The Scent of Murder--A Mystery

by Kylie Logan

  It was the second time since Saturday he’d tried to tempt her with food. With the gift of his precious time.

  “I…” She swallowed down the words she was afraid would sound too much like sure, why not.

  “I can’t. I’ve got something to do. I’m meeting someone tonight.”

  “A date?”

  Her sigh rippled the air. “One of the girls from school.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Grace Greenwald had once been one of the girls from school.

  “Then how about a rain check?”

  She took the steps up to the back porch two at a time, the better to put some distance between herself and Nick and the past.

  When she stuck her key in the door, she looked at him over her shoulder. “How about when hell freezes over?”

  “Damn.” One corner of his mouth thinned and he shook his head and followed her up the stairs. “Come on, Jazz. What we had, was it that bad?”

  When she turned the key and shoved the door open, her smile was hard-edged. “Even after all this time, you haven’t figured it out yet, have you? And I thought you were a smart guy. Don’t you get it, Nick? It wasn’t that bad. It was that good.”

  CHAPTER 7

  From what she’d heard from Eileen and Loretta at St. Catherine’s, Florie Allen and Grace Greenwald were mortal enemies. The irony wasn’t lost on Jazz. Years of picking and poking at each other in high school and both girls had ended up attending North Coast, Grace as a video major, Florie in photography.

  Thinking it through—because it was better than thinking what an idiot she’d been to open up to Nick and point out what he should have known all along—Jazz did another turn through the area at North Coast where she and Grace had agreed to meet, the building where the photography majors each had a small cubicle studio that included a desk, filing cabinets, and half walls where they hung their work.

  From the dizzying array of photographs displayed, she could see there was no lack of talent at the school.

  There was, however, a lack of Grace Greenwald.

  Arms folded over her chest and one foot tapping out an aggravated tattoo against the tile floor, Jazz took another look around at the groups of students huddled over their work, chatting.

  No Grace.

  She was just about to head over to where three girls were taking turns holding a framed photograph at arm’s length and talking about things like perspective and color saturation when the doors closest to where she stood popped open and a young man with a showy head of dreadlocks rambled into the room. He wore skinny jeans, had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and had the sort of intent look on his lean face that told her he had someplace to be. It didn’t keep her from stopping him.

  “Excuse me, do you know Grace Greenwald?” she asked him.

  “Grace? Sure.” His fingers were long and slim and he used them to push his tortoiseshell glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “I just saw her downstairs.”

  Jazz exhaled, forcing away her irritation. “Oh, good. She’s on her way.”

  “I don’t think so.” The kid slipped the backpack off his shoulder and set it on the floor. “Grace said she was heading to Little Italy for dinner.”

  “But she can’t be. We were supposed to meet tonight. Here.”

  He tucked his chin, the better to look at her over the rims of his glasses. “Do you know Grace? That girl does what she wants, when she wants. About three minutes ago, she told me what she wanted was linguini with clam sauce. My guess is you won’t be seeing her anytime soon.”

  It meshed with Jazz’s memories of Grace, a girl who’d never let things like the convenience of others get in the way of her own desires.

  She chewed her lower lip, thinking through the problem. “You know Grace. Did you know Florie, too?” she asked the young man.

  “Damn shame.” He shook his head, and his dreads swept his shoulders and the crisp white cotton shirt he wore with a knitted red bow tie. “She had real talent.”

  “You’re a photographer, too?”

  He was young and canny as gifted kids so often are. Without missing a beat, he pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Jazz. “Khari Jemper,” he said. “I specialize in portraits. If you ever…” He brushed one finger over the phone number and email address on the card. “I’m just starting out so I’m not too picky. I do weddings, baby pics, bar mitzvahs. Anything you need.”

  It brought up the memory of what Larry and Renee Allens’ neighbor had told her. “Florie was taking photographs of one of the neighborhood kids,” Jazz told him, then realized she needed to explain. “I knew her from high school.”

  He narrowed his eyes and studied her the way only an artist could. She had always thought her eyes were a little too close together, her nose a tad too small for a face as round as hers. Of course he would notice. Thank goodness she hadn’t taken after her dad when it came to hair. Michael Ramsey had streaks of gray before he was forty. But maybe that had more to do with having three kids than it did with genetics. Still, Jazz wasn’t delusional. When she looked in the mirror, she saw what Khari no doubt saw—the small lines at the corners of her eyes that weren’t there even two years ago, the ones that surely told him she was older than Florie.

  “I didn’t go to high school with Florie.” Since she knew Khari was trying to work out the math, she smiled. “I work there. And Florie … well, like I said, she was taking pictures of a neighbor’s baby.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “She never said anything to me about it, but hey, when it came to sharing … well, you knew Florie. She could be really good at keeping secrets.”

  “Do you think that’s what got her killed?”

  Khari had large dark eyes, and they widened. “Oh, come on! You’re making it sound like something out of some TV show and it was, what, a mugging or something, right? It had to be. Nobody purposely kills a girl like Florie.”

  Except somebody did.

  Rather than make this young man uncomfortable facing the truth, Jazz turned the conversation in another direction. “Did everyone like her?”

