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Lula and I looked at each other. We knew the smell.
“Uh-oh,” Lula said.
Cynthia ran to the car. “I hope he left me the keys. I hope—” She stopped short and looked in the car window. “Someone's sleeping in my car.”
Lula and I grimaced.
And Cynthia started screaming. “He's dead! He's dead! He's dead in my Porsche!”
Lula and I approached the car and looked inside.
“Yep. He's dead all right,” Lula said. “The giveaway is those three holes in his forehead. You're lucky,” she told Cynthia. “Looks like this guy bought it with a twenty-two. If he'd been shot with a forty-five there'd be brains all over the place. A twenty-two goes in and rattles around like PacMan.”
It was hard to tell with him slumped over on the seat, but he looked about five ten and maybe fifty pounds overweight. Dark hair, cut short. Mid-forties. Dressed in a knit shirt and sports coat. Diamond pinky ring. Three holes in his head.
“Do you recognize him?” I asked Cynthia.
“No. I never saw him before. This is terrible. How could this happen? There's blood on my upholstery.”
“It's not so bad, considering he took three to the head,” Lula said. “Just don't use hot water on it. Hot water sets blood.”
Cynthia had the door open and was trying to wrestle the dead guy out of the car, but the dead guy wasn't cooperating. “I could use some help, here,” Cynthia said. “Someone go around to the other side and push.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “This is a crime scene. You should leave everything alone.”
“The hell I will,” Cynthia said. “This is my car, and I'm driving away with it. I work for a lawyer. I know what happens. They'll impound this car until the world comes to an end. And then his wife'll probably get it.” She had the body halfway out, but the legs were stiff and wouldn't unbend.
“We need Siegfried and Roy here,” Lula said. “I saw them on television, and they sliced someone in half, and they didn't even make a mess.”
Cynthia had the guy by the head, hoping for some leverage. “His foot is stuck around the gear shift,” she said. “Someone give his foot a kick.”
“Don't look at me,” Lula said. “Dead people give me the creeps. I'm not touching no dead person.”
Cynthia grabbed his jacket and pulled. “This is impossible. I'm never going to get this idiot out of my car.”
“Maybe if you greased him up,” Lula said.
“Maybe if you helped,” Cynthia said. “Go around to the other side and put your foot to his ass while Stephanie helps me pull.”
“Long as it's only my foot,” Lula said. “Guess I could do that.”
Cynthia got the guy's head in a hammerlock, and I grabbed hold of his shirtfront, and Lula pushed him out with one good shove.
We instantly dropped him and stepped back.
“Who do you think killed him?” I asked. Not actually expecting an answer.
“Homer, of course,” Cynthia said.
I shook my head. “He hasn't been dead long enough for it to have been Homer.”
“Hannibal?”
“Don't think Hannibal would leave a body in his own garage.”
“Well, I don't care who killed him,” Cynthia said. “I got the Porsche, and I'm going home.”
The dead guy was lying in a heap on the floor, legs bent at odd angles, hair mussed, shirt out.
