THE SCENT OF JASMINE
By
Victor Gischler

When Liddy Caruthers hired me to follow her husband, I really should have been a little more persistent in asking her why because when I found the old man in his living room he was already dead as disco. Ike Caruthers looked like one of those mystery party parlor corpses, pretty dramatic, lying flat on his back in expensive, ankle-deep Persian carpet. A gleaming eight-inch carving knife sprouted from his chest. I had two choices: back slowly out of Caruthers' study, out of his ivy-covered mansion, wiping my fingerprints from doorknobs as I went, or I could call the police. I picked up the phone.

* * *

"St. Jude in a sombrero, Samson. Can't you swing your fanny around without bumping into a stiff?" Detective Sergeant Bill Rolland looked squat, bald, sweaty and cross, so all was right with the world. The sour look he gave me was as friendly as he ever got -- and I was usually on his good side. Usually he looked at private eyes like we were something he scraped off his shoe.

"What's the word, Bill?" I handed him a styrofoam cup of dishwater coffee which he used to wash down a mangled looking bearclaw. I didn't see how people ate that crud. I was in good shape for a guy approaching the big four-oh, and I planned to stay that way.

"I got the usual cast of characters in the. . .the room . . . the one without a television."

"The drawing room."

"Right. " Bill drained the coffee, crumpled the cup in a little fat fist and tossed it at a nearby wastebasket. He missed by a foot, and didn't bother to pick it up.

"Is Liddy Caruthers in there?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm about two minutes from slapping the cuffs on her." Bill finished the tail end of the bearclaw in one bite and wiped his hand on his pants.

"Can I talk to her?"

"Your client?"

"Right."

Bill waved over one of the uniformed cops, a stout, serious looking woman with freckles. To her, he said, "This is Conner Samson. He's freelance, but don't give him any trouble. Take him in to see the girl." To me he said, "Don't go far, Samson. I'll need to ask the usual questions."

The uniform took me into the drawing room. Liddy Caruthers sat with her dowager mother-in-law Olivia Caruthers. She was eighty-two, and a strong wind would've shattered her into a thousand pieces. She held her daughter's hand, and both shed gentle tears which may or may not have been genuine.

The slick man with an arm draped across the fireplace mantle was unknown to me. He'd found the liquor cabinet and was diligently pouring warm, amber liquid into his face. I ran an expert eye up and down the length of him. He was in his early thirties and made a good living; his charcoal gray, double-breasted suit was expensive and of a modern cut like you see improbably perfect gay models wear in men's fashion magazines. Good haircut. Well-manicured nails. My guess: corporate lawyer. He caught me giving him the once over and narrowed his eyes. I filed him away for later and went to Liddy.

"Miss Caruthers, I'm sorry about Ike." That should start us off.

She looked up at me through glistening blue eyes as big as hubcaps. She had her fragile kitten act down pretty good. A real good girl. For three hundred dollars a day I'd believe she was Mother Theresa, although shoving Liddy in a convent would be a real waste of curves. She was a leggy, Nordic handful with breasts that had their own zip codes. When she turned her head, a wave of jasmine leapt from her hair and washed over me. I made some polite noises and pulled her away from her mother-in-law.

"Mr. Samson, what happened? You were supposed to be following him." She'd meant to sound accusatory, but she was wrung out and her question came out more like a plea.

"Sorry, Liddy. Somebody beat me to him. I know you're upset, but listen. A sweaty little detective's going to come in here soon and take you away in his little black and white car. Do you still want me working for you? I might be your only friend right now."

"I don't know. I mean, I guess. Yes."

"Okay. Do you have a lawyer?"

"Art Weaver." She nodded her head toward the man near the fireplace.

Bingo.

"Liddy, we've got to talk fast. Is there any reason they might think you killed your husband?" Besides the fact he was twenty years older than you and worth fourteen million dollars.

"Me?" If possible, her eyes grew bigger. "Why would I kill him?"

"Why would you have me follow him?"

"I --" she hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for somebody looking for the signs. "I was worried about him. He's been acting strange lately and I thought he was in trouble."

Sure.

Bill pushed his way into the room, his pot belly leading the way. Somewhere, he'd found another bearclaw, and through a mouthful of pastry he announced "Liddy Caruthers, please," to the room like he couldn't see her twelve feet away.

She stepped forward. "Right here, Detective."

"Miss, I'm going to need you to come with me."

"Oh." She turned her fragile kitten act up full volume. "Am I under arrest?"

"We'll see."

I cleared my throat pointedly, and Bill raised an eyebrow.

"Can I have a second of your time, Bill?"

