“Curare is a generic term for a variety of poisons,” Michael said. He dipped the last of his biscotti into a non-fat latte. “The bark of Strychnos toxifera, sometimes combined with other additives, can be boiled and strained into a number of pastes. All of which possess deadly properties.”
Despite her anxiety, Annie smiled. Count on Michael to know the Latin term.
“And then,” he continued, “the potency of the compound can be tested quite easily by experimenting on small animals.”
“Like birds.” Annie stared down into her cappuccino. “Or frogs.”
“The frog is pricked with the poison and then it is simply a matter of counting the leaps the poor creature is able to make before it expires.”
“The fewer the leaps,” Annie finished, “the more potent the dose.”
It was Poisoning for Dummies, detailed in the sort of books mystery writers consulted. And it had come back to her in a flash on Saturday evening when she was standing with Simpson and his men in her dug-up backyard.
Now it was a relief to talk about it. There weren’t a lot of people Annie could discuss poisons with. Most didn’t know enough to hold an intelligent conversation on the topic, and those who did would probably assume that she had gained her knowledge at the expense of Maggie Boswell.
A baristo appeared at Michael’s elbow. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
Michael smiled, shook his head. “Thank you, no.”
He scurried away. Annie leaned across the table. “They make most people go up to the counter.”
“It’s the wheelchair. And the fact that I’m an old-timer.”
Those were part of it. Quite simply, Michael was a beloved member of the community. Whenever Annie visited him in Corona del Mar, she envied the steady, unchanging rhythm of his life. He’d lived in this beach community for forty years. He was as much a fixture in the charming downtown as the traditional barber shop and the independent bookseller. This was an older, less glitzy part of Newport Beach than the terraced developments climbing the hills further inland. She never tired of strolling Michael’s neighborhood, tucked between the main drag and the ocean. Every street was overhung with oaks and birches and walnut trees and most houses boasted a square of lush green lawn and a multitude of shrubs and flowers, from bougainvillea to cyclamen to agapanthus. Cute-as-can-be bungalows huddled beside huge Spanish-style and contemporary glass-and-steel homes. But no property went too far over the top. It was as if all his neighbors shared Michael’s understated elegance.
Which carried over into his wardrobe as well. Today, as most days, Michael wore a sport jacket over a dress shirt, open at the crisply pressed collar. His buckskin shoes were scuff-free and his gray trousers sported a military-straight crease.
Annie had paid attention to her own appearance that morning, ironing the black capris she usually wore straight out of the dryer, carefully applying makeup to her sleep-deprived face. It was in marked contrast to the day before, when she hadn’t even showered. Nor had she left the house. Too upset to write, too distraught even to run, she’d done little more than pace. Deciding to visit Michael was the only sensible move she’d made, and she didn’t give a hoot what Lionel Simpson would think if he knew. And now, displaying her difficulties in open air, analyzing them with someone as cool-headed as Michael, was helping her get back on an even keel.
“Annie, we mustn’t jump to any conclusions.” Michael lowered his voice. “For example, we don’t know for certain that those frogs were poisoned by curare.”
“True, we don’t.” The foaming machine switched on, nearly drowning out all conversation. She leaned across the table. “But we do know they were buried recently in my backyard. And not by me. And we also know that someone tipped off Crimewatch to look for them.” She shook her head. “Michael, I don’t want to be more scared than I have to be. But I will bet you anything that later this week I get a call from the FBI asking me why curare-doped frogs were found behind my house. With everything else they think they have, it might be enough to arrest me.”
For murder. She could scarcely fathom it. It was as if a plot from one of her novels had come to life, with her cast in the role of hapless victim buffeted by events beyond her control.
Annie forced herself to speak out loud the words that had been screaming in her head for the last two days. “Michael, this is a set-up. Clear as day. Somebody is framing me.”
Her body trembled as the declaration she hadn’t wanted to make hung in the air. Michael did not attempt to refute her, probably because there was no point. Deep in her soul, she knew there was no argument. She knew what was going on. The killer had targeted her, her, to take the fall for his crimes. Why he’d picked her, she had no idea. But he had. And then, systematically, he’d figured out where she lived. He’d spied on her comings and goings. And at some point, when he knew she was out of the house, he’d entered her backyard, dug a few holes, and buried some dead frogs, which he had killed by varying doses of curare. And then he’d tipped off Crimewatch.
In the coffeehouse, amazingly, life went on. A woman wheeling a stroller smacked her carryall into Annie and called a half-baked apology over her shoulder. Two male teenagers bent over a laptop, jabbering in techno-geek. A young woman distractedly sipped an iced-coffee concoction without shifting her eyes from the pages of a chick-lit novel.
Finally Michael spoke. “I’m having trouble believing that somebody went to such elaborate lengths to set you up. It’s so farfetched. But I agree with you that I can’t think of another explanation. Unless the frogs turn out to be nothing.”
“They won’t.” Annie was as certain of that as she was of her own name. The truth of it nearly brought her to tears.
Michael reached over and grasped her hand.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Michael.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. You have to worry about a lot of other things, but not that.” He patted her hand, then let it go. “And now I’ve had an idea. You should retain the services of a criminal defense attorney. I know just the man.”
That had occurred to her as well. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”
“The man I’m thinking of works in tandem with a private detective. They can start looking into this, try to find out who’s behind it. It’s none too soon for that.”
It sounded wonderful. Smart, wily people on her side. There was only one problem. “Michael, I can’t afford such a thing. Do you think they’d do it pro bono? Because of the high-profile nature of the case?”
“They don’t need to do it pro bono. I’ll pay for it.”
