Muller read the entrees. Catfish-not his favorite smell, but it rarely smelled like turpentine. Ribs-that could make his mouth water, but not when the prevailing aroma was the one that burned his nostrils. Fried chicken-a perennial favorite, and while everything tasted like it, Muller felt sure it never smelled like turpentine either.

"Get many customers lately," he asked.

"We've been slow."

No surprise there. Detective Muller nodded. With a stench like this, it was amazing the diner wasn't bankrupt. "The health department might be interested in checking this place out." Muller reached for his radio, and held the button in to start talking.

"Wait!" Karen gasped. Her shoulders fell, and her entire appearance disintegrated as tears came spilling out. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm trying really hard. I just can't get rid of that smell."

So she did know, and the entrees weren't soaked in lighter fluid. "Mind explaining where the smell is coming from?"

Karen nodded, and dried her tears on the dirty apron she was wearing. She walked toward a small door at the back of the room behind the counter, and motioned for him to follow.

The little office was crammed from floor to ceiling with cabinets and a desk all clustered at the very center and stacked precariously. Tarps were scattered about, and buckets of paint sat in various spots around the room.

"I hired some painters a month ago. They have nearly destroyed my office. I can't find a thing. I'm missing papers that were safely filed away, and to top it off, the other day I tripped on a can. She pointed to the offending metal container. Muller read the label. Turpentine.