Scent to Her Grave

by Yasmine Galenorn

  I helped her pick up all the files and carried everything to the table where she could sort it all out. “Auntie, they’ve got a lot of evidence. Kyle is doing what he has to. And now Sarah has to talk to him.” As quickly as I could, I told her what Sarah had told me.

  She groaned. “That stupid, stupid boy. Oh, how did he ever get himself involved in this mess? Kyle will use this as an excuse to bulldoze the case along, but you’re right. As much as I hate to admit it, we can’t keep something like that under wraps.” She forced a smile and gave me a tired shake of the head.

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to run and get the mail while you organize your papers and tuck them back in your briefcase.”

  I ran on out and yanked open the mailbox, glancing at the sky. The sight of the clouds crowding in off the inlet stopped me in my tracks. Picture perfect against the dusky fading patches of blue, they billowed, cruising slowly toward shore. Streaked with long fingers of tangerine that splashed against the sky from a muted sunset, the sky had reached that juncture that signified the perfect hush before night, the moment when birdsong echoed through the air as dusk faded into twilight.

  And then, in the space of an instant, what there was left of the sunlight disappeared. Dusk hit full force, bringing with it the chill that always accompanies the Pacific Northwest forests during the night. A peculiar scent of moss and mildew, blended with the smell of moving water, spelled home to western Washingtonians, and it was a smell like nowhere else in the world.

  I shivered and pulled open the mailbox, reaching in to grab the handful of letters. As I walked back to the house, one of the envelopes caught my eye. It was addressed to me but by name only, and had no stamp. Someone had shoved it into the mailbox during the day.

  As I lightly tripped up the stairs, I opened the letter and withdrew a single page. On it, in letters cut out from a magazine and pasted to the paper, was the message: “Trevor is innocent. Please help him.”

  I stared at the page. What the hell? Was it the same person who had left that message on our machine? I raced inside and, holding the page by the edges to avoid destroying any further evidence, I showed my aunt. “Somebody really believes he’s innocent,” I said.

  Aunt Florence peeked around my shoulder. “Good heavens! Well, I wish whoever’s doing this had the guts to step forward. I wonder if they know anything about the murder? Maybe they’re afraid?”

  She had a point. Of all the reasons to remain anonymous, fear seemed the likeliest motivator. Perhaps the person had seen something that night—maybe witnessed the murder itself? If so, it was feasible that they might be afraid that the killer would come after them if they stepped forward.

  “You might be on to something, Auntie.” I picked up the phone. “I guess I’d better call Kyle.”

  “No dear, just put the letter back in the envelope and tuck it in a paper bag. I’ve got my aqua aerobics class tonight, so I’ll stop at the station and talk to Kyle on my way. I’ll tell him to talk to Sarah, too.” My aunt had been taking water aerobics for a year now and had stabilized her blood pressure, increased her mobility, and lessened the pain that her arthritis caused her.

  “That sounds like a plan. I think I’ll hit the pillows early tonight. I’m tired and just want a long bath and a good night’s sleep.”

  While Aunt Florence took off to her bedroom to get her suit, I nipped into the pantry and slid the envelope in a lunch sack. I left it on the table and headed for my room, passing my aunt as she was coming down the stairs. “The bag’s on the table. Lock the door on the way out, would you? I’m going to be upstairs most of the evening.”

  “Before you run off, I just remembered—you got a phone call earlier. Someone called for you shortly after noon. I left a message.”

  I peeked at the board. Andy Andrews had called, and he left his number. “Oh, good! I was hoping he’d call.”

  “A date?” Ever optimistic, my aunt wanted me to find the right man, even though she knew perfectly well that I wasn’t interested in settling down.

  “No, not a date. Information that might help Trevor, I hope. Andy was on duty at the aquarium when our mysterious caller left that message for us on the answering machine at the shop.”

  I picked up the phone. My aunt sat down at the table, waiting to see what I could find out. As I punched in the number, I held my breath, but the phone rang five times before an answering machine picked up.

  “I’m outta here. Leave a message, dude. You know the drill.”

