The Scent of Murder (16 page)

Around seven, I got bored and drove over to the house where I'd last seen Toon Town and Amy. Unfortunately there was an addition since the last time I'd been here. A “For Sale” sign was planted on the front lawn. I would have preferred a plastic pink flamingo. I told myself it didn't mean anything. Whoever lived here was probably still around—sometimes it took a year or more for a house to sell—but the part of me that always looks at the glass and sees it half empty didn't believe that. I got out and rang the bell even though the house was dark and the driveway was empty. Naturally no one answered. I opened the mailbox lid. Still no mail. Now, I could have gone home and called the realtor and seen what I could find out from him or her. But that would have meant I would have had to wait until tomorrow, and I wasn't in the mood to do that.

I turned and studied the area. The houses on either side of the one I was standing in front of appeared to be empty—not atypical in a day and age when everyone works. I glanced across the street. The people in those two houses were home, but it occurred to me it didn't really matter if they were watching me or not. The “For Sale” sign gave me a perfect excuse to be prowling around. I headed down the driveway, stopping here and there to look at foundation plantings, until I reached the utility door. It was hedged on either side by several transparent garbage bags full of beer bottles and cans. Whoever lived here was a big supporter of the brewing industry.

I pushed the bags aside and inspected the lock on the door. It was a deadbolt. No way could I pick that. I went around to the back. Someone had conveniently put a deck, which now took up most of the backyard, on the rear of the house. I walked up the three steps and studied the lock on the door that led, I was willing to wager, into the kitchen. Another deadbolt. Something cold hit my nose.

I glanced up. A few snowflakes were swirling out of the sky. Maybe it was a sign from God to go home. I ignored it and took the measure of the window. From what I could see, it didn't have a latch. I took off the storm and carefully leaned it against the wall. Then I pushed up on the window. It didn't budge. I pushed harder. It gave a little. I pulled up as hard as I could. It moved about a foot—just enough space for me to wiggle through. A moment later, I was standing inside, hoping that no one had seen me and was even now dialing the police. At this point, my story about wanting to buy the house was not going to work.

I looked around. The white kitchen counters poked out of the dark like bones. I opened the refrigerator. It housed three six packs of Miller and a can of Comet. The cabinets held a box of plastic spoons, knives, and forks, a stack of paper plates, four mugs, a couple of pots, a box of cereal, and salt. Unfortunately, it looked as if my hunch had been right. Whoever was living here was in the process of moving out. I continued on into the next room. It was a combination dining/alcove/living room. The room was bare. It smelled of rug shampoo. I touched the carpet with the tips of my fingers. It was slightly damp. Someone had washed it recently.

Three packing cartons sat in the middle of the floor. I crossed over and looked in them. Two were empty and one contained an iron, a clock, a roll of toilet paper, and a bunch of coat hangers. I was putting everything back when I heard a car. I froze as the light from its headlights seeped through the blinds, tracing their shapes on the walls. Then a few seconds later, the car was gone and the wall was dark.

I straightened up and headed upstairs. The steps were covered with the same kind of carpet—probably something beige, it was impossible to tell in the dark—the downstairs was. I went up the stairs slowly, my footsteps cushioned by the pile. When I got to the landing, I stood still for a moment and waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark. There were four doors. I chose the closest one and stepped in. The first thing I noticed was the floor was hard. Then I saw glints of white. I was in the bathroom. I took a chance and switched on the light. The vanity lights over the mirror were so bright I blinked. An amoeba-like blob of red swam in front of my eyes. A second later it was gone and I looked around.

The bathroom was all white. The two blue towels hanging over the rack matched the shower curtain. A bottle of Head and Shoulders sat over on the far corner of the tub. I opened the door to the medicine cabinet. It contained a couple of toothbrushes, dental floss, a can of shaving cream, a razor, a stick of deoderant, a bottle of aspirin, a comb, a brush, and a bar of soap. Nothing that couldn't be bought in Fay's. Nothing that was in any way unusual. The only thing I now knew was that two people were staying here. I closed the door and went into the first bedroom. It was empty. So was the closet.

I went on to the next room.