Bill sent Liddy out to his squad car with a couple of uniforms before taking me aside. "You got two minutes, Samson. Make it good.”

It took another ninety minutes for the forensics boys to finish their sweep and for the coroner to whisk away Ike Caruthers in a black bag with a zipper down the front. I walked in on Art Weaver and Olivia Caruthers in the kitchen. She was fixing herself a pot of tea and Weaver was fruitlessly badgering her about something, but I wasn't there in time to see about what.

"Dammit," Weaver said, "I can't help you if you won't let me, Olivia."

The old lady frowned and added milk to her tea. "Oh, my. Oh, dear. Where's the sugar? I can't have tea without a few lumps of sugar."

Weaver rolled his eyes. "Olivia!"

"Lay off the lady, why don't you?" I stuck a cigar in my mouth and rifled my pockets for a match. "It's been a long day for everyone."

Weaver turned on me with venom. "Listen, friend. I've seen you skulking around here all day, and I don't even know who you are. But take some advice. Stay out of our business. I was a close friend of Ike's, and I mean to see his family comes out of this okay. Olivia, we'll talk more later." He left in the same huff he'd arrived in.

Mother Olivia spun her gaze around to me. She glanced only once at Weaver as he vanished through the kitchen door, and immediately her vacant stare became sharp as a laser. "What an insufferable little prick."

My jaw hit the floor, and I had to scramble to catch my cigar before it bounced off the linoleum.

The old lady smiled wickedly and with suddenly steady hands pulled a small silver flask from her purse. "You're surprised that I'm not as feeble as you first thought."

"Extremely."

Her laugh was a short, harsh bark. "I'm too old to be plagued by idiots," she said. "So I let my eyes glaze over and start talking about the good old days and people let me be. Would you care for a belt of Beefeater's, Mr. Samson?" She held up the flask after doctoring her tea.

"No thank you." I stuck the cigar in my mouth. "May I smoke?"

"Please. I like the smell of a good cigar. It reminds me of my husband."

"This ain't what I'd call a good cigar."

"He wasn't much of a husband."

I found a kitchen match in my jacket pocket, struck it under the counter and puffed my cigar to life. "Mrs. Caruthers, in this state, a dead husband's assets revert automatically to the wife if he dies without a will. Your son was twenty years older than Liddy, and they've been married less than a year. The motive is clear if a little cliche'd, and the police don't have much of an imagination."

"I'm aware of how it looks, Mr. Samson."

"If she inherits, where does that leave you?"

Olivia scowled. "Out in the cold, I suppose. But surely that's a reason to keep my son alive, not kill him."

"Unless he'd already drafted a will leaving everything to Liddy."

"Then you'd need to ask Art Weaver about that. He was my son's lawyer. Good luck getting him to talk."


Art Weaver admitted me to his shiny glass and steel office with all the warmth and hospitality of an ice pick. We sat on opposite sides of his bunker-like desk and glared at each other.

"Mr. Weaver, as I'm sure you know by now, I'm representing Liddy Caruthers interests."

"Yes, Liddy's told me all about you. Personally, I think your services are a waste of money, and I told her so myself. Still, I guess it's up to her. Ask your questions, Mr. Samson. I'll do my best to answer them."

"Did Ike Caruthers have a will?"

"That's privileged information."

I shrugged. "Not really. Ike's dead, and as a lawyer I'm sure you're aware of the implications involving this state's inheritance laws."

"Okay," said Weaver. "It doesn't matter now. As a matter of fact, he did have a will. I'll save you the trouble of asking your next question. In the will, Ike gave me complete power of attorney."

"How nice for you."

"It had nothing to do with me," snapped Weaver. "Olivia's getting to be that age. She's not able to take care of herself, and Ike simply wanted someone to manage her affairs, make sure she's provided for."

"That's before Liddy."

"Well, yes. Ike had made these arrangements about three years ago."

I popped another cigar in my mouth. "Did Ike or Liddy approach you about changing the will?"

He spread his hands on his desk. "No. They hadn't mentioned it. It's their business, of course. Please don't light that." He meant the cigar.

"If I could just show you one more thing." I placed an appointment book on Weaver's desk and turned it around to face him. "Do you recognize any of these names?"

He scanned the list. "Two are other lawyers. I know Ron Greenbladt from the club. I don't know the others."

I said, "Actually all five are lawyers. I spent some time with the phone book checking it out. These are Ike Caruthers' appointments for next week. Do you know why he might need to see other lawyers?"

Weaver frowned. "I'm his personal attorney, Samson. Ike was involved with many different business opportunities. There's a hundred reasons he might've needed to see another lawyer."

"Is it possible he wanted somebody else to handle a change in his will?"