  Oh boy, skateboard city here. I left my name and number again, and hung up. “Looks like we’re playing phone tag. I doubt if he knows anything, but maybe I can think of something the police didn’t ask.”

  Aunt Florence waved and headed out to the Gull Harbor Aquatic Center. The residents had fondly nicknamed the center GHAC, pronounced “gak” for short. I glanced at the clock. Too early for bed but I was beat. I decided to watch TV and wandered into the living room, where I found Delilah and Buttercup curled up asleep together in the middle of the sofa. I knelt down and scooped them up in my arms, buried my face in their fur, and playfully chased them out of the room. A trail of startled “purps” and meows drifted in their wake.

  “Ha! That will teach you two to interrupt my sleep!”

  The remote was sitting on the end table and I grabbed it and fell into the rocking chair, propping my feet on the matching embroidered footstool. With a wide yawn, I flipped on the TV and began to channel surf. There wasn’t much on, and I finally settled for watching a special on Discovery about a group of climbers who got stuck up on Everest. Halfway through, I rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes, drifting into that indefinable state between waking and sleeping.

  I’d been dozing about ten minutes when the doorbell rang. Who on earth could that be? Barbara always called before she came over. Stifling another yawn, I pushed myself out of the chair and headed toward the door, flipped on the porch light, and took a look through the peephole.

  Oh shit! Elliot! What the hell was he doing here?

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I said as I yanked the door open.

  The stupid grin on his face grew wider. “Persia, I’ve come to take you home with me! I wrote you a letter but you didn’t call. Didn’t call at all. It’s time for you to come back to Seattle. I haven’t got the penthouse anymore, though. The feds confic—consti—confisticated it so you’ll have to get a job and an apartment for the both of us.”

  Joy of joys, he was drunker than a duck in a gin mill, as my Aunt Florence always said. Could he really be so dense as to believe that I’d go back to him? Or was he just on the ego trip of the century? Either way, I had no intention of letting him in the house. I grabbed a sweater off of one of the hooks by the door and slipped into it, then propelled him over to the porch swing. He dropped into it with a queasy look. With luck, he wouldn’t upchuck all over the porch.

  I leaned against the railing, facing him. “Elliot, I don’t know what you expected, but you’re not going to find it. I told you not to contact me and I mean it.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  He gave me a dreamy smile and leaned against the back of the glider. “Did you know your porch moves? Back and forth and back and… what was the question? I’m just so glad to see you!”

  As he tried to hoist himself to his feet, I lightly jumped back a step. I knew that look. It was his “I-want-a-hug” look and I wasn’t about to make nice-nice. “Do you even bother to listen to me? Now, I’m going to drive you to a motel because there’s no way you should be behind the wheel tonight, and then tomorrow morning, you’re going to leave town and never bother me again.” I glanced at his car. It looked intact. I just prayed that he hadn’t hit anybody or anything on the way here. “Give me your keys. I’ll catch a taxi home.”

  “Persia, my sweet Persian Rose. I missed you, you know. Even though you were a pain in the butt, I missed you while I was in ja… ya… ja-yul.” H
e’d reached the point where he was exaggerating syllables in order to remain halfway coherent. Time to get him out of here.

  “Stay here!” I pushed him back into the swing—he’d take a while to get out of it again—and hauled ass into the house where I grabbed my purse and keys, then locked the door behind me. “Come on buster, down the steps.” I tugged on his sleeve and he stumbled to the stairs and promptly tripped and spilled headfirst down to the sidewalk.

  “Elliot! Oh my God! Are you hurt?” I raced down behind him, praying that he hadn’t broken his neck. All we’d need would be a lawsuit from my estranged boyfriend. But, as often happens with drunks, Elliot had gone limp and was fine except for what looked like a scraped nose. He’d been so relaxed I doubted if he’d remember how he got it. I got him up and over to his car, where he puked beside the passenger door while I winced and looked away.

  “You done there, cowboy?” Why, oh why had he decided to come looking for me? Was he brain-dead?