Aside from a couple of magazines lying in one corner and a stack of newspapers lying in the other, it was empty too. I went over and picked up the magazines. They were both high-end travel magazines. As I put them back down, I began feeling as if I'd wandered onto the stage set of a play in progress, only I didn't know which play it was. I shook my head to dispel the image and went on to the next room. At least here there was furniture. A twin bed sat in one corner. A small dresser stood along the opposite wall. The sight heartened me, because it meant the owner hadn't moved out yet. Tomorrow I'd call the realtor, tell her I was interested, and try and get a name. I opened the drawers. They were empty, of course.

I turned my attention to the desk by the closet. The middle drawer contained pens, pencils, and envelopes. I closed it and opened the two drawers on either side. Nothing. No address book. No bank statements. No credit card receipts. Did whoever live here exist? Were they real? I was beginning to get the feeling they weren't. I tried the closet next. Except for a dozen or so wire coat hangers, it was empty. They jangled as I stepped inside. An old cloth Starter jacket was hanging, forlorn and forgotten, by the far wall.

For form's sake, I took it out and went through the pockets. I found five pennies, a stick of gum, and a couple of old, discolored aspirin tablets that were beginning to dissolve around the edges. I was putting the jacket back when I heard a jingle. Okay. There was something else inside. I took the jacket out into the hall where there was more light and turned the pockets inside out. There was a hole in the left one. Ordinarily I wouldn't have bothered, but I was in a perverse mood, so I worked my fingers through it and into the lining. I fished out a couple of quarters, a dime, and a crumpled up piece of heavy paper.

I put the jacket back where I'd found it, went back to the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light. Then I smoothed the paper out. Once it had been white, now it was stained and grimy. The bottom half was ripped off, but it was still possible to make out the type on the card's upper half.

It contained three words. Syracuse Casket Company.

I
kept glancing at the card I'd found as I drove across town to the store. It was suggestive, all right, but of what? That was the question. I wouldn't know until I talked to the Starter jacket's owner, and I couldn't do that until I talked to the realtor tomorrow. Maybe I was finally on to something. God only knows, it was about time for my luck to change. I stopped at Noah's Ark, picked up Zsa Zsa, who let me know she didn't appreciate being left alone by peeing on the floor, and headed for home.

James came out to greet me when I opened the door of my house. He and Zsa Zsa did their little dance, while I thumbed through the day's mail. Even though the lights were on, the house was quiet. I noticed the note I'd taped to the mirror wasn't there. I called for Manuel, but he didn't answer. He'd come and gone. The anger I'd been holding in check since last night welled up again. When I walked into the living room, I noticed a crumpled up MacDonald's bag and a half-full cup of soda sitting on the coffee table. My note was lying beside it. I picked it up.
Sorry,
Manuel had scrawled on the bottom of the page.
I know you must be pissed. I'll explain everything tomorrow. p.s. I bought James some cat food. Salmon. He really loves it.

I crumpled up the note and threw it back down. At least he'd had the decency to write something. I'd be really interested to hear what he had to say. I poured myself a Scotch and headed up the stairs. The door to Manuel's room was open. I looked in. The bedcovers were rumpled. He must have come in, gone to sleep, and left again. I shook my head. The longer he stayed with me, the more I sympathized with his stepfather.

I went into my room, set my glass on the night table, shucked off my clothes, and crawled into bed. Then I tossed down my shot, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. But sleep wouldn't come. I lay awake watching the cedar branches tossing in the wind and listening to Zsa Zsa making little whimpering noises in her sleep and wondering where the hell Manuel was and who had been eating pizza in my house. And then I started thinking about Toon Town and Amy and trying to figure out what a card from the Syracuse Casket Company was doing in the Starter jacket's pocket and worrying about the leak in my roof. At some point I must have drifted off though, because the next thing I knew, I heard my alarm ringing.

When I went off to work, Manuel still hadn't returned. Not that I was surprised. I really hadn't expected him to. The clarity of the sky dazzled me when I stepped outside. Its blue washed over me and I found myself smiling, as I noticed a cardinal perched on a branch of the Japanese maple across the street. As I walked to the car, I realized the air smelled of burning leaves, the way it had when I was younger. A little way down the block, two of my neighbors were standing on the sidewalk drinking coffee and watching their children play. I would have liked to have joined them, but I had too much to do, so I waved and drove by. On the way to the store, I phoned the Happy House Realty Company from the car, but none of the brokers were in, so I told the secretary which property I was interested in and asked to have an agent call me back. Around eleven thirty one did.

