Aromatherapy

News of the murder spread rapidly through the ordinarily peaceful town of Seven Springs, Minnesota. Mustard heiress Marie Poupon-Kennedy had stopped breathing in Room B of the Seven Springs Serenity Spa where she was enjoying a Gentle Oxygenating Facial. Phuong Pruitt, the considerate Vietnamese clinician, had applied an exfoliating almond honey mask to Marie’s face along with a cucumber eye compress. Then she stepped out to allow the products to work their magic while Marie relaxed to Mahler’s Symphony Number 6.

Phuong took a few sips of citrus-enhanced water, then headed to the wooden bench facing the aromatic rose garden. Two minutes of fresh air later, she returned to remove Marie’s mask.

Clients occasionally nodded off in the reclining chair, so Phoung thought nothing of Marie Poupon-Kennedy’s head leaning dramatically to the left. Upon closer inspection, however, she noticed that the neck glowed with a scarlet abrasion, as if the heiress had been strangled.

Phuong’s frantic scream was so blood-curdling that nude and semi-nude clients bolted from their detox mud baths and salt-glow body scrubs. The serenity of the Seven Springs Serenity Spa was replaced with pandemonium.

Irma Schifflet, the sultry owner of the facility, came running. “Quiet down, everyone!” she shouted. “The authorities are being called.”

Five minutes later, six Seven Springs police officers inspected the spa which had now become a crime scene. Officer Hugh Capers, hulking and dark-eyed, assigned each of his men to a different task. Irma led him into her office, redolent of lilac. “Before you ask a single question,” she stated, “you need to know that it’s common for an esthetician to leave the room for minutes at a time.”

“We haven’t accused anybody of anything,” Capers said.

“But chances are you’ll want to pin this on someone, and I’ll tell you right now: Phuong Pruitt didn’t do it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “It smells really good in here, by the way.”

“Fragrance enters the brain and impacts our mood. You should try our aromatherapy sometime.”

“I just might,” he said. “Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted Marie Poupon-Kennedy to become a victim of ligature strangulation?”

“Whoever came in contact with her entertained thoughts of ligature strangulation,” Irma explained. “The woman was willful and bigoted. But she was a client, and we treated her with care.”

With a titanic roar, the media descended upon the facility like an avalanche. The victim, of course, was a local celebrity: Marie Poupon-Kennedy had recently acquired eight stores in the downtown district of Seven Springs including Uncle Bert’s Hardware, the fried chicken franchise, and the International Children’s Dance Academy. The heiress had just put in a bid to buy the Seven Springs Serenity Spa which she intended to re-name the Marie Poupon-Kennedy Serenity Center.

“We should speak to the swarming bees,” Irma told Capers who was gazing into her soft green eyes. He wanted to see her away from the tumult, and he decided he would ask her for an official Saturday night date.

Irma realized she was on a dark, dangerous ride, and it was too late to climb off. For twenty years, thirty tireless, devoted shop owners of Seven Springs had worked day and night to transform the downtown area into the thriving oasis it finally became. They weren’t going to allow some superwealthy witch march in and buy their land, tear down their boutiques, and intimidate good people into selling their property. A foolproof plan was devised.

Marie Poupon-Kennedy wasn’t strangled by one set of hands; there were thirty sets around that long, pale neck. If one person was arrested, all thirty would be arrested. That was the decision made exactly one week before the mustard heiress arrived for her fatal facial.

The words of Randal Beuden reverberated in Irma’s head. “Sometimes extreme measures need to be taken to maintain social order. You’ll be a hero, Irma Schifflet. For the rest of your life you’ll be the quiet, unsung hero who saved our community.”

But Irma didn’t feel the least bit heroic. Still, she held her head high as she approached the freesia-scented foyer where the media had gathered. Irma’s controlled, concerned expression fooled them all, and she prayed she wouldn’t cave in while the local television cameras rolled.

* * *

Saturday morning had given birth to dark skies and heavy winds. By late afternoon, the threat of a major storm seemed distant, but a blue-gray mist continued to hover.

Irma poured herself a glass of grape juice, then sunk into her sofa where she flipped the channels of her flat-screen TV. A documentary featuring elephants in Kenya caught her attention.

Irma reached to the coffee table to pick up the small container of Ambien. She tossed a few in her mouth. A majestic elephant was running through the wild as a deep-voiced narrator spoke. “Because of the value of their beautiful ivory, elephant poaching is on the rise.” It was impossible not to root for the animal as it tore through the terrain; this was its home.

According to the narrator, more than 100,000 elephants had been killed in Kenya over a twenty-year period. Without taking her eyes off the screen, Irma allowed twenty more tablets to fall into her palm. She licked her hand until the white dots adhered to her tongue. Then she took a swig of juice.

A poacher shot the elephant again and again and again. With the startling sound of each gunshot, Irma’s body jerked, as if being bombarded with a strong bolt of electricity. Irma shut her eyes, shielding herself from the brutal, unmitigated horror. Her head fell back onto the pillow.

Two hours later, Hugh Capers rang Irma’s doorbell, holding a dozen yellow gerbera daisies. Precisely on time to pick her up for their dinner date, the officer waited on the weatherworn welcome mat, enjoying the potent scent of honeysuckle wafting from the shrubs surrounding the small brick house.

When Irma didn’t come to the door after thirty seconds, he rang the bell again.