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CHAPTER ONE
The Sweet Scent of Murder, Five Star, release date Feb. 2007
Copyright © 2006 Susan P. Baker
“No woman could shoot that well without a lot of practice.”
Those words out of the mouth of my alleged boyfriend would have been enough to send me on a
rampage when I was a lot younger, but in what I thought of as my dotage, I kept my cool. After all, as a private investigator, I had to be professional, act maturely, make insightful decisions. Oh, to hell with it.
“You’re full of shit, Ben Sorensen. You know how I used to feel about guns. I swear I’ve never shot one before.”
“And I say nobody hits the target the first time, Mavis, not even you.” Ben charged through the front door of my office, Mavis Davis Investigations. I originally named it Mavis Davis Productions because we also do copying, type documents for lawyers, serve legal papers, and whatever else the legal community demands. I changed the name, though, after I solved my first murder case, the murder of Doris Jones. Besides, we were getting calls from people who thought we made movies.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” I steadied the cowbell that hung over the door.
“You’re lying again, Mavis.”
“Them’s fightin’ words, Ben,” I said, half ready to square off with him. He’d been carrying on about my shooting ability all the way back from the firing range. I had long grown tired of it, my anger causing my face to grow as red as my hair. Not seeing anyone in the reception area, I called, “Hi, Margaret, we’re back.” An echo answered my holler.
“Well, no man either, Mavis.” He glowered down at me, his nose an inch from mine. I could smell that earthly scent that ordinarily attracted me to him, but just now I felt too defensive to allow it any appeal. “It takes practice. You know how many hours I had to spend at the firing range as a police cadet?”
Sergeant Ben Sorensen had been a cadet back in the dark ages. Now he was a narc with decades under his belt. “Yes, Ben dear,” I said through clenched teeth. “You already told me a hundred million times, but I’m telling you that I have never fired a gun before. Read my lips. Never would I lie about a stupid thing like that. The only time I ever even held one was when I picked up Willard Thompson’s in Fort Worth.” I peeked into the kitchen in search of my staff. At least they hadn’t burned the place down.
“Impossible.” His six-foot-four frame blocked the hallway.
I squared off with him, but even on my tiptoes my five-foot-ten-inches didn’t bring my eyes even with his. “What’s the big deal? All you do is aim and pull the trigger. A monkey could do it.” I shouldered my way past him. Where was everybody? “Candy. Margaret.” Some wonderful support staff. They should work for a magician since they’d gotten so good at a disappearing act.
“All I’m saying,” Ben continued, right behind me like a heeler, “is that shooting a gun is a learned skill. Some men never get good at it no matter how much they practice.”
Sometimes Ben is so tiresome. I threw an exaggerated frown in his direction, hoping he’d get the int. When he opened his mouth again, I said, “Ben. Table it, will you? Can’t you see that Margaret and Candy aren’t here and that I’m worried? How about a little consideration?”
He backed away. “Sorry, Mavis. Give me your gun, and I’ll put it in the safe, okay?”
“Are you still concerned about me carrying it? I told you. I’m not going to. It’s just that ever since those guys shot at me in Fort Worth, I want a gun so I’ll feel more secure. So I’ll be able to breathe easier. I won’t carry it otherwise.” He stared at me, his hand out, so I reached into my purse for the flannel bag in which I keep my .38. I don’t want it to get dirty or get bits of purse paraphernalia in the barrel. “Do you remember the combination?”
“Yes, Mavis.” Ben grinned.
He had given me the safe for my birthday after purchasing it at an estate auction. It was a three-foot-tall iron jobbie and literally weighed about a ton. Four strong men had struggled to move it inside.
“Holler if Margaret and Candy are back there, will you? I’m worried.” Margaret and Candy usually left a note if both of them had to go somewhere. Not only was there no note, but I’d found the front door unlocked. What was that about?
Someone could have come in and taken our computer. I hadn’t even paid off my credit card for it yet. On Westheimer, anything was possible. Thieves came in all sizes, shapes, and colors. They were so accomplished, they could steal a television while you were watching it, and you wouldn’t even know it.
Not that we had a television in the office. Once someone stole the old sign off the front door, the one that said Mavis Davis Productions, Owned and Operated by Mavis Davis. I swear. We were a nameless entity for two weeks.
“Mavis,” Ben yelled. “Come on back.”
I jogged through our little house-office to the only private room, the place where I always take clients to interview them before I begin my detective work. Well—to be honest about it—that’s only happened once, but I have high expectations. I interview people there sometimes when we do our home studies on adoptions and child custody cases, too.