  He mumbled something, having lapsed into the stage preceding blackout, and I shoved him in the seat and buckled his seat belt. He grabbed my hand and tried to force it down to his pants but I smacked him lightly on the face and he let go, so out of it that I had my doubts that he even knew what he was doing.

  “Persia, Persia… you’re the only one for me. She didn’t mean anything, really…”

  I froze. “What? Who are you talking about?”

  He hiccupped and a thin stream of spittle flew out to land on his jacket. “Leah… she didn’t mean anything. I jus’ needed a good lay an you were mad at me—” His voice drifted off and he began to snore.

  I stood there a moment, staring at him. Leah? Leah had been our next-door neighbor, a young woman who was short, perky in all the right areas, and who had about as many wits as she did extra pounds. She was as filling as fat-free cookies: all sugar and no substance. Apparently, Elliot had developed a sweet tooth during our time together, and decided I was a little too bitter to satisfy his cravings.

  I slammed the passenger door and climbed in the driver’s seat. Elliot snored all the way to the Bay-Berry Hotel, a seedy little dive near the docks. After checking in under his name, and paying the bill with three twenties I found in his wallet, I managed to wake him up long enough to get him inside. I scribbled a note, instructing him to never set foot on our property again and to cease all contact with me in any way, shape, or form, then propped it up on the nightstand along with his wallet and keys. I thought about doing something stupid and childish, like writing “Jerk” all over his face, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth.

  On second thought, maybe it would teach him a lesson. I dug through my purse and found a Sharpie permanent marker that I used to write labels at the shop and ripped open his shirt, popping the buttons as I did so. He mumbled, but didn’t wake up. Good.

  In bold, bright red letters, I wrote: “HI THERE! I’M ELLIOT AND I’M A JERK! FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, DON’T DATE ME!”

  Grinning, I popped the cap back on the marker and headed for the door. I was done with this fish and he could fry for all I cared. I hied myself over to the diner across the street, where I called a taxi and went home.

  Chapter 11

  I WARNED AUNTIE about Elliot while we were eating breakfast. “He’s really hitting the bottle now—harder than I’ve ever seen him, and I don’t think jail did him any good. He’s degenerated a lot. If he calls, take a message but don’t encourage him. I just hope I don’t have to get a restraining order.” I wiped my mouth on the napkin.

  Auntie let out a long sigh. “I hope not, too. I’ll try to keep him at bay if he starts calling you.”

  “I still can’t believe he showed up here. I thought he’d gotten it through that thick skull of his that I don’t want anything to do with him.”

  She reached over and patted my hand, then stuck another biscuit in it. “Eat up, you’ve barely touched your food.” As I obediently nibbled on the bread, she added, “Some people just can’t accept rejection. He sounds like he’s not too swift—and if I remember him right from the times we met—he’s not too keen on being pushed aside, either.”

  That was certainly true. Elliot was so self-centered that he couldn’t stand it when anybody else was in the spotlight. “Well, whoop-de-do. He’s going to have to get used to the idea that he’s no longer a part of my life. And now, I’d better get on down to the shop. I’ve got an idea.” When I laid out my plan for her, she groaned.

  “Just keep me out of it. You know how I feel about that woman,” Auntie said as I swallowed the last bite, grabbed my purse, and hit the door.

  AS SOON AS I got to the shop, I braced myself, looked up Heddy’s phone number, and gave her a call. She sounded surprised, but pleased to hear my voice. I had the suspicion that Heddy didn’t have too many fan clubs and maybe had fewer friends than she let on.

  “I have a really big favor to ask you,” I said, knowing full well that she’d respond better if I begged. “I know you’re a busy woman, Heddy, but you’re the only one I can think of who might be able to help me.”

  A spark of curiosity rippled through her words. “You know I’m always eager to help out, Persia. Is this about young Trevor?” She lowered her voice, shifting into conspiracy mode.

  “Yes, actually. We’re helping to pull together his defense, and I was hoping that you might be able to set up a meeting for me with your niece Melinda? And, if possible, her friend—the one you mentioned? I believe her name was Allison?”