"It's possible. This is a free country, and Ike can hire a dozen lawyers if he wants to. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do.”

I met Bill at the bagel place and we traded information. He was on his second onion bagel with cucumber dill cream cheese. He wasn't happy with the way the Caruthers case was going.

"The coroner says Ike died that morning, maybe an hour or two before you found him. That puts Liddy at the salon getting the works, hair, nails, you name it."

I raised an eyebrow. "So she's off the hook?"

"We're keeping an eye on her. In the meantime, we got no prints from the knife, but it matches the others in Ike's kitchen, so the murderer didn't bring it with him."

"Or her."

"Right."

I told him about my talk with Olivia Caruthers and my visit to Art Weaver's office. "I got an idea, Bill."

"Aw, hell, Samson, you know what I think of your ideas."

"Hear me out. If you don't like it, I'll buy you another bagel."

* * *

Liddy claimed to be too distraught to stay at home, so she took a room at the Hamilton Plaza in town. I knocked once and she let me in. Her suite was spacious and plush. She wore a clingy black robe of silk, and her nipples pushed against the fabric like they had a schedule to keep.

"Oh, Conner, thank God you're here."

I'd been promoted from Mr. Samson to Conner. I decided to play along. "Hello, Liddy. Had a long day?"

"The worst. I was just about to take a hot shower."

"Did you know there was a plain clothes police officer in the lobby with orders to keep an eye on you?"

"What? Why?"

"Don't take it personally. Standard procedure." This was a big, fat lie, but I didn't want her sneaking off anywhere tonight.

"Go ahead and take your shower," I said. "I'll wait."

Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the shower wet, and pink and smelling like jasmine. The robe stuck in places where she hadn't toweled off completely. I'd taken off my jacket and loosened my tie. She didn't seem to mind. I handed her a rum and coke and we clinked glasses.

Polite talk soon turned to frank questions and another round of drinks.

"Of course, I wanted Ike's money. I mean, I liked him and all, but I knew I was marrying rich. But I didn't need to kill him. I already had his money. He let me spend as much as I wanted."

I asked, "Did you talk to him about a new will?"

She sipped her drink and sat down close to me on the couch. My arm was on the back of the couch and she laid one of hers across mine. "He was a little older, but I don't think we were worrying about a will quite yet. Do we have to talk about it now? I'm so weary from everything." Her hand on my arm squeezed invitingly.

I set my drink down and pulled her face close to mine. She gave up her lips without a moment's hesitation, and soon we were under the sheets together. She was very skilled and very eager for somebody who'd just lost her husband. Lost in her warmth, it was easy to give her the benefit of the doubt, to reason she wasn't who I'd already made her out to be. We slept a little, and I got up quietly and dressed without waking her.

I found her purse and went through it. Nothing useful except twenty-two hundred dollars in cash. I peeled six hundred dollars off the roll for two day's work and returned the rest to her purse. I woke her, and she looked up at me through a haze of sleep.

"Where're you going, Conner?"

I sat next to her on the edge of the bed and put a hand on her thigh, gave her a friendly squeeze. "You didn't want to talk about wills earlier, but I need to tell you something. Ike met with a lawyer -- not Art Weaver -- and had a new will drawn up."

She sat up, abruptly awake, then tried to force herself to be casual. Too late. She'd taken the bait, and now it was time to reel her in.

"I talked to the lawyer, but of course he said it was all private information." I popped another cigar in my mouth but didn't light it. "You wouldn't happen to know the conditions of the new will, would you? I know Ike wanted to provide for his mother."

"I don't know," she said flatly.

"Ike wouldn't discuss something like that with his wife?"

"I told you. It wasn't something we were worried about."

I smiled at her like everything would be fine. "Don't worry. That's why you've got Conner Samson on the job. I'm going to go home, get a bite to eat, shower and change clothes, then I'm going to go back to your house and find that will. The lawyer said he'd given the old man a copy, so it must be in his office someplace. Did Ike have a safe?"

"Yes."

"Great. Give me the combination."

"I --" again the telltale hesitation. "I'd have to get it. It's written down someplace, but I'd have to look for it."

"Nevermind." I made a point of appearing unconcerned. "It's recent business, so it might be in one of his desk drawers."

I kissed her on the forehead. "I'll call you when I find out."

On the way out of her hotel suite, I looked at her just once over my shoulder. I could tell her wheels were turning, and that's just what I had in mind.

Sitting in Ike Caruthers dark office, I ran through my theory once more in my head. I'd been there about an hour, and I was starting to doubt my conclusions. I checked the phone in the middle of Ike's desk. Everything was still in order. Just when I thought I might call it a night, the office door creaked open, and I ducked behind Ike's desk.