Candy, our half-day high school helper, sat behind my desk like she owned the place. Candy’s a sweetheart, but sometimes she’s a bit too ambitious. Any day now I expect to be out of a job. Candy had sprayed her hair red that day. Not the natural red that God gave me but an obvious, man-made, glaring, bright, garish red, with glitter in it, no less. Her eyes flashed with excitement. Her face glowed like a full moon on a cloudless night. All five of her earrings dangled as she tossed her head. She wore a sequined, blue denim jacket over a black top. I couldn’t see the rest of her, thank goodness.
Across from Candy sat her polar opposite, a boy about her age who wore a Polo shirt, neatly pressed slacks, and highly polished loafers. Candy would have termed him a “prep,” no doubt. Shiny cheeks, clean-cut hair, and wonderful posture.
Ben towered over them and stared at Candy like he would a dog that had just crapped on the rug. Most of the time Ben and I get along well, but sometimes my relationship with him is a bit troublesome.
He can be annoying when he tries to run my life, or Margaret’s, or Candy’s, or when he starts talking about settling down and me having babies.
I didn’t see Margaret Applebaum, my assistant. I suspected that she’d made herself scarce on purpose; the reason would most likely become apparent momentarily.
“What’s this all about?” I asked, my eyes darting from face to face.
“Candy’s agreed to take a kidnapping case, Mavis,” Ben said, pulling himself up to his full height, which could be intimidating when my energy level had ebbed.
“Like, I didn’t say it was a kidnapping, Mavis,” Candy said with a sneer at Ben. “I said Tommy said it was probably a kidnapping, but his mom thinks she’s like a runaway.”
Assuming the prep was Tommy, I looked to him for an explanation. He stood—a real gentleman.
“Thomas Lawson, Miss Davis,” he said, extending his hand, “but you may call me Tommy.”
We shook. He had a mature handshake, for a kid. “Nice to meet you, Tommy.” My eyes cut back to Candy, and I arched an eyebrow at her. “You’ve agreed to take on this young man’s case?”
“Well, like I think we can help him out, you know, Mavis? His sister’s like missing.”
I understood then why Margaret had absented herself. She knew better than to accept responsibility. We went back a long way.
“Up, Candy,” I said as I approached my chair. She might be too young to understand territoriality, so I wasn’t going to get bent out of shape about it, but I liked to decide which cases we took, and I liked to make those decisions from my chair. “Sit down, Ben. You may as well stay for a minute until we clear this up.”
We all got situated, and then I turned to Tommy. “What’s this about your sister?”
“She’s missing, Mavis,” Candy said. “Like I told you. Tommy clued me in at school, so I told him we could find her, like if we get started right away before the trail gets cold. You know what I mean?”
“Cool it, Candy. I want to hear Tommy’s version.”
“Candy’s correct, Miss Davis. Jeanine is missing.” Tommy sat on the edge of his chair and clutched at the rim of my desk. “She went to school on Tuesday and never came home. Mother thinks she ran away, but I think somebody kidnapped her.”
“It’s been two days,” Ben said. “Have your parents received a ransom note?”
I glared at Ben. Was anyone going to let me do my job? Ben shrugged and slid back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Sorry, Mavis.”
“Has there been a ransom note, Tommy?” I asked.
“No. Jeanine left a note in her room that said she was going to spend Tuesday night with Melanie, so Mother didn’t get worried until yesterday when she didn’t come home again.”
“Melanie is—a friend?”
“Right,” Tommy said. “Mother called Melanie’s house and found out that Jeanine didn’t spend Tuesday night there. She called a bunch of Jeanine’s other friends, but no one knows anything.”
“But your mom thinks Jeanine like ran away, right dude?” Candy asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to me. “See, Miss Davis, I heard Mother and Jeanine arguing the other night. Jeanine’s like Mother. She’s got a short fuse sometimes. At first, I figured she was trying to scare Mother by staying away for a few days. I thought she’d show up at school, though, but she didn’t.
And I asked some of the kids about her. Nobody knows where she is.”
“Has your mother called the police?” I asked.
“Sure. She said it would serve Jeanine right if she had to come home in a police car. It would embarrass her. The police took a report. They said she was probably a runaway, but also suggested a possible kidnapping because of where we live and all.”
“And where’s that, pray tell?” I pulled a legal pad out of my desk and grabbed a pen.
“River Oaks,” he said.
“River Oaks.” I tried to hide my concern, it being the exclusive section of Houston, but didn’t do very well. Nodding, I chewed on my lower lip and remained calm out of a desire to refrain from upsetting the boy, but under my desk, my knee bounced up and down like a jackhammer.
I wanted to hear more, but not necessarily with Ben there. “Ben, dear, I don’t want to keep you. I think the fact that there’s no ransom note is probably evidence that it’s a runaway, don’t you?” I hoped he’d get the hint and leave without my asking.
He did. With a sigh of resignation, he shook his head as he rose. “I’ll just lock up your gun before I go. Call me later, okay? We can clean our weapons together.” He winked.
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