Love Can Be Murder

like hearing someone else's breathing in the pitch-black space.
    But when the distinct scent of male perspiration reached her, she froze, her nose flaring in fear. Someone was on the landing with her.

Chapter Twenty-two

    If something is rotten, you'll smell it...

    A SCREAM LODGED IN THE BACK of Penny's throat, but when she opened her mouth to unleash it, a large hand clamped over her lips and nose. Terror seized her, and in the space of a heartbeat, she imagined herself being thrown down the stairs or tossed inside her apartment and having her throat slit...or worse. Ravaged, then suffocated? Hacked up into little pieces and skewered?
    Her lungs pumped furiously as she tried to drag in air between the man's ironlike fingers. He moved in behind her and put his head next to her ear.
    "I'm going to let go," he murmured. "Don't scream. Okay?"
    She nodded against his hand, her mind racing. She knew that voice from somewhere.
    "It's me—Jimmy."
    Her eyes flew wide. Jimmy Scaggs? Was he a madman? A serial killer living off the land?
    Slowly he released his grip on her and she gasped for air, flattening herself against her door. "Jimmy...what...are you...doing...here?"
    A click sounded, and suddenly his shaggy face was illuminated by a flashlight. He grinned. "Did I scare you?"
    Anger overrode fear as she tried to calm her breathing. "Answer me!"
    He looked hurt. "I just wanted to talk to you is all. I went by the store, but you weren't there. I thought you'd come back here sooner or later."
    " What do you want?"
    "To say I'm sorry."
    Fear washed over her anew. "Sorry for what?"
    "That everyone thinks you killed Deke. I hate to see you in trouble, Miss Penny. Can I help?"
    Her breathing eased a bit—Jimmy's crush on her had led him here, that was all. "No, Jimmy, but thank you."
    "I'll give you an alibi," he said earnestly. "Whatever you want me to tell the police, I will. I'll cover for you."
    She wet her lips and tasted the salt from his sweaty fingers. He was offering to lie for her—just like he'd lied about seeing her push Sheena into the street. "Th-that's not necessary, Jimmy, b-but I do appreciate it."
    He looked dejected. "I'd do anything for you, Miss Penny."
    She swallowed. "I know, Jimmy. I'll let you know if I need your help."
    He brightened. "Okay. Good."
    "Okay," she said, nodding and breathing, her mind churning for something to say to get them back on familiar footing. "I still need to pay you for the truffles. I don't have the money with me, but come to the store next week...and bring more. The chef I sold them to said they were perfect." She tried to smile.
    He made a mournful noise. "Can't."
    "Why not?"
    "It's Henry—he's sick. Out of commission for a while."
    "Oh. I'm sorry—I hope he feels better soon."
    "Me, too," he said. "Bye now." Then he turned and tromped down the stairs, just as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.
    Penny went limp with relief against her door and managed to find the keyhole with her key just as Jimmy opened the door leading to the outside and let in a bit of light. The knob twisted and she fell into her apartment, turning the dead bolt behind her even as she lunged for the nearest light switch. The fluorescent bulb over the dining table flickered and caught. Penny gasped.
    Everything was...in order. Someone had restored everything the police had displaced: The kitchen counter was clean, the drawers and cabinets were closed. The items on the dining room table were neatly arranged, the rugs were straightened. Her CDs were stacked on her TV cabinet, the magazines next to the chair were carefully fanned, the pillows on her couch were precisely positioned.
    With her heart thudding in her chest, she walked to the bedroom to find the bed made, her dresser tidy, her closet orderly. She turned in a circle, wondering who could have done such a thing. Elton? Jimmy? B.J.? Elton had a key; Jimmy was known for slipping in and out of places undetected; B.J. had studied her locks and could probably pick one as fast as he could snap his fingers.
    If the person had done it to lend a helping hand, the effect was exactly the opposite. She walked over to the dresser and opened her jewelry box, only to find her few pieces of jewelry efficiently sorted. She slid open her underwear drawer, tingling with a new sense of violation to see her panties and bras folded painstakingly. She backed away from the dresser and bumped into the bed, suddenly exhausted beyond words. With nothing on her