabin, I tiptoed to the edge of the side window and peeked in. It was the kitchen area, separated from the remainder by a shelf that blocked my view.

  I tiptoed around to the front, crouched down until I got under the front window, and stood up only enough to get a view of the interior. When I did, what I could make out by the dim light was a total surprise.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What I can’t figure out,” Margaret said as she drove back down the dark highway toward Houston, “is how they knew anyone would find them there.”

  To say that we felt dejected, disappointed, and disillusioned at finding the empty cabin would be grossly underestimating the true nature of our feelings. We didn’t feel that good. I sat close to the passenger door, contemplating jumping out when she was going very fast, wishing more than ever for a cigarette or a beer or even a donut to feed my addiction and make me feel better, if only temporarily, my brain spinning around with horrible thoughts.

  “Mavis . . . ”

  “I heard you.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have a lot of thoughts on the matter, Margaret,” I said as I watched the landscape whiz by.

  “Mind telling me?”

  I sighed long and hard. “Seems like something fishy’s going on, like they were tipped off or something. The question is, by whom?”

  “I don’t know. Who?”

  “Well, I have several good ideas, Margaret. Like Frankie, the Lawson’s housekeeper. They may have called her and she could have told them what Hilary has been saying about Woodridge.”

  “I’ve been wondering why the police didn’t show up. Think they knew Mr. Woodridge and the kids were already gone?”

  “Possibly. Captain Milton may have already known about the cabin and was just trying to get rid of me.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Sometimes Margaret is unbelievably naive. Sometimes I am. This looked like one of those times. “Why not? It sure kept us busy for a day.”

  “Yeah.” She, too, sighed. “It sure did.”

  “Then, there is the prospect of Arthur Woodridge never having been there in the first place, but that seems unlikely since laundry still hung on the line. So maybe he was there until the kids went with him and then blew it off. Maybe he’s trying to keep everyone guessing. Confusing the issue.”

  “That could be it.”

  “Worst of all is the thought that maybe somehow, someway, Mrs. Lawson had something to do with it. She’s the one that put everyone onto the cabin in the first place. At least she did me, telling me about the place and to talk to McAfee about it.”

  “Oh, Mavis. The poor woman—with her husband dead and all—I can’t believe that.”

  “It is far-fetched, I’ll admit, but it’s a possibility.”

  “I’d hate to think it’s true.”

  “Why do you say that? You haven’t even met her. She’s very strange. A very strange snob.” I watched Margaret’s face. Lights flickered on it as the cars flashed by us going the other way.

  “But I feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah. You would. She’s really not as pitiful as you want to think, Margaret. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in this up to her hairline.”

  “But what about that McAfee guy? The police did pick him up. Maybe he had something to do with it.”

  “That’s true. And you know, besides him, we still need to check out that Clayton Hadley. He’s a real creep. And the stockbroker—Earl Smythe. I’m always suspicious of people with weird names. We need to see what they’re really about. And then there’s always the possibility of their wives. Maybe Lawson was having an affair with all of them.”

  “Oh—I don’t believe that.” Margaret laughed. “Mr. Lawson was getting kind of old for that much activity.”

  “You never know with Viagra.”

  “What if . . .” Margaret stopped in mid-sentence. She was getting excited. I could tell from the pitch of her voice and the way she breathed in and out quickly. It was bound to be
something spacey.

  I said, “What? What if he really died of a hard attack instead of a heart attack?”

  “Ha!” Margaret burst out laughing. “A hard attack. That’s a good one. Ha!” She chortled for few moments. That’s one of the reasons I keep her around. She laughs at my jokes.

  “No, really, what if . . . if one of those men really took the kids and Arthur Woodridge didn’t do anything?”

  Margaret really has strange ideas sometimes. Strange, but interesting.

  “Why would one of them want the kids?” I asked, trying to remain calm and not break her face.

  “If they wanted to make it look like Mr. Woodridge killed Mr. Lawson. One of them could have kidnapped the kids and killed Mr. Lawson and the kids. If he hid their bodies, then no one would believe Mr. Woodridge didn’t do it, and he’d, Mr. Whoever, be in the clear and get whatever it was they wanted that they had to kill for.” She glanced at me. She could probably see the look of disbelief on my face in the flashing light. Judging from what she said next, I think she did. “It was just a thought.”

  “Well, keep them to yourself.”

  “God, what a grouch.”

  “Aw, I’m just hungry.”

  The next few minutes passed in silence as we approached Houston and started passing the little shacky joints on the side of the road.

  “Tomorrow, I want you to do some checking on McAfee, Hadley, and Smythe,” I said.

  “You mean you think what I thought could be true?”

  “No, I don’t think they have the kids, but any one of them could have killed Harrison Lawson. It could be totally unrelated.”

  “You promised Ben you’d stay out of that.”

  “No, I didn’t. We need to find out what possible motives any of the three of them could have. We already have suspicions about McAfee, but do some more checking anyway. And on the others, too. Lawson and Hadley may have had some strange real estate deal going on, and Mrs. McAfee started to tell me about Smythe but got cut off. Something about the stock market.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what you can about their criminal histories, and then get on the computer and search the real estate records. See what really big real estate deals have been going on recently.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “For one thing, I’m going to see what the medical examiner has to say. Then I’ll just go see Smythe and Hadley and see what they have to say for themselves.”

  “Okay, Mavis. Is there anything special you want Candy to do when she gets out of school?”

  “She could maybe call some of those kids back and see if there’s been any more contact. Also, go ahead and print out at least some preliminary info on poisons like household, plant, common poisons, etcetera. Don’t print the whole million pages, though.”

  “Actually it was more than a million.”

