The Sweet Scent of Murder

by Susan P. Baker

I heard more voices and saw a television camera on a man’s shoulder. A very large man appeared at Captain Milton’s side. I recognized the second man as an investigative reporter from one of the Houston TV stations. “Congratulations, Captain. One of the most effective operations I’ve ever seen. No one hurt. No shots fired.”

  “Thanks, Walt,” Milton said.

  “Want to say a few words before the camera?”

  “Uh-uh. You just summarize the situation, okay?”

  “Okay. Those the kids over there?”

  “Yep.”

  “They okay? He do anything to them?”

  “They appear to be fine. We’ll have to have them examined by a doctor and get statements from them, but I think they’re mostly all right. Just tired from the ordeal.”

  “Well, great. Just great. Good job, Captain.”

  Captain Milton nodded to the reporter. “Go on, Sarah,” he hollered to the woman officer. “Let’s get those kids home to their mother. Lon, radio Houston to call Mrs. Lawson and tell her the kids are all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lon said. He was still sneering at me as he hustled off in the direction of the light.

  “Come on, kids,” the woman said. “The car’s down on the main road. You got anything you want to take with you?”

  Tommy still had his arms around Jeanine who wept softly into his shoulder. “No, ma’am,” he replied. He stole a glance at me as they walked past. I could see the tear stains on his face and the frown lines around his mouth. The slant of his eyes told me that he thought I’d betrayed them.

  “Some of you men gather up their belongings. We’ll need it for evidence,” Captain Milton said. “Christy, go down to that Walker County car before he gets away and get the keys to Woodridge’s car. You can drive it back. And send Ben Sorensen up here.”

  That last was the worst of all. I wouldn’t have felt a bigger jolt if lightning had struck me. I sank back on the picnic bench and hugged myself, feeling as though I’d been punched in the stomach by a pro. My mouth tasted sour.

  The cameraman and the reporter positioned themselves to the left of where I sat so they could film the tent in the glare from the headlights. I heard the drone of the reporter’s voice as he began his narration of events. Words like “kidnapper” and “alleged killer.”

  I looked at the scene as the cops dismantled it, piece by piece. One of the uniforms was searching the trunk of Woodridge’s car. Another man yanked out the tent poles and set about folding up the tent. A third officer rolled up the sleeping bag on which Jeanine and her father had sat just a few minutes earlier.

  I hadn’t noticed before, but a Walker County deputy stood very near me. He wasn’t doing anything except toying with a pair of handcuffs and watching the scene. I reached toward the table for my purse, but he jumped for it, grabbing it out of my hand. I realized then that I was in deep shit.

  “I was only going to get a stick of gum,” I said. He was a big one.

  He pulled open my shoulder bag and searched it. Then he tossed it to me. “Okay.”

  I found a bent up pack of gum and stuck a piece in my mouth, my hands shaking. The cop took my purse and set it away from me.

  “You going to arrest me?”

  “Not sure yet. Just supposed to watch you until the HPD captain tells me different.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “Accessory, I think.”

  “Oh.” Accessory to what he didn’t say. Other than when I was in college, I had never been arrested. That was just city court and a small fine for refusing to depart from a sit-in. I’d been in the county jail, though, many times. I used to visit my probationers when they’d violated their probation and been arrested. I didn’t like the jail. The metal door clanging shut was such a final sound. It always gave me the creeps. The thought of spending a night there was not appealing. Even a few hours. My mind began running down the list of lawyers for whom we’d been serving papers, doing home studies, and interviewing witnesses. I tried to remember if any of them practiced criminal law or made bail bonds. I wondered if I would be able to get out of this mess.

  I was still pondering my dilemma when up walked Ben. He sat down beside me on the bench, leaned back, his elbows on the edge of the table, and crossed his legs.

  “I guess you’re pretty sore at me, aren’t you?” He stared at the campsite.

  If looks could kill, Ben would have just uttered his last words.

  “When are you going to accept the fact that it’s my job? I have a duty to perform.” His clipped speech sounded rehearsed.

  I spit my gum toward the captain. The cop who babysat me shot me a dirty look. I crossed my arms about my chest and stared straight ahead.

  I could feel Ben’s eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. “I would have been derelict in my duties if I hadn’t informed them that you were going to meet Tommy.”

  A prepared speech if I ever heard one.

  “Besides, I was worried that you might be in danger. I knew you’d probably take your gun.”

  Was that concern in his voice? How touching.

  “You were breaking the law by not calling us in the first place.”

  I’m such a hardened criminal.

  “And you’re not supposed to carry that gun. You don’t have a license.”

  Armed and dangerous.

  “Look at me.” He grabbed my shoulders and twisted me around.

  I was carrying knives, too. Daggers. They flew out of my eyes and pierced his.

  “If you didn’t have such a blabbermouth working for you,” his voice was a fierce whisper, “this never would have happened. But look at it this way. That man could have killed you. You didn’t know what the situation was. You could have walked into a hornet’s nest.”