  His bottom lip caught between soldier-straight teeth, he considered the question. “We all pretty much get along.”

  “Even Florie and Grace Greenwald?”

  His heartbeat of hesitation was enough to make her realize she’d caught him off guard. He knew it, too. “You heard about it, huh?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard…” Jazz weighed her options and decided that in this particular case, dodging the truth might be the best of them. “I’ve heard a lot. About Florie and Grace. I know a lot from their high school days. But lately…”

  “Lately.” Khari whistled low under his breath. “Well, I can’t say I know any of this firsthand, of course, but everyone around here is talking about it. Florie and Grace, they were working together. They were making a commercial. The video students were calling the shots. But Florie was in on the project, too. I heard she was looking to earn some extra credit.”

  The doors behind them swung open again, and Jazz and Khari stepped to the side and out of the way when a couple strolled through, their arms linked.

  “What kind of commercial?” Jazz asked him.

  “For that horror film festival.”

  “The one where Florie worked?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I heard. Tanya, she’s the one who was the producer on the project, she told me Florie hooked the school up with the festival people, you know, so the students here could get some real-life experience and the festival people could get a commercial made without spending too much money. Everybody was so excited. Sounded like a blast.”

  From the tone of his voice, she knew she didn’t need to ask. “It wasn’t?”

  “Well, I guess it would have been if Grace wasn’t on the team. Or if Florie hadn’t been there to shoot stills.”

  Jazz could only imagine.

  “They fought.”

  “Like the Jedi versus the Empire.” Khari shook his head. “Tanya says it started up the mo
ment they got to that old building in Tremont for the shoot.”

  Jazz’s heart skipped a beat. “The building where Florie’s body was found?”

  “Place that’s being turned into condos, right? Yeah, that’s the one. I went along when Tanya and the others scouted some sites, so when I saw the pictures of the building online with the story about Florie, I recognized it right away.”

  “So she had a reason to be there.” The words left Jazz on the end of a breath of disbelief. “Why?”

  “Why? You mean why that building?” He lifted one shoulder. “The video team, they talked about shooting in a cemetery, but let’s face it, that’s pretty much the same old, same old. Then one day we were walking around Tremont and saw that old building and knew it would be perfect. Dark, dingy, falling down. I bet they got some great footage. It was creepy, all right.” A shiver snaked over his slim shoulders. “When I found out that’s where they found Florie’s body, it got even creepier.”

  “So what kinds of things did Florie and Grace fight about?” Jazz wanted to know.

  “At the shoot? According to Tanya, everything! Grace was in charge of the lighting, and the first day, Florie bumped into one of the light stands and knocked it over. She said it was an accident.”

  “Was it?”

  “Tanya didn’t think so. Grace didn’t, either. She went nuts on Florie.”

  “And Florie?”

  “Went all nuts right back. It was all anyone around here could talk about, them sniping and arguing and messing with each other. Florie was there to take pictures the festival could use for their publicity campaign. And she’d step into the video shots. Or talk while they were filming.”

  “And Grace?”

  “Just as bad.” Khari’s mouth twisted. “Made sure she messed up plenty of Florie’s pictures. It didn’t come to blows,” he added quickly, just in case she got the wrong idea. “Not that I heard, anyway. But a couple times, the other students had to step between them and break it up. That commercial should have taken a day, maybe two, to shoot. Instead, what with all the interruptions and all the backbiting, they spent like four days over there, and by the time it was all done, even the kids who are best friends couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other. An atmosphere like that, it’s toxic. They took some time off. They regrouped. I hear things are good now. They’re editing the commercial.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “When did they film?” Khari thought about it for a moment. “Last week. No, no, the week before. Remember how it was nice for a couple of days? That’s when we went out and scouted locations. I know they filmed right after that because Tanya and me, we were supposed to grab dinner one evening and she was stuck at the shoot. She was really pissed when she missed dinner.”

  Khari’s phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket and checked the number, answered, and told the caller, “Wait a sec,” before he turned back to Jazz.

  “If you’re looking for more information…” He scanned the room and pointed toward the far wall. “I saw Tate Brody over there earlier. He teaches in the video department. His students were the ones making the commercial.”

  Jazz thanked him and took off in the direction Khari indicated. She skirted a couple groups of students who were hard at work, rounded a corner, and slammed into a man who was just walking out of one of the studios.

  “Sorry!” Automatically he put out a hand to keep Jazz from tumbling down.

  Just as quickly she put a hand on his arm to keep him from falling.

  They laughed at the awkwardness, dropped their hands, stepped back to give themselves a little breathing space.

  “Are you Mr. Brody?”

  He was fortyish, dressed in chocolate-brown pants and a red sweater that brought out the mahogany highlights in his curly hair and the day’s stubble of beard that dusted his chin. He had a framed photo under one arm. His smile revealed a dimple in his left cheek. “Tate, please. Yes, I’m Tate Brody.”

  “I’m…” She stuck out a hand. “Jazz Ramsey. I work at St. Catherine’s. I’m here about Florie Allen.”

