The Scent of Camelias

Killer love.

Michelle is a defiant sort.  It wasn’t that the rules didn’t apply to her, rather it was important that they applied to her more than any other.  Her natural inclination was to act in opposition in spite of them.  This alone made her unfit for the job.  A job that was governed by the strictest rules imaginable. 

You see them from time to time, old pockets of the city long forgotten by time, left untouched by vagabonds or vermin.  The bar was the product of tenet construction post prohibition.  It failed to survive the turbulent economy of the twenty-first century.  Its hundredth birthday was also its closing day.  Few knew of its existence, fewer still, knew what it was. 

Michelle could feel the power that emanated from the walls, dark softwood paneling channeled by columned frames flowing to a dark hardwood floor.  Years of polish and elbow grease from tenders and customers alike had turned the bar into a pitted and scarred monument soaked in the memories of vices both physical and emotional.  The power of the place rested on everything like a viscous soup. 

Michelle breathed in the atmosphere, she did it twice more, it needed to fill her lungs and permeate her skin.  The boundaries between her and the location needed to be blurred.  She took one last breath before exiting the bar. 

Any onlookers would have assumed a film was being recorded, or more likely a photoshoot was taking place.  A woman dolled up in archaic clothes posing in front of an old tenet atop the stone foundation steps was quite picturesque, offset by the entourage of suited men.  Not business suits mind you, the cuts made fine feathers for already fine birds.  Michelle’s eyes rested on the leader.  A silvered gentleman with a cane that by demeanor alone identified him as the authority. 

She nodded to him once signaling she was as prepared as she was ever going to be.  The leader tapped his cane and the others assembled around the stone stoop in a half-circle.  As the last member stepped in line the chanting began.  A low murmuring that resonated through the air and sent vibrations through the buildings, enough to send small cascades of dust from above. 

Her time wasn’t short by any means.  The squad were good little soldiers that would continue chanting the spell until the job was done.  But there was no sense in being an unnecessary burden and since she was dressed for the occasion, she turned on her four-inch heels and entered the bar once more. 

The orange glow of incandescent bulbs turned the stream of cigarette smoke in a borealis that danced lethargically to the soft cries of an alto horn.  A sharp dressed man in a black vest and bow tie stood behind the bar idly polishing the glassware.  Sunken eyes that had seen all the world has to offer sat in an elderly face daring an errant spot to show itself.  A strict man with no tolerance for things that didn’t belong, things like a woman in bar. 

The war had changed the world, the new social order had made women uppity which he had no lack of disdain for but he wasn’t going to make a fuss.  He’d let her conduct her business whatever it may be and carry on as quickly as possible.  She had the look of a new toy in a junk pile, the dirt and smoke refusing to touch her bright youthful personage even as the assortment of vermin-esque tenants that made up his clientele became sharply aware of her presence. 

She approached the thin bartender sliding a slip of folder paper across the bar.  The bartender dropped his rag and single-handed the paper unfolding it with his thumb exposing the business card it had encased, a card with a name on it.  Seeing the name triggered paternal instincts within the aging man for the young woman.  He stifled them and pointed to a table at the back wall in front of the large pane glass window. 

Maricelli had been a night owl since he was a boy and as per usual, he was reading the evening post and enjoying an evening expresso.  Business had been good for him during the war but even with the economic downturn he was still doing well.  There were few opportunities available to those with his disposition but there was always some and he imagined in the future as things progressed it would only expand. 

He was aware of the woman’s presence the moment she sauntered in through the door and admired the sheer audacity of it was much as he loathed the notion of a woman invading the space of men.  She was a foreign thing.  The bar catered to an evening clientele that skirted the line of morality and she, in her pastel pink business skirt had as much business being here as a ray of spring sunshine in October.  She was young and well groomed, there was a saunter in her walk that declared she was on a mission and with every sway it rang the bell of sin.  The eyes that followed her moved like synchronized pendulums as she moved down the narrow space between the tables towards him. 

A pursed lip smile greeted him as the sound of a rapidly beating heart reached his ears.  The wake of her perfume had slithered through the air in her wake and in his presence the sinister scent of lilacs tickled his nose.  Wordlessly he folded the post idly setting it on the table and stood up extending his hand outwards.  Her face remained frozen as he assisted her to a seat at his table.  Her handbag settled in her lap as she positioned herself in her chair. 

“Aldo Maricelli,” he smiled as he kissed her hand.  He was quite subtle in his methods but she noticed how he lingered to enjoy the scent of her. 

“Michelle,” she said simply. 

“Miss Michelle,” he said awkwardly. 

“Detective actually,” she filled in for him. 

He took his seat, “I was not aware the police had begun hiring women, let alone one had ascended the rungs to detective.” 

“They have not,” she said. 

He was silent for a moment.  She knew his brain was half dedicated to determining the nature of the situation and the other half was figuring a quick escape.  She knew this because it’s what she would do and she knew him better than anyone. 

“It’s a beautiful night,” she said looking out the window.  The view from the window overlooked an expanse of rail crossings surrounded by high fencing completely enshrouded by the dark of the night yet beyond that the vista of the city skyline was clearly visible embossed against a starry sky. 

