The Scent of Murder by Barbara Block

clothes on the floor, and crawled into bed. A few seconds later I was in La La Land. I thought I’d dream about Murphy. But I didn’t. I dreamt about smoking a cigarette instead. I was sitting under a palm tree watching a boat bobbing out on the water. I had a rum and Coke in my left hand and a Camel in my right. I was just about to take a puff when the alarm rang.
    Jesus. I leaned over and slammed the off button down with the side of my fist. Then I put my head back down on the pillow, closed my eyes, and tried to pick up where I’d left off. But it was too late. The dream was gone. I groaned. How long had it been? Four days. And I had to stay off of them for twenty-seven more days. My God. Why had I made the bet with George? What had I been thinking of? This torture was definitely not worth twenty-five dollars. What had I been looking to prove? That I had willpower? Who cared? But I knew I wouldn’t give in. My pride wouldn’t let me.
    â€œI can do this,” I told Zsa Zsa.
    She didn’t bother lifting her head off the pillow to reply. I guess she wasn’t that confident. Oh well. It was too late to brood about it now. I brooded about it anyway, while I took a shower and got dressed. Then because—as per usual I didn’t have any food in the house—I stopped at Nice ‘N’ Easy on the way to work and picked up coffee, three glazed doughnuts, and the Post Standard . A picture of Richmond stared back at me from the front page. He looked a lot better than he had when I saw him last. I scanned the article as I waited in line to pay. It didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know. “Police spokesperson, Millicent Rafferty,” it said, “reported an anonymous phone call which led officers to Mr. Richmond’s apartment, where his body was found. Foul play is suspected.” No shit. “Several leads are currently being pursued.”
    I just hoped that none of them led to me. Then the article recapped Richmond’s life and gave some background info about the grieving family. That was it. Nothing else about the apartment. Or Amy. I gave the clerk five bucks and tried not to look at the packs of cigarettes, while I waited for my change. Then I went to work.
    I got to the store a little before ten. I’d just opened up and was starting to clean out Amy’s ferret’s cage when a man strode in. He was wearing a wrinkled double-breasted charcoal grey suit, a red tie, and a light blue shirt. His hair was rumpled, and he had the kind of circles under his eyes you get from not sleeping for a couple of nights.
    â€œI’m Charlie Richmond,” he announced, when he got up to the counter. “Dennis Richmond’s son.”
    My stomach clenched. I wondered if he knew about last night’s expedition. I took a sip of coffee and waited to see what was coming.
    He nodded at the copy of the Post Standard Mr. Bones was burrowing under. “So you’ve seen this morning’s paper. You know about my father.”
    I relaxed a little. At least Charlie didn’t know I was the one who’d found his father’s body. I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. The expression had always struck me as inadequate, but I’d never been able to come up with a better one.
    â€œMe too.” Now that I had a chance to look at him, I realized Charlie Richmond had his father’s mouth—red and fleshy—and his chin. His face was rounder, though, and his features were more symmetrical. He pointed to the ferret. “Is that Mr. Bones?”
    I nodded. “Your mother doesn’t seem to want him.” And I put out my hand to keep the ferret from falling off the counter. Depth perception doesn’t seem to be one of their strengths.
    â€œStepmother,” Charlie corrected. “No. She doesn’t like the ferret at all. She wanted Amy to get rid of it. They got into a huge argument over it.”
    â€œIs that