  His grasp stayed firm, but his expression sobered. “My condolences. I haven’t seen anything in the newspaper about a funeral or a memorial service. If you’ve heard—”

  Thinking about what Eileen had heard from Larry and Renee when she told them the school would help with funeral expenses, Jazz slipped her hand from his. “I hear the family is doing something private. But we’re planning a memorial at the school. Keep an eye on our Web site. I’m sure you’re aware, the students and staff at school get to be like family. It’s tough for everyone to have to go through something like this. That’s why I stopped by this evening to talk to Grace Greenwald. She attended St. Catherine’s, too.”

  “I saw her downstairs a while ago.” He shifted the photograph from one arm to the other. Its back was to Jazz, brown paper with FA scrawled across one corner of it in purple marker. “She said she was going to dinner.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I missed her. But as long as I’m here…” Jazz looked over his shoulder and into the cubicle he’d just left. There was a piece of paper hanging above the desk scrawled in the same purple marker that was on the back of the picture. The sign declared the cubicle FLORIE’S PLACE.

  “Is this where she worked?”

  “Yes.” He stepped back to allow Jazz a better view, but rather than settle for that, she went inside.

  Like the other cubicles she’d seen, Florie’s was small. The desk was empty except for a pack of eight-by-ten Pepto Bismol–pink envelopes decorated with white polka dots. The top of the file cabinet had a stack of photography magazines on it. The half walls …

  Jazz closed in on the pictures that hung there.

  “We have a number of Florie’s photographs at St. Catherine’s,” she told Brody while she looked over a black-and-white picture of a streaming waterfall. There was nothing dramatic about it—it wasn’t stories high; there were no rocky cliffs anywhere in the shot. Still, Jazz was drawn to the way the water misted and fizzed around the cascade, the way it puddled around the ferns that grew along the shore. The light came from the right, above the trees that rimmed the falls, and here and there, sparkling bits of it reflected against the water, like shards of broken glass.

  “She’s even better than she used to be.”

  Behind her, she heard Brody make a sound that might have been assent. She turned to find him with his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “They all have talent,” he said. “They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. But Florie … She wasn’t one of my students, I’m in the video department. But I’ve seen her work. She had a lot of potential.” He glanced over the rest of the pictures hanging above the desk, and Jazz did, too.

  One of them was the portrait of an elderly African-American woman, her chin firm and her mouth set, her eyes staring into the camera in a way that said she’d seen things and she knew things and she’d never back down, not from anyone.

  Another was a picture of a tabby kitten curled into a red-and-blue-plaid blanket.

  There was a blank spot on the wall directly above the desk, and Jazz looked from it to the picture tucked under Brody’s arm.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea.” He held up the picture and flipped it over so Jazz could get a look. “Yeah. I just took this photo off the wall, but I have permission.”

  The picture was a sixteen-by-twenty-inch display of colors and textures framed in black wood. There was an image of what might have been a door in one corner, the brass numbers of the address a blur against the red paint. There was a car in the center of the photo. Or maybe it was an animal of some kind.

  Jazz leaned nearer for a better look.

  The entire picture was a mishmash of hallucinogenic colors, manipulated images, streaks of light, and smudges of body parts.

  It was bewildering.

  And amazing.

  “Florie’s?” she asked.

  “She was experimenting with
special effects and digital imaging. And I’m not stealing the photograph or anything. Just so you know,” Brody added with an uncomfortable laugh. “I spoke with Florie’s parents. I told them that of all Florie’s projects, this was the one I thought was the most special, the one that said the most about her. They told me I was welcome to it. And the cops, they were here, but they say they’re done with Florie’s studio now.”

  Of course. Nick would never be so careless not to come by and have a look.

  “So you’re…” Brody tucked the photograph back under his arm. “You’re here for…”

  “Actually, I just wanted to touch base with Grace. After what happened to Florie…” She let it rest at that.

  He made a sound that was half grunt, half derision. “I doubt you’ll find Grace is especially broken up about Florie’s death. If you know Grace, you know she thinks first, last, and always about Grace.”

  “And what about the commercial the students were filming?”

  He rolled eyes the color of November storm clouds. “You know about that, huh? I wasn’t there for most of it. Didn’t want to be. I wanted the students to take charge and make their own decisions and work it out for themselves. Then I heard what was happening between Grace and Florie, and I’m afraid I finally had to step in. If I didn’t, I have a feeling they’d still be there, duking out every frame of that video.”

  “I’ll watch for it on TV.” Over her shoulder, Jazz offered him a smile, then moved on to examine a photo of a champagne cork flying from a bottle, sprinkling the air with bubbles.

  “It’s a happy picture,” she said.

  “Florie used to be a happy girl.”

  She spun to face him. “Used to be?”

  His mouth twisted. “I don’t suppose it matters now. If Florie was still alive…” The words caught, and he collected himself. “She was…” Brody cleared his throat. “She wasn’t coming back to school next semester.”

  This was news. “Did she say why?”

  “No secret there.” Brody scratched a hand through his beard. “Her grades were off. She’d lost her scholarship.”

  Which was why Florie had gone, hat in hand, to her parents and Loretta Hardinger.