Eats to Die For! by Michael Mallory Page B

ever been made and every murder mystery novel that’s ever been written leaves out one important fact regarding a dead body. They stink.
    Not just after a few days’ worth of decomposition, but immediately, because life and breath are not the only things that leave a person at the moment of death. The bowels and the bladder also release. This unpleasant little fact belies the notion that a body can stay hidden inside a trunk, which is kept in plain sight, until Jimmy Stewart or some other Hollywood sleuth catches on through the nervous reactions of the killer. You might be able to hide a body from view, but you can’t do it olfactorily.
    And what I was smelling now was not encouraging. Not at all.
    I found Avery Klemmer in his bedroom, on the floor, a wet stain on his pants. He was motionless, as befit his status among the dead. A string of cable ties linked one to another cinched his neck, cutting into his flesh.
    Something crunched underneath my shoe, and I saw that the ceramic base of a lamp lay on the floor in pieces, which must have been the smashing sound I’d heard.
    Why did this have to happen? What did Avery know?
    Pulling out my cell phone, I checked the time. It was a little after noon, but eating lunch was the furthest thought from my mind.
    If, as I assumed, the bumping and thumping I’d heard coming Louie’s apartment minutes earlier had been the sound of Avery Klemmer being killed, the actual time of death might prove to be important.
    To fake an alibi if nothing else , Bogie said. Yeah, to fake an alibi, because while I knew I hadn’t killed Avery, convincing the police of that would be a harder sell than claiming I could cure cancer.
    What’s more, I couldn’t help but think that my assailant, Avery’s murderer, realized that, which is why he left me alive.
    Or why she left you alive , Lauren Bacall’s voice said in my throbbing head.
    Right. Or she.
    There was nothing I or anyone else could do for Avery now, except find his killer.
    Having decided that reporting the murder was the proper thing to do, I had nine and the first one already pressed when I heard the siren.
    Sirens were pretty commonplace in Los Angeles, but this one was getting closer and closer, and pretty soon it was joined by a friend. Then two more friends. Within seconds it was an entire chorus of sirens, which became deafening before they suddenly wound down.
    That meant one thing: they were stopping here.
    Somebody had already called the police, and I had a feeling I knew who.
    I had to get out of this apartment.
    I could chance running down the hall and hope nobody saw me, or I could be sneakier about it.
    Operating on the assumption that the drivers of those emergency vehicles were already on their way up, I decided to take the back route. Rushing out to Avery’s balcony, I crawled on top of the ledge and then leapt over to Louie’s, managing to clear the balcony wall without injury, though when I landed, the jolt made my head feel like a railroad spike was being driven through it.
    Checking her balcony door through the pane, I was relieved to find it still unlocked, so I let myself in, crawled to a corner and sat still…at least until I noticed that I had never closed Louie’s front door! Racing to it, and hearing the sounds of people approaching from down the hallway, I shut the door as silently as possible and turned the lock, then dashed back to my hidey-hole.
    Voices now filled the apartment hallway, including a woman’s who asked: “What’s going on here?”
    A man’s voice answered, “We don’t know yet, ma’am, please go back to your apartment and close the door.”
    I could hear people entering Avery’s apartment, and after a few more seconds heard a voice shout, “In here!”
    For a while the only sound I heard was my heart beating, which sounded like Eleanor Powell tap dancing on a gigantic drum, and then was able to make