  Margaret can be literal. “Just a few on each, okay?” We were getting close to home. I was so frustrated that I thought I’d have a beer and then hit the sack. It was after ten so I’d wait until the next day to call Mrs. Lawson about what we didn’t find. In fact, I might go pay her another visit in person and see if I could read her reaction. I also wanted to talk to Frankie again. Boy, did I.

  “By the way, Mavis, did you ever call Annette Jensen back?” Margaret asked.

  “Omigosh. I was supposed to meet her at nine at Lana’s. Shit.”

  “Oh, no. You forgot her?”

  I shook my head and didn’t bother saying anything sarcastic in response. “Just get me home, Margaret. I’ll go over there and see if she’s still waiting.”

  “Oh, no,” Margaret said again, her voice growing shrill.

  That was going to be one angry lady, especially if any of the locals tried to pick her up. I laughed at the thought and Margaret gave me a weird look. As soon as she dropped me off, I drove like a maniac to where I hoped Annette would still be waiting.

  Lana’s was just getting going good at that time of night. It’s a neighborhood joint where I sometimes go to have a beer and a game of pool. Lana’s chili burgers aren’t too bad, either. No hassles. We all live in the same vicinity and look after each other. If a stranger comes in, everybody’s curiosity is aroused and no one settles down until the stranger is gone again or meets up with a local if that’s his or her intent.

  Once, years before my time, there was a shoot-out inside. The would-be robbers shot Lana’s husband when he reached for his baseball bat. That’s why she keeps a loaded shotgun handy now. On the bar, next to where one of the bullets ricocheted, there’s a brass plaque commemorating the occasion. After Mr. Perez got shot, the neighbors jumped the guy who shot him and beat him to a pulp before calling the police. That’s the kind of place it is.

  After my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I did a visual search of the place. Annette wasn’t there. Lana came out from behind the bar, a large, white dishtowel pinned around her middle.

  “You lookin’ for an old lady, Mavis?”

  “Yeah. She was supposed to meet me here at nine, but I got sidetracked.”

  “Some long sidetrack. You see what time it is? The old lady was very upset. She give me this to give to you,” she said, pressing a piece of paper into my hand.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Huh uh, I don’t allow talk like that in my place and you know it.” She wagged a finger in my face.

  “Sorry, Lana.” I shrugged. “It’s been a bad day.” Unfolding the paper, I saw Annette’s home address scrawled on it in perfect penmanship. It said, “Please come right away.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Lana, you’re a sweetheart. Hey, while I’m here, I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a drink called schnapps?”

  “Si. The Germans or Austrians—same thing—drink it. Nasty tasting stuff.”

  “You carry it?”

  She shook her head. “No one would buy it.”

  I nodded and patted her cheek before heading for the door.

  “Next time we have a nice visit, okay, Mavis?” she called.

  “Soon, Lana.”

  Annette lived in a neighborhood called Oak Forest. Not unlike my own, it had fifty-year-old homes and large trees pushing up sidewalks. The houses were relatively small, two or three-bedroom, wood frames, most with carports instead of garages, but the lots on which they sat were large, the subdivision having been constructed before the oil boom when land wasn’t so dear. I drove slowly down the road checking the numbers by the street lamps that were spaced too far apart.

  When I located Annette’s house, there was a car in the drive, but the house was strangely dark, the porch light not lit. Perhaps she had given up on me and gone to bed. I couldn’t blame her. I felt guilty when I thought about her having to wait so long while I was on a wild-goose chase.

  I parked and walked to the front of the house. The screen door needed a fresh coat of white paint. I rapped on the wood frame; it banged loosely against the molding, unlatched. Pulling the door open, this time I knocked harder on the front door. No answer. I pounded again. Nothing. I turned the knob, but the door was locked.

  I didn’t know if I should go away and try to see her the next day, or call her on my cell, or try a window. Something about the place gave me an uneasy feeling.

  I went back to my car and got a flashlight out of my trunk. Circling around the side of the house, I shined the light but couldn’t see inside because the curtains were drawn. I worked my way around to the back door, rapped again, and the door came open. I wanted to run.

  I reached in, feeling around the doorframe for the light switch. “Annette.” I found the switch, but when I flipped it, no light. To say that I was tense from that moment on would not be an overstatement.

  I shined my flashlight around the kitchen and took a couple of cautious steps toward the next room. My foot came down on an unmoving lump of something. Flashing m
y light downward, I saw a bulldog. It lay on its side like it was asleep, but when I crouched down I could see that it wasn’t. Someone had bashed in its little head, and it lay in a puddle of still-warm blood. I felt around for a pulse but couldn’t find any.

  A shuffling sound assailed me from another room, then footsteps came toward me. Someone shoved me down on the floor. He, and I use that word advisedly, ran past me and out the back door. I tried to get to my feet but slipped in the dog blood. By the time I got my balance and ran around to the front of the house, whoever it was had gone. In the distance, I heard a car and knew it was useless to try to follow them.

  I went back into the house, stepped past the dog, and tried the lights in the living room. Nothing. Whoever it was had taken care not to be seen by anyone. I shined my light around until I found my way into the master bedroom, searching for Annette. She wasn’t there. I checked the bathroom and the spare bedroom and went back to search the living room. I found her crumpled on the floor in front of a swivel rocker. Her head was in much the same condition as her dog’s. The telephone lay beside her, the receiver on the hook. I might not ever know who she was trying to call.

  I checked Annette’s pulse. It was faint, but still there. With two fingers, I punched nine-one-one for an ambulance and the police. Then I called and woke up Ben. Then I retraced my steps to the back door, went outside into the yard, and threw up.