I heard the person move over to the painting on the far wall with the safe behind. I shoved a cigar in my mouth, stood and when I lit the match off the underside of the desk, Olivia Caruthers turned and gasped at the surprise of me.

I flipped on the desk lamp.

I puffed the cigar until the end glowed good and orange. "I knew all along Liddy was up to no good." I spoke slowly letting the words sink in. "She hired me to follow her husband without any good explanation. What the hell? I figured Ike was maybe giving it to his secretary on the side, and Liddy wanted to catch him to assure a fat divorce settlement."

Olivia drew herself up, thrust her chin at me. "And what do you conclude now, Mr. Samson?"

I puffed the cigar. "Liddy was guilty. This I knew without a doubt. But somebody was in it with her, and I wasn't sure who. She made sure she had an alibi, so somebody else put the knife into Ike. If Ike dies without a will, she gets the money. If he dies while the old will is in effect, Weaver has power of attorney. Either way you lose. I figure you cut some sort of deal with her, so both of you could make sure you got a piece of the pie."

"Very clever, Mr. Samson. Your intuition is sound. She called me after you left her in the hotel room, said she couldn't leave because the police were watching her, and that I should come over and get a look at that new will before you and the police arrived. But there's one thing you didn't figure on."

I felt the cold kiss of metal at the base of my skull, and I went to my knees, hot buzzing darkness turning out the lights. I've been hit like that before, and it's never good, but this time wasn't enough to put me out. I shook the cobwebs out of my brain, and when I looked up, I saw Art Weaver pointing a little automatic pistol in my direction.

"We're going to take care of you right now, Samson," he said. "You've been a pain in the ass the whole time."

"So you're in this too, Weaver. You're right Mrs. Caruthers. I didn't count on that."

"Life's full of little surprises, Mr. Samson."

"So you figured on splitting the money three ways?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Olivia. "You think I'd share anything with that cartoon-chested slut? We concocted our plan, and I went to Art with the Idea that we should double cross her."

Art brandished the pistol in my face and took over the story. "Liddy'd convinced Ike to amend the will to give her the bulk of the inheritance. I thought I'd talked Ike out of it, but then I found out he'd made appointments to see other lawyers. We arranged for Liddy to find the body, so she'd be there standing over him when the police arrived. But then she went and made that idiotic salon appointment."

Olivia said, "And naturally we didn't foresee she'd hire you."

My hand found the cord for the desk lamp, and I gave it a yank, plunging the room into darkness. I rolled away from Weaver as his little automatic spit fire, shredding the carpet where I'd been seconds before. I stood and put my fist in his face and he dropped the gun. I threw myself on him, punched twice more, and he went limp under me. The lights came back on, and Olivia held the pistol in her surprisingly firm geriatric hand.

"That's enough, Mr. Samson. Don't move."

"This again. One of these days, I'll roll around on the floor and I'll be the one to come up with the gun."

"I doubt you'll ever have that opportunity," said Olivia. "When the police find Art's dead body and yours together here in Ike's office, they'll figure him for the killer. I think I'm clever enough to arrange the scene to make it look like you did each other in and leave enough evidence to indicate Art and Liddy were in it together."

"You're quite the ruthless old crone, Olivia. But now there's something you didn't count on."

Bill Rolland pushed his way into the office, a revolver in his hand and two uniforms at his back. "Drop the gun, lady."

I pointed at the phone on Ike's desk. "We've been on speaker the whole time."

* * *

Bill walked me to my car after putting the cuffs on the old lady and the lawyer. "You done some good work here, Samson."

"Thanks, Bill. Did you pick up Liddy?"

"Yeah. We'll take all three down to the station. I'll let you know how it comes out when they're all done pointing fingers at each other. We're still not sure which one actually stuck the knife in the old man."

I handed Bill Ike Caruthers' appointment book. "The morning of the murder, Art Weaver was scheduled for breakfast with Ike. If you lean on him hard enough, he'll crack."

"Get some rest while you can. We'll probably call you in a few hours for questioning. You know the routine."

"Sure." I drove home and crawled in between cold sheets as the sun came up, without the close comforting warmth of Liddy Caruthers next to me or the deceitful scent of jasmine wafting through my dreams.

* * *

Victor Gischler lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife Jackie while he completes his PhD in English at the University of Southern Mississippi. His work has appeared in Blue Murder, Cozy Detective, Plots With Guns and elsewhere. His story "Hitting Rufus" was selected for Houghton Mifflin's Best American Mystery Stories 1999, and he writes the column Hardboiled Dixie which appears on Themestream.com.