  A hornet’s nest wouldn’t have hurt me more than knowing that Ben betrayed the trust I thought we had. Mother always said, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” This was one of those times, so I kept my lips sealed. I just sat there and shifted my mind to figuring out which blabbermouth he was talking about. I didn’t even know I was going to meet Tommy, how could one of the girls? It had to be Candy. Margaret had been with me.

  Tommy must have called earlier. Ben must have called, too, or else dropped by, and Candy told him. Candy was not long for this world.

  So what did the cops do? Were they waiting for me when I left? Were they parked down the street from my apartment, and I never even noticed? Was I so sleepy that I couldn’t detect a tail on me? Shit.

  Ben’s eyes searched my face, and from the look on his, he knew it was useless talking. We had been together too long for him not to know how I would react. What he didn’t know, and I wasn’t telling, was that I was as angry at myself as I was at him.

  “Forget it,” he said abruptly. “Just forget it.”

  I glanced up. What did he mean by that?

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, you know,” he said.

  I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. “Just go away, Ben,” I said finally.

  “I want to help you.” His hand reached over and took mine, but I snatched it away.

  I looked back at the campsite. It was mostly dismantled now. I heard a car start and saw the headlights of Arthur Woodridge’s car come on. The officer called Christy was ready to leave for Houston.

  Smoke trailed from the grill where a few moments ago someone had dumped the contents of the coffee pot on the coals. The smell of damp leaves and coffee permeated the air. The lantern and tent were gone.

  Captain Milton came trudging over to us. “You’re under arrest, Mavis,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  I stood and put my hands behind my back.

  The captain nodded at the cop who’d been standing by. After he’d shot me that dirty look, the deputy had stayed a little distance away. He came over, the handcuffs readied, and gave me an odd look. “Put your hands in front of you,” he said, but he wasn’t gruff about it.

  “That’s not necessary, is it,
Captain?” Ben asked.

  I stuck my hands out toward the cop, fully realizing for the first time that he worked for Walker County—that I would be going to the Walker County jail, not the Harris County jail which would have been bad enough. Glaring at Ben, all my anger burst forth. “I don’t want your help, you son-of-a- bitch.”

  “Cuff her and get her out of here,” Captain Milton said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The last time I visited a jail, I had been a probation officer on the outside looking in. The view from inside gives one a different perspective. Since it was almost dawn when I finally arrived, most of the nighttime activity had ceased. The drunks were asleep. The puke had been cleaned up, but the odor still penetrated my nostrils like tiny arrows, the offending aroma not being completely disguised by the mop bucket of ammonia kept in the ready for just such occasions. My eyes burned even though I breathed through my mouth. Jail staff waited wearily for shift change, speaking in muted tones, energy levels low. A couple of deputies dozed.

  After feeding the county computer all the information about me, taking my fingerprints, and processing the contents of my purse, the ID sergeant let me make my obligatory phone call. I called Margaret collect and urged her to find me an attorney and bonding company a-sap. A matron, or as they call them now, a female deputy, took me to a temporary holding tank. Later, they transferred me to a cell, which was like a hospital ward. Welcome to Bedlam, Texas, where ladies of the evening, drug addicts, drunks, petty criminals, and private detectives are all lumped together. If you aren’t nuts when you arrive, you might very well be at departure.

  Later that morning, the jail resumed normalcy. They served something they alleged to be breakfast on institutional plastic trays. I’m afraid I pined for my morning tea. Afterward, I listened to high-pitched female voices as they rose and fell, refusing to let anyone engage me in conversation. I wasn’t interested in making any new acquaintances.

  The doors clanked open to release those assigned to custodial duties around the jail and clanged shut again. Workers shuffled down the halls in their jail scuffs. Fresh uniforms were issued, the soiled ones collected for the laundry. No one seemed to notice that I wore my street clothes. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. I sat there trying to be patient while female deputies took a few inmates at a time for their weekly trip to the commissary to purchase cigarettes, candy, and toiletries. The women taunted those left behind.

  At ten-thirty, the iron bars clunked open and a matron took me downstairs. The deputy sheriff led me to an enclosed booth. When I opened the door, I saw a woman a bit older than me with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Yakking on a cell phone and doodling on a yellow legal pad, her feet propped up on a chair, she had made herself at home. She put the phone away and stood as I closed the door behind me. She was a heavyset, tall woman, dressed in slacks and a short- sleeved jacket. We stood eye to eye.

  “Gillian Wright,” she said as she stuck her hand out.

  “Mavis Davis.” I shook hands with her, happy to experience a firm, almost bone-crushing handshake. “And if you’re an attorney, girl, I’m really glad to see you.”

  She had large hands with nails unpolished but clean, a wedding band and huge diamond on her left and on her right, two school rings. She grinned, showing even, very white teeth, pulled her hand away, and gave me her card. I glanced at it quickly, noted that hers was the only name on it, and sat across from her.

