The Scent of Murder by Barbara Block

I’d wanted it to be a strange, eerie place guarded by a grizzled, humpbacked caretaker and a one-eyed dog. Instead I was walking towards a plant that could have manufactured pipes or storm doors or cartons. Oh well. Murphy always had said I was overimaginative. I threw the piece of gum I was chewing out, went inside, gave my name to the receptionist, and sat down to wait.
    The smell of freshly cut wood and varnish permeated the air. The reception area was small and plain. No attempt at decorating had been made. The walls were putty colored and the chairs were standard office issue. I was thinking that even a plant would have been nice, when the door to the office opened and a girl came out. She was five-five, maybe 120 lbs. She had brown hair that came to her chin, hazel eyes, and regular features. Her dress—a flowered print number—and jacket overwhelmed her frame. With the right clothes and makeup, she would have been attractive, but now she seemed invisible.
    She came over and shook my hand. “I’m Elizabeth Walker, Mr. Richmond’s secretary. Please come with me.”
    She turned, and I followed her back through the doorway. We moved past the office space and the Xerox room, walked down a hall that housed more offices and a couple of large conference rooms, took a left, and came to an alcove that contained a desk, phone, and filing cabinet. Beyond it was another office. The door was partially closed. Elizabeth Walker knocked.
    â€œYes,” a voice from inside said.
    â€œIt’s Dee.” Her voice became animated. “Robin Light is here.”
    â€œI’m ready.”
    Walker ushered me in, then left, carefully shutting the door behind her.
    â€œPlease sit down,” Brad Richmond said, indicating a maroon leather armchair in front of his desk.
    He’d taken off his tie and jacket and rolled up his sleeves. I looked around, as I sat down. It was a working office. The place was crammed with file cabinets and metal shelving overflowing with magazines, thick books encased in red plastic, and papers. Two prints, one blue and one green, hung on the wall. They were the room’s only decoration. Both were abstract. Neither was memorable. Something told me they’d been bought the same time the furniture had.
    Richmond cleared his throat as I took my place. I was thinking I’d give anything for a cigarette, when he spoke. “I’d like to apologize for the other night at my sister-in-law’s house. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
    I made a noncommittal noise. I was more interested in listening to him than in having him listen to me.
    He ran his hand through his hair. It was, I realized, as thick as his brother’s had been. It just wasn’t grey. As I was wondering if he dyed it, he leaned back in his chair and studied me. I returned his gaze.
    Eventually he must have found what he wanted, because he started talking again. “You have to understand. It’s been a dreadful time around here. Between Dennis’s death and Amy’s disappearance....” He made a vague gesture. “Anyway, I didn’t want you to misinterpret what you saw the other night. That’s why I agreed to talk to you.”
    I shifted my weight slightly. The chair was too deep to sit in comfortably. “How would you like me to interpret it?” As far as I could see, it wasn’t the type of scene that left too much room for interpretation.
    He pursed and unpursed his lips. “I like Amy, but you have to understand that she’s done some things that are... well... to be frank... not very nice.”
    â€œShe circled your name in her notebook. May I ask why?”
    He made his fingers into a steeple and brought them to his lips. “She wanted to borrow some money from me.”
    â€œGiven what you said about her earlier, I find it difficult to believe she’d turn to you for help.”
    He flushed. “Sometimes I let my temper get the