The Scent of Murder Read Online Free

place had “decorator” stamped all over it. It was Southwestern decor from the pale peach and blue upholstery to the bleached wood to the steer’s skull on the fireplace mantel, as well as the collection of bad Indian pottery sitting on the beveled glass shelf on the far wall. I walked over to the fireplace and lightly ran my hand over the rough stones. The floor of the fire box was immaculate, just like the room. I was willing to bet that it had never been used, either. The thought depressed me. I was trying to figure out why, when Gerri Richmond’s voice floated in on the air. She sounded angry.
    â€œI don’t care,” she was saying to someone. Her Bronx accent had reasserted itself. Then her voice fell back down, and I couldn’t hear her anymore.
    I looked at my watch. All of three minutes had passed. Somehow it felt like ten. I peeked in my backpack. Mr. Bones opened his eyes, yawned, and went back to sleep. Watching him made me want to go to sleep, too. I made another circuit of the room instead, then sat down on the sofa, and put the backpack next to me. It was one of those soft, oversized sofas—the kind that doesn’t want to let you get back up—and I had to reach to pick up the copy of the Herald Journal that was sitting on the coffee table. Usually I’m religious about reading the paper but it’s been so busy at the store the past three weeks, I’d been lining the bird cages with it instead. This edition had been written three days ago on October fourteenth. I was scanning the front page, when a column midway down caught my eye.
    â€œA week ago,” it began, “Dennis Richmond, part owner of the Syracuse Casket Company, told his secretary he was going out to lunch. He never came back. Yesterday his daughter, Amy Richmond, disappeared as well. The police are investigating both incidents, though foul play is not suspected at this time. Her uncle, Brad Richmond, co-owner of the Syracuse Casket Company, states he is worried that the stress of recent events has proved too great and that the fifteen-year-old has run away from home. She is undergoing medical care at the present time. If you have any information concerning either disappearance, you are asked to call the police at 555-5299.”
    Two small, grainy photos accompanied the article. The one of Amy looked as if it were a yearbook head shot. I was willing to bet she’d been in seventh, maybe eighth grade, at the most, when it had been taken. In the picture, she had shoulder length hair, glasses, and a serious demeanor. I bit my thumb. She sure had changed a lot in a couple of years. As I gazed at her face, I wondered what had made her go from Miss Studious to the Queen of Punk. And then, once again, I wondered where I’d seen her before. There was something so familiar about her, but no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t place her and, after a moment, I gave up trying and turned to Dennis Richmond’s picture. He had an elongated face, close-set eyes, and a long thin nose that twisted slightly off to one side. The only thing that linked him to his brother was a surprisingly fleshy mouth.
    â€œSince you’ve read the article, I guess you can understand why this isn’t a good time for you to be here,” Gerri Richmond said, taking the paper out of my hand.
    I jumped. I’d been so engrossed, I hadn’t heard her come up. Either that, or she moved very quietly.
    She gestured towards my backpack. “I’m sorry, but I can’t have that animal in the house. Especially now. You should have called before you came up.” She picked an imaginary piece of lint off her black silk pants with trembling hands. “If it weren’t for that thing, Amy might still be here.”
    â€œI don’t follow.”
    â€œI told Amy not to bring it into the house. But she did it anyway. One of her lowlife friends gave it to her. We got into a terrible fight.”