“It is unfortunate the moon is shy tonight and hides behind a blanket of clouds.  I would love to see her pretty face, wouldn’t you,” she remarked turning her smile back to him.  He had been fully aware of her as a physical object in his world but as with so many other things in his life seen as arbitrary and transient he had paid minimal attention to her.  Her commentary had brought her into full focus, the ruby red lipstick sheathing pert lips, the scent of lilacs he enjoyed, the way her soft skin seemed to stretch elegantly as she sat.  Blonde hair pinned up in curls under her hat. 

Michelle could feel his eyes roiling across her body and the tension in his demeanor delighted her more than she cared to admit. 

“How may I help you, Detective?” 

“My department would like your assistance in resolving a case, Mr. Maricelli.” 

“I don’t think I can be of any assistance, Miss, I am a late-night business man.  Despite the way that sounds I have no familiarity with any sort of criminal activity.”  His words streamed out matter-of-factly, but there an edge of malice peeking out from behind them. 

“You’re a monster,” she said simply.  The end of her statement seemed to freeze time where the air stilled and the smoke ceased to flow as if captured in a photograph. 

A decision was made and time resumed its normal flow. 

“I’m sorry Miss Detective, I don’t think=,” 

Michelle was tired of playing games, “It’s Mrs., actually.  I’m a widow.” 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Detective, but I don’t think-.” 

“Mr. Maricelli, my department is fully aware of what you are as well as your artistic endeavors.  As far as we are concerned, it is a closed case.” 

Aldo was taken aback; the new information had confused him but was not beyond his scope of reason. 

“I see.  You’re from that new department.” 

“Indeed, but it is not so new where I am from.” 

“And you believe you have the power to compel me to comply with you?” he asked. 

She smiled at him, “I know we do not.  I came to ask a favor of you.  Partly because I know this case will concern you.” 

It was his turn to smile, “Oh?  In what way is that.” There was a laugh hiding in his words. 

“The culprit is a copycat.  He is mimicking your artistic endeavors.” 

Aldo’s response to this was as subtle as a jackhammer, a sneer creased his face combined with a rasping snarl.  Michelle internally giggled at how easily it had riled him up. 

“Fine.  I’ll take a look.  What do you have for me?” 

From her handbag she pulled an envelope.  If he had questions about the photographs, he pulled from inside he said nothings but she had no doubts he was impressed by the quality by the way he gingerly held them. 

Three photographs in total, three different displays of human anatomy in disarray reconstructed to make the victim look dulcet and demure.  The splatter of blood patterned to look like a flower.  A rose, no a camelia.  Two things he noticed instantly.  The first he wasn’t going to share. 

“What do you want to know?” he asked. 

“We’re constructing a psychological profile.  Anything you can tell us, would be very appreciated,” she told him. 

“Lilac was a good choice to bait me,” he said. 

“I know.” 

He slipped the photos back into the envelope. 

“Art is about expressing something, more often than not it is trying to show the beautiful side to something otherwise unseen.  This is not art.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“The strokes are heavy and damaging.  The artistic rendering is undetailed.  Your artist isn’t unskilled but the point to my more detail-oriented work was to keep the strokes shallow, extend the integrity of the subject, it changes pigments and allows to add more depth to the final piece.” 

“You painfully tortured your victims while they were still alive to extend your painting sessions.” 

He ignored her, “The cuts made on your victims would each be a death sentence.  Your artist isn’t creating art.  He’s sending a message.” 

“Do you know what that message is?” 

“I have an idea but I’ll leave it to you to figure out.” 

“Why?” 

“Professional courtesy.  The man has something to say.  The point is lost if it has to spelled out to the audience.  I can tell you this, he’s very angry about something.” 

“Why must you always be so difficult?” 

“Mrs. Detective-.” 

“Maricelli,” she said, and he paused.  “Mrs. Maricelli.” 

As her words sunk into his psyche he smiled and the way he looked at her became doey.  She remembered the man she met so many years ago. 

“Mrs. Maricelli,” he corrected himself, “Answer my question please.” 

She braced herself for whatever came next. 

“Have you noticed and chosen not to tell your compatriots or are you not as smart as you make yourself out to be?” 

“Apparently, I’m not that smart,” she decided to placate him. 

He laughed out loud, “Then I will give the one answer to all your questions,” he said. 

He held up his left hand and like a street magician flicked it and a photograph appeared between his fingers.  She instantly recognized it as one those from the envelope and silently scolded herself.  Maintaining a stony demeanor, she reached out for the photograph.  As her fingers closed on it, he spoke. 

“This is not the work of a copycat,” his voice hit her like a train no longer holding back any of its malice. 

“That’s impossible,” the train had taken her resolve as it left leaving a trail of tears down her cheeks. 

“As someone as intimately involved with me as you claim to be, you should be well versed in contemplating the impossible.” 

She took the photo from his hand and placed it in her bag. 

“I can see why I fell in love with you,” he said losing all trace of malicious madness and again the man she remembered came forth, “You’re quite a beautiful woman, like a fresh canvas, so many opportunities to show your beauty.  Like lilacs on a spring meadow.” 

He paused momentarily, “I quite enjoyed our time together but I think we both must be going about our business.  I look forward to seeing you again sometime.” 

He rose from his seat and once again offered his hand.  Though she hesitated she understood that at this point he meant her no harm and accepted it.  He raised his hand and she froze.  His fingers caressed her cheek and pushed a stray curl that had escaped its bonds. 

The moment broke and she turned away.  There was speed in her steps as she left the bar, she felt his gaze slither across her back as she went. 

“Foolish woman,” he thought, “Camelias have no scent.”