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Chapter Twelve

Lake

The knock at the door came ten minutes after the time we’d arranged, yet earlier than I’d expected. I’d had doubts about Baxter showing up at all. But show up he did, almost on time, and with a brown paper bag that he brandished like it was the secret password when I opened the door. “I brought breakfast,” he said. “You’ve got a choice between a bacon and egg McMuffin or a sausage and egg McMuffin.”

“Sausage,” I said without having to think about it. “Unless… you wanted that one?”

He shrugged as he stepped inside. “I’m easy, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He stopped dead, some of the color draining out of his face, the easygoing demeanor he’d arrived with replaced by tension.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Coffee,” Baxter said, his voice strained. “I have problems with the smell of coffee.” He squared his shoulders. “It’s fine. It just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

I was already moving to open windows, Baxter going to stand by the first one I opened and dragging in breaths of fresh air like my house was full of toxic gas rather than a drink consumed every day the world over.

“I didn’t know,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say. Of course, I didn’t know. And even now that I knew, I didn’t understand.

Luckily, Baxter didn’t need any prompting to explain. “When someone attacked me… When I was murdered…” He hesitated. “I’d just bought a coffee to go from a little place in Finchley. I used to go there every day.” He shook his head. “Which is hardly the important part of the story. Anyway, when he stabbed me, I dropped it. It was all I could smell as I lay there. Dying, I suppose, considering what happened a few hours after that. When I was dead, I couldn’t smell anything. Smelling it since I came back has been…” He exhaled. “Yeah.”

“Makes sense. Smell is a common trigger for PTSD.”

“PTSD?”

“You realize that’s what’s going on here?”

Baxter shook his head.

“It is,” I said gently. “It’s common after experiencing a distressing event. And what’s more distressing than your own death? Symptoms include intrusive memories, nightmares, and flashbacks of the traumatic event.”

Baxter tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite come off. “Sounds about right. How do you know this stuff?”

I went into the kitchen and came out with a can of fresh air spray. I used it liberally, figuring that the cloying scent of sandalwood and jasmine—not that it smelled like either of those things—was preferable to any traces of coffee that still hung in the air. “I wrote a book about the First World War. It dealt with shell shock because of trench warfare. Of course, doctors didn’t recognize it as PTSD at the time. People didn’t use that label until the 1970s and didn’t officially use it as a diagnosis until the 1980s. But it existed long before that, just under different names. Soldier’s heart in the American Civil War, battle fatigue in World War II, Vietnam syndrome in the Vietnam War. And if you go back to ancient times, there are accounts of soldiers from Ancient Greece and Rome exhibiting trauma-like symptoms after battles.”

I caught myself, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for a history lecture.”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say that. You can just tell me to shut up. Or do what Verity does and be even less subtle and make loud yawning sounds.”

Baxter smiled. “You have a nice voice. It’s calming. It’s not an ordeal to listen to you talk about something you’re passionate about.”

More heat rushed to my cheeks, this time for a completely different reason, and I was glad of the excuse to return the fresh air spray to the kitchen. I opened the kitchen window while I was in there, sprayed some more spray until it made me cough, poured the rest of my undrunk coffee down the sink, rinsed the cup out, got rid of the coffee grounds in my newly purchased coffee machine to replace the one stolen by Carl, and then, for good measure, unplugged the machine and stashed it in a cupboard.

It was doubtful we’d solve the mystery of Baxter’s death in one afternoon, so the least I could do was not have my place smell of something that triggered him when he came here. “Do you want a drink?” I called. “Tea? Or something cold?”

“Tea would be good.”

By the time I carried two mugs of tea into the living room, he looked better, the fresh air spray and open window having combined to rid the room of the smell of coffee. He still stood by the window, which gave me an opportunity to study him, my gaze lingering on the long legs shown off to perfection by black thigh-hugging jeans.

I plucked the brown paper bag out of his hands, Baxter seeming to have forgotten he even held it. “Why don’t you come and sit down?” I suggested as I sorted through the bag to locate which McMuffin was which.

He did, tucking into his breakfast with gusto when I passed it across and washing it down with tea. We ate in silence for a few minutes, Baxter the first to break it. “So, what’s the plan today?”

“Gather information,” I said around a mouthful of sausage and bread. “That’s the starting point of any investigation. It will mean my having to ask you some tough questions.”

“That’s fine.” Baxter leaned his head back against the sofa, his body language saying something different. “I’ll answer whatever questions you’ve got to the best of my ability. But…” He stood, a smile flickering across his face. “I need to use your bathroom first.”

I waved a hand in its general direction. “You know where it is.”