Monica Selles started right in with her pitch. “It's a really good buy,” she said. Her voice was just a hair's breath away from being chirpy. “It's got new carpeting, a new deck, and the upstairs bathroom was redone last year. The owner is very anxious to sell.”

“It appears empty. Has the owner moved out?”

“Actually, he's been renting it for the past year.”

I shifted into concerned prospective buyer. “Oh. To whom? Not students I hope. They always make such an incredible mess.”

“Oh, I agree. No. These were working people.”

“Really? Where did they work?”

“I'm not sure. Would you like to see the house?”

I didn't, since I already had, but if I wanted any more information, I would have to. I made an appointment to meet her at the house at two o'clock and got back to work.

Tim was not pleased when I told him I was running out for an hour. He was tired of holding things down on his own, he told me. I mollified him by promising to pick up some KFC on the way back.

 

 

Monica Silles was waiting for me when I got to the house. She was a well-dressed woman somewhere in her forties who looked as if she did this for pin money. A doctor's wife, maybe. Someone who wanted something to do, but nothing too strenuous.

“Let's go inside,” she suggested, brightly.

“So what's the story with the owner?” I asked, as she put the key in the lock box. “How anxious are they to sell?”

“It's a corporation, really.”

I almost groaned. That meant I'd have to pay a visit to the County Clerk's Office to see who the corporation's officers were—unless, of course, Silles knew. I asked. She didn't.

“A corporation owning a home. That's unusual,” I said still fishing around.

Monica Silles shrugged. “I've seen it done before. People do it for tax purposes, or when they're trying to limit their liability.” She stepped inside, and I followed.

In the light, the house looked bland and boring.

Monica Silles gestured around. “As you can see the place is in move-in shape. Just get some curtains on those windows and you'll be ready to go.”

I nodded. “What's the name of the corporation?”

The realtor consulted the file she was holding. “Maxwell.”

I hadn't heard of it, but then there was no reason I should have.

Silles took me into the kitchen. “The asking price is $65,000.”

That is one thing about living in a depressed area. Real estate prices are low. You can get a really nice house in Syracuse for not much money. Of course, if you have to sell and go someplace else, you're in trouble.

I opened and closed cabinet doors and turned the water tap in the sink on and off. If you're going to pretend, go all the way. “That's a bit high for this neighborhood, don't you think?”

Silles pursed her lips. “I might be able to get them to come down a little.”

We climbed the stairs and went through the three bedrooms.

A chill worked its way up my back when I opened the door to the closet in the third bedroom.

The jacket was gone.

Someone had been here since last night.

I wondered who.

I turned back to Monica Silles, who was chatting on about the benefits of this particular house. “Now, let's suppose I wanted to buy this place for an investment,” I said.

Silles stopped talking. She cocked her head slightly to the side and waited to hear what I had to say.

“Would you handle the rentals, as you did for the Maxwell Company?”

“We don't do that sort of thing.” Silles frowned, to show she thought her company should. “Maxwell handled the rentals themselves.”

“I see.” I studied the view out the window. Two squirrels were chasing each other up and down the branches of a maple tree. “Perhaps I could speak to someone at Maxwell to see what their rental experience was like. You know, kind of get a feel for the thing.”

Monica Silles looked doubtful, but she put on a game smile. Anything for a sale, I guess. “I can call and ask.”

“What are they like?”

“Frankly, I don't know. I've never dealt with them.”

It looked as if I'd gotten as much out of Silles as I was going to. We walked down the stairs together. I looked at my watch. It was a little before three. I still had time to make it down to the County Clerk's Office. I told Silles I'd get back to her with my decision. She pressed her card into my hand and warned me not to wait too long. I told her I wouldn't and took off.

Parking around the County Courthouse was impossible—as per usual—and after circling three or four times, I pulled up in front of a fire hydrant and went inside. It took about half an hour to locate the information I'd come to find.

I stared down at the photocopy the clerk had handed me.

Brad and Dennis Richmond were listed as the president and vice president of The Maxwell Corporation.

Somehow I wasn't surprised.

Whichever way I turned, I seemed to bump up against the Richmond family.