  That did the trick. Heddy couldn’t resist being part of the inner circle and promised to do what she could. I spent the next hour helping Tawny stock shelves, then went over some inventory forms that Aunt Florence had asked me to look through. At eleven, the phone rang.

  “Persia, line three. It’s Mrs. Latherton,” Tawny said.

  I picked up the phone. “Persia speaking,” I said, tapping my pencil against the desktop.

  Heddy’s breathless voice came on the line. “Persia? Melinda and Allison can see you at noon—they’ll meet you at the BookWich. I hope you don’t mind, but I told them you’d buy lunch. That got their attention.”

  “Not a problem. Thank you so much—I owe you one.” I shuddered as I replaced the receiver. Owing Heddy Latherton a favor was not at the top of my wish list, but both she and I knew that she’d collect on it, so why not get it out in the open? I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes. I could clear out of a lot of backlogged paperwork in that time and free up my aunt from having to deal with it. Lydia’s death had thrown a glitch into our schedule. We needed to balance the books for last week and Auntie hadn’t had time to go over everything.

  On my way to the meeting, I stopped in at the bakery. Barbara was up to her elbows in dough. I peeked into the kitchen and quickly filled her in on everything, including my lovely experience with Elliot.

  She rubbed her nose on her shoulder. “You ever thought of a hit man? I’m sure we could find somebody willing to oblige.” With a grin, she added, “If I were you, I’d run him out of town on a rail. That man is trouble, and if his buddies get out—the ones he put away—you know they’re going to come looking for him and anybody he cares about. Don’t you dare get back together with him.”

  “I have no intention of getting involved with Elliot again,” I said. “I just wish I knew how he got my address. I’m going to throttle whoever it was that spilled the beans.” I glanced up at their clock. “I’d better get moving. I’m meeting the girls for lunch in five minutes.”

  She waved a floury hand at me. “Have fun, and let me know what they say. And what happens with Elliot. I mean it. Call me!”

  I blew her a kiss, then headed to the BookWich, wondering what, if anything, I could learn from Lydia’s friends. Maybe I’d luck out and they wouldn’t be as abrasive as she’d been. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  When I walked into the café, I immediately zeroed in on the girls, who were waiting near the door. Both young women affected th
e same haughty look that Lydia had sported, though Allison carried it off a lot better than Melinda. I introduced myself and led them to a table, scoping them out as I slid into my chair. By the time the waitress handed us menus, I had them pegged.

  Melinda opened her menu, studying it closely. She took after her aunt, desperately wanting to be a major player in the social strata. She’d never make it, though. While she had enough money to polish the rough edges, she lacked that je ne sais quoi, that cutting-edge persona that often passed for class among Gull Harbor’s nouveau riche.

  New money and old money were two different animals. Old-moneyed gentry wore their class quietly. They might have servants but would treat them with aloof dignity. They might have money but would never flaunt it like a matador in a bull ring. They might blackball you from their clubs, but would never be so gauche as to tell you that to your face. They’d charm you out the door, and you’d walk away with dignity.

  But among the nouveau riche in Gull Harbor, there were two distinct societies. The first were the techies who were rich because of their jobs, not because they aspired to be rich. They shopped at Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods Market and, since most were liberals, contributed to every Green cause you could name. With environmentally friendly mansions overlooking the ocean, they were primarily focused on their work. Class structure meant little when it came to bank balances. Looks were no help in identifying them. That twenty-two-year-old skateboarder who frequented the neighborhood skate park might be a barista at Starbucks or pulling down six figures at Sand Bar Software.

  Then there were the nouveau riche that included Lydia and Allison’s strata. With money from family businesses that managed to grow over fifty to seventy years, they formed cliques to which only the most beautiful trendsetters were allowed access, and woe be to those who let their style slip even once in public. Shame and ridicule were powerful weapons among this wealthy subset, frequently used to keep the members in line. They weren’t invited to mingle with old money, generally, but they had their own country clubs and lounges and they never, ever slummed.