  “A Margaret Applebaum called me,” she said as she picked up her pen. Under her lightweight, light brown suit, she wore a pink tank top. She had short, graying, straight brown hair, almost-navy blue eyes under thick lashes, a turned up nose sprinkled with freckles, and full lips. “I don’t usually go out of county without a ton of money up front, but that woman made your situation sound so interesting, I couldn’t resist.” Her teeth spread into a grin again. I wondered if she always smiled like that.

  “I appreciate your coming. How much did Margaret tell you?”

  “Enough for me to know that you don’t belong in this joint.” She raised her eyebrows, her eyes growing wide this time as she smiled. She stubbed out her cigarette and reached for another one. “Why don’t you let me jot down some information for my records and then you can tell me about it, okay?”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t resist grinning back at her. I felt much more optimistic.

  “I’ve got your name, how about your business and home addresses and numbers?”

  I gave her what she asked, and then she asked a little more, date of birth, social security and driver’s license number.

  “Any priors?”

  “Nope—except a fine for a protest once a long time ago.”

  “You, too?” She grinned. “Where was that?”

  “In Houston.”

  “Oh. Mine was the University of North Texas in Denton.”

  She laughed again. It would have gotten monotonous except it was so contagious.

  “You always this cheerful?”

  “Nope. First thing this morning I won a big divorce case. And the drive up here afterward wasn’t half bad.”

  “Oh. So you don’t just practice criminal law?”

  “Criminal, family, probate, and other odds and ends. Not too many people rely solely on criminal law to make a living. That okay with you?”

  “Fine,” I said. I could see she was trying to be serious. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her feelings. I thought I might like to get to know her better when I got out of this mess.

  “Married, kids, any of that stuff?”

  “Divorced.”

  She laid her pen down and turned in her chair, leaning back against the cold, stone wall and propped her feet up on the chair next to her again. Shaking her pack of cigarettes, she offered me one.

  “I’m trying to quit, besides, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here.” I wanted a cigarette something awful, but no way would I allow the addict in me to get the upper hand. I gritted my teeth and breathed in her secondhand smoke.

  “Good for you, girl.” She ignored my last statement as she lit still another cigarette, blew out some smoke, and said, “Why don’t you tell me what the shit’s been going on?”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me all that stuff about confidentiality and lawyer-client privilege?”

  “Didn’t figure I needed to, or am I wrong in assuming you know a great deal about criminal law?”

  “No, you’re right. How’d you know? Margaret?”

  “Yeah, and after she gave me some background on you when she was trying to convince me to come see you, I checked you out with a parole officer I once had an affair with.” She laughed again; it came from deep inside her and sounded good. I laughed, too.

  So I told her all about the case, not leaving anything out, right up until I landed in jail. She was a good listener, stopping me occasionally to make notes, then laying down her pen and puffing on her cigarette while I talked. She asked appropriate questions at appropriate times. I liked her.

  “So they said you’re charged as an accessory? I’ll check it out. Something doesn’t smell right. Of course, if Woodridge didn’t really kidnap or kill anyone, you might get out of this pretty easily.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping, but I’ve got to get out of jail to be able to prove he didn’t do it.”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Don’t worry, I’ve got someone working on that as we speak.”

  “Good.” I sighed so loudly that I’m afraid I sounded rather melodramatic.

  “You didn’t think I’d be wasting time talking to you if I couldn’t get you out, did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d be up in court annoying a judge. I’m trying to get you out on a PR bond. If not, then we’ll get a bonding company.”

  “Oh, great, so it won’t cost me anything?”

  “Not much for the bond, just for me.” She grinned again.

  I cringed. “How much?”

  “Five thousand if it’s a plea or
dismissal. I know that sounds like a lot, but coming two counties north takes a lot of extra time.”

  There went my car repairs and a lot of other things I’d been hoping to afford some day. I didn’t even want to hear how much she’d charge if we had a jury trial. “How do you want it?”

  “What’s your situation? Already spend your retainer fee?”

  “No, but that’s just about all I have right now and I’m not sure if I’m going to keep it.” I explained about it being Tommy’s money.

  “Give me two thousand as soon as you get out, and the rest you can pay by the month, okay? Treat me like an installment loan—kind of like a car note. Can you handle that?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to maintain my optimism, but it was difficult. At least I’d be out and have a lawyer. That’s more than the women upstairs could say.

  “You can serve papers for me sometimes in lieu of some of it, okay? But I’ve got to have the two thousand to start. Have to feed the kids and pay the secretary, plus the cost of gas . . . you know how it is.”

  “You do this and have kids, too?”

  “Yep, two, and a husband. One’s a teenager, sixteen. I charge a consultation fee just to pay him an allowance.”

  “How much is that?”

  “What?” She glanced at me, her brow wrinkled up. “No, not for you, Mavis. An even five thousand. I like you. Maybe we can establish a working relationship. You could probably do stuff for me sometimes—if you get through this.”