Free A Nose for Death by Glynis Whiting Page B

occasional new awning. All that had changed. Main Street was now one of several streets alive with business. Flower baskets hung from stylish lampposts. Garbage cans were hidden in wood-picket containers that matched benches on the corners. A computer shop sat next to a trendy café, the old Royal Bank building housed an upscale clothing store, and at the far end of the street, Jack’s Chinese and Western Restaurant had been transformed into Jacques Bistro. Joan was in awe of the change. Enough of the structures remained to keep it familiar, but now it had a manufactured small-town prettiness that it hadn’t in the past.
    By this time they were both relaxed and laughing. Neither had mentioned the murder. They decided to try Jacques Bistro for lunch, even though Joan knew she’d be there later with Gabe and Hazel. No scent of the deep fryer. No thirty-five cent coffee. Caffeine now came in Americanos at two-fifty a pop. Both women ordered the spinach salad with strawberries, and the greens and berries were plump and fresh. This was a far cry from the iceberg-and-radish salad drowned in French dressing of thirty years ago.
    Joan couldn’t be sure, but the Jacques who served them now, with diamond-studded eyebrow ring, could very well be the annoying toddler who used to hide under the tables and tie their shoelaces together when she and her friends were sipping cokes.
    For a while Jack’s had been their battlefield. Gabe, Hazel, and Joan would hang out, stack coffee creamers and plan their getaway from Madden. Marlena and her gang, including Candy and Peg, would come in with the jocks. Sometimes Daphne would be with them. Inevitably Marlena would throw insults at Joan’s table. Usually Joan and her friends would clear out, determined not to admit that the nastiness bothered them. On one occasion, though, Jack Sr. had become so infuriated that he’d marched right up to Marlena’s table and, in his heavily accented English, had given her the boot. He’d then poured Joan and her friends a free refill. Daphne hadn’t left with Marlena and the others, but had come to Joan’s table to apologize, then had sat down with them. She’d been one of those people who was decent to everyone.
    â€œWhat are you smiling about,” asked Daphne.
    Joan shook her head. “Just remembering.”
    â€œLucky you,” joked Daphne.
    â€œYou were a nice kid, Daphne. You may not remember, but you were.”
    Daphne smiled and the pink blush rose in her cheeks.
    â€œWe hung out together at a bush party once at the beginning of grade twelve. I had a run-in with Roger Rimmer that night.” It was the first time either had mentioned Roger.
    Daphne lowered her head. “He wasn’t very nice, was he?”
    â€œYou remember that?” asked Joan.
    Daphne shook her head. “No, but people don’t want to talk about him, not the way you’d think they would after someone . . . ” she paused, “ . . . passes away.”
    They were both silent for a moment, then Daphne looked up with a bold smile. “The lemon gin!” she exclaimed.
    â€œYou remember?” Joan asked.
    Daphne nodded and added, “It’s one of the few things I do remember.”
    Joan wasn’t surprised. She was still overcoming her re-acquaintance with the scent of that odious liquor. Despite working with scent for years, Joan still marvelled at the noble, underrated nose. Its true beauty was as a channel to the powerful olfactory channel. It leads us to our mates, warns us of our enemies, and is the memory sense. One whiff hurls us back decades to mints from grandma’s pocket, smoke from a deadly fire, or fumes from a pungent bottle of lemon gin.
    Daphne popped the last strawberry into her mouth and pushed her salad plate away. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember anything at all about Roger. What was he like?”
    Joan chose her words carefully. “He