"Really." Temple's enthusiasm level had plummeted. "l can't say I much care for eau de morgue."
"The clothing spent very little time in the medical examiner's area. It's been held in Evidence."
Temple had a deep suspicion that "Evidence" was very near the morgue.
Molina produced a brown paper bag very like a large lunch sack--really!--and pushed it across the desk toward Temple.
"Do I get a hint what smell I'm supposed to detect?"
"Mr. Devine said he recalled smelling it when with you."
"Maybe it was at the funeral home for his stepfather's visitation."
"He says not. But he can't remember where. Come on, have a sniff. It can't kill you."
"I suppose you do disgusting stuff like this all the time?"
"Every day," Molina said gravely. "That's right." she encouraged as Temple uncrinkled the bag. "Come on, sniff!"
Temple essayed a delicate inhalation and reared back. "Wow.
That bag really intensifies the odor. It's strawberry-scented room freshener. I'd say a pretty pure dosage. Over dosage. Whew!" She began choking on her words.
"We knew that," Molina said wearily. "Where you might have smelled it is the question."
"Very bad ladies' rest rooms, like in non-name-brand gas stations."
"Where you smelled it . . . when you were with Matt Devine," Molina elaborated. "Or is there something I should know?"
"Funny." Temple clapped a palm to her face and thought.
"Hmm. Some car washes have that stuff around. You know, when you're sitting in the miserable little room with sixteen three-year-olds hunting and fishing magazines watching your baby go through the suds cycle on the other side of the window?"
"I don't know. I wash my car myself."
"You do?"
"I have help."
When Temple looked even more speculative, Molina added, "Child labor."
"Oh, right. You have access to that. Louie doesn't wash much but his own body parts."
"I assume we can presume that Matt Devine has never kept you and the hunting magazines company in a car-wash waiting room?"
"No. I haven't washed a car like that in years, actually. But that's where I smelled that pukey ultra-strawberry stuff."
Temple leaned forward to pull out a fold or two of skirt. "Polyester," she diagnosed, making a face. "From about 1978. Polyester was very big back then. Of course! Why didn't you tell me it was polyester!"
Temple had to give Molina credit for not answering as if the game of Clue: "Polly Ester in the Laundry Room, smothered with a scented fabric-softener strip."
"May I assume, 'Eureka?"
"Secondhand store. Not upscale. They use it to get rid of that lived-in smell on clothing. It tends to, um, cling."
"And you were in such a place with Mr. Devine?"
"Where do you think he got that racy red couch? You have seen it? I thought so."
"I'll do the interrogations. Are you thinking of a particular place?"
Temple nodded grimly. "One place. Occasionally has some neat stuff, but overdoes the ripe strawberries."
"Do you think the management would recognize the outfit?"
Temple pulled out the permanently pleated navy polyester skirt, the floral polyester blouse.
She felt sorry for the murder victim already.
"A lot of their business is consignment. They keep meticulous records. They can probably tell you from whose closet this came."
"As well as to whom it sold?"
"Maybe."
Molina nodded, well pleased, if no less sallow-looking. "Can l count on you to take me there?"
"You yourself, Lieutenant?"
"This lead is much too important for mere detectives, don't you think?"
"I don't know, but I can tell you this."
"What?"
Temple fingered the sleazy, used polyester. It was wrinkle-free.
"This was a modest lady. How did she die?"
"She was strangled and stabbed behind a nightclub."
Temple shook her head, repelled by the brutal facts. "No. Not Miss Strawberry Polyester.
Something's wrong."
Molina was silent. When she looked at the brown paper bag neat Temple's hands, it was with regret. "That's what I called her, the Strawberry Lady. Maybe you can help put a name on her."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I can put a name on this one."
Temple reached into her tote bag and pulled out a copy of the newspaper folded to reveal Janice Flanders's sketch, along with a copied fistful of photos from Gloria Fuenres's magicians-assistant days, fishnet hose and all.
Glory days.
Molina looked like she'd seen a ghost, and it wore eau de morgue. "You never cease to amaze," she muttered, paging rapidly through the copies. "Where the hell did you find these old photos?"
"At the university. What do you think of my nose for news now?"
The bolt from the blue of Molina's eyes was sharp, and full of warning.
"Dangerous. I've always thought it was."
"But you'll use it."
"That's my job."
She stood, and the interview was over.
But the case was not. Her desk phone rang before she could tell Temple to skedaddle.
"Molina," she barked at whoever was on the other end.
Whoever it was barked back. Molina sat down again at her disk chair. "When? Well, it's your job to be sure! I see. Any theories? Right. Can't wait."
She eyed Temple as she hung up, looking like the wolf that was contemplating tenderloins of Little Red Riding Hood. Hungry.
*****************
Molina called someone from her cell phone while they were en route. The same mustached detective Temple had seen on an earlier homicide case--the cover-hunk-model deaths, wasn't it? drove.
The Crown Vic swung around the comer, tossing Temple and her tote bag halfway across the otherwise empty back seat. She dug the handy metal high heels of her Stuart Weitzman magenta suede pumps into the serviceable carpeting like pitons. She could use some company as buffer.
Molina had not said where they were going, but she maintained custody of the photocopied likenesses of Gloria Fuentes.
"Where are we going?" Temple finally piped up.
"Goldilocks' bizarre bazaar, than Grizzly Bahr's place," Molina growled.
No wonder Temple was confused--she had been casting herself in the wrong fairy tale; no wolf, no Little Red; now she was Goldilocks and had been sleeping in the wrong bed. Oops, fairly Freudian, that notion. But if this mysterious "Grizzly Bahr" was Papa Bear, was Molina Mama Bear? Then who was Baby Bear? Not her!
"Isn't it . . . unusual," Temple tried again, "for you to be out on a case yourself?"
The detective at the wheel slid Molina an expectant glance.
He thought so too.
"This isn't a case; it's a circus."
*****************
"What was that address?" Molina shot over her shoulder at Temple.
Temple told the driver, feeling that treating a homicide detective as if he were a common cabbie must be against some law.
Not that the Crown Victoria didn't have a smooth ride, but the driver didn't reduce speed much to take the corners.
When the car pulled up at the designated address, they all stared at its humble facade.
"Many Happy Returns" read a hand-lettered sign above the aging Strip-center's shop doorway.
An eclectic collection of household items littered the sidewalk. Temple was sure that there was a statute against exhibiting a used baby carriage next to a rolling bar-cart covered in leopard vinyl.
Apparently Molina and her minion weren't here to enforce paltry city ordinances. They got out and wove indifferently through the slightly abused clutter. Temple followed.
The minute they crossed the threshold, the trail they sought became patently clear. A miasma of strawberry air-Freshener hung invisibly over crowded racks holding used clothing hung on wire hangers.
"I remember coming to this place with Matt. We didn't stay long," Temple said. "Sometimes it has something; sometimes not."