I carefully folded the paper and slid it into the map pocket. When I got back to my apartment I'd call Gazarra and try to get some reassurance of Mrs. Santiago's safety.

I was beyond being able to smell myself, but I drove with the windows down as a precaution.

I parked in the laundromat lot and slipped in barefoot to get my clothes. Only one other person was in the room, an elderly woman at the folding table on the far wall.

"Oh my goodness," she said, looking bewildered. "What is that smell?"

I felt my cheeks heat up. "Must be outside," I said. "Must have followed me in when I opened the door."

"It's awful!"

I sniffed, but I couldn't smell anything. My nose had shut down in self-defense. I glanced at my shirt. "Does it smell like Thousand Island dressing?"

She had a pillowcase pressed to her face. "I think I'm going to be sick."

I rammed my laundry into the basket and made my exit. Halfway home I stopped for a light and noticed my eyes were watering. Ominous, I thought. Fortunately, no one was afoot when I swung into the parking lot to my apartment building. The foyer and the elevator were both empty. So far so good. The elevator doors opened to the second floor and no one was about there, either. I breathed a sigh of relief, dragged my laundry to my door, slunk into my apartment, stripped off my clothes, and tied them up in a big black plastic garbage bag.

I jumped into the shower and lathered and scrubbed and shampooed thrice. I dressed in clean clothes and went across the hall to Mr. Wolesky as a test.

He opened the door and instantly clamped a hand over his nose. "Whoa," he gasped. "What's that smell?"

"That's what I was wondering," I said. "It seems to be hanging in the hall here."

"Smells like dead dog."

I sighed. "Yeah. That was my first impression, too."

I retreated back to my apartment. I needed to rewash everything, and I'd run out of quarters. I was going to have to go home to do my laundry. I looked at my watch. It was almost six. I'd call my mother on the car phone and warn her I'd be there for dinner after all.

I parked in front of the house, and my mother appeared like magic, driven by some mysterious maternal instinct always to know when her daughter set foot on the curb.

"A new car," she said. "How nice. Where did you get it?"

I had the basket under one arm and the plastic trash bag under the other. "I borrowed it from a friend."

"Who?"

"You don't know him. Someone I went to school with."

"Well, you're lucky to have friends like that. You should bake him something. A cake."

I pushed past her, heading for the cellar stairs. "I brought my laundry. I hope you don't mind."