“Michael, no, I couldn’t—”
He raised his hands to forestall any objections. “Annie, listen to me. I want to do this and I can afford it. Remember, I want this killer caught, too. I have an important stake in this. In fact, even before this I was considering hiring the P.I. to try to break this thing open. The investigation isn’t moving fast enough for me. You think about it,” he added, probably guessing that the longer she did, the more appeal the idea would assume. He rolled his chair back from the table. “Shall we head home?”
*
A few hours after Annie and Michael got back to his home, she had unpacked and freshened up and was lying—fully clothed except for shoes—atop the bed in the guesthouse. The bed was a super-luxurious, multi-pillowed, fluffy kind of affair—the sort that required a footstool to mount. Like everything around her, it was designed to please the eye and the soul.
Annie saw Renee Ellsworth’s hand in every detail. The pale peach walls and whitewashed hardwood floors, with a few hand-loomed throw rugs. The expert mix of flowered and striped fabrics for draperies, upholstery and bed linens. The whimsical bric-a-brac husband and wife had collected in their travels, like the small bottle of PISA nut liqueur on the mantel that leaned at the same angle as Italy’s famed tower.
The main house was equally delightful. It was a two-story gray clapboard home on a double lot, with numerous
windows and French doors, most thrown open to the ocean air. On all four sides were well-groomed lawns and the usual Corona del Mar profusion of flowers. A stone path curved between the patio and the guesthouse.
The phone on Annie’s bedside table rang. It was Michael, calling from up front. “The charcoal is getting hot, the potatoes are mashed, and the salad is tossed. Are you ready for some bubbly?”
“Michael, you are spoiling me rotten.”
“You deserve far more than this for hitting the list, my dear. Come up when you’re ready.”
She straightened the bed, then made her way to the kitchen, where Michael had set a bottle in a silver ice bucket. Annie twisted it to read the label. Krug Grande Cuvee. She didn’t know much about champagne but she knew this was the good stuff. “Wow.”
He smiled as he ground black pepper over two New York steaks. “I’ve had it for a few years. Tonight’s the night to crack it open.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to save it for a more special occasion?”
He set down the grinder. He, too, wore the same clothes as before, except that an apron had replaced the sport jacket. “Annie, this is a special occasion. You are very much to be congratulated for a rare achievement. And I’m only too happy to be able to share it with you.”
There would be no dissuading him, she knew. Nor was she sure she wanted to. “Thank you,” she said, and he smiled as if satisfied. She leaned against the granite countertop. “This morning Frankie sent me roses. I’m so freaked these days that it took me a while to figure out why. Then I remembered, oh, that’s right!” She slapped her forehead. “I hit the New York Times bestsellers list for the first time. No wonder my agent’s sending me flowers.”
Michael laughed. He uncorked and poured the champagne, then handed her a glass and raised his own in toast. “To my dear friend and all the joy and success I know awaits her in life.”
They touched their flutes together. The champagne sparkled deliciously on Annie’s tongue; it truly was exquisite. Michael winked. His cheeks were pink from the exertion of preparing the meal; she knew that before the bottle was drained, they would be even rosier. He set down his flute and picked up the plate of steaks, rolling his chair toward the patio barbecue. “Will you set the table in here?” he called over his shoulder. “It’s too chilly to eat outside.”
The sun had set, and with it the breeze off the Pacific had freshened. Annie made for the front of the house. “I’ll close some of the windows,” she offered.
*
Perhaps because the champagne had loosened her tongue, Annie found herself telling Michael about Reid Gardner. While they sliced into their steaks, she relayed the story: how he had appeared at her house Saturday. How he had said he wanted to make sure she understood her constitutional rights. How he had told her that, despite what the FBI seemed to think, he didn’t believe she was guilty of murder.
Part of her wanted to believe that Reid Gardner was the paragon that he appeared to be. But even before her divorce, she had stopped believing in fairy tales. And so was trying on a more cynical theory for size.
“The more I think about it,” she told Michael, “the more I wonder if he’s in cahoots with Simpson.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Well, the writer murders are an extremely high-profile story. It would be a huge get for Reid Gardner if he could help nab the killer. We know Crimewatch works hand in glove with the FBI. Maybe he and Simpson have a plan where Gardner tries to seduce me in the hope that I confess. I saw them having a tete-a-tete in the backyard after the frogs were found. They looked thick as thieves.”
“But didn’t you tell me there was a lot of tension between them when Reid Gardner first showed up?”
“There appeared to be but it could have been all for show. To convince me that Reid was on my side.”
Michael’s gaze grew more penetrating. He sat back in his chair and steepled his hands. “Trying to seduce you, you say?” He smiled an all-knowing smile that caused heat to rise on Annie’s cheeks. “Was that strategy proving effective?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t proving ineffective.” She met Michael’s eyes. “Especially when he fed me this story about how his fiancée was killed and that for a while he was a suspect. And so he knew how I felt, he told me.” She remembered how shocked she’d been by that statement; how it had seemed such an intimate admission. She had felt close to him then, amazed that he would tell her such a thing. But later she’d thought better of it. “I wonder if he hyped that up.”
Michael shook his head. “He didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“As a told you, I watch his show, and every once in a while he does a profile on his fiancee’s murderer. He did one recently. The man was never caught. And Annie …” Michael leaned closer, his tone newly serious and the teasing glint in his eye gone. “Don’t think every man who shows an interest in you is pretending or has an ulterior motive. You do yourself a disservice. Remember—” He raised a silencing finger when she tried to interrupt. “Not every man is Philip. Don’t paint us all with the same brush.”
As if sensing that it was time to move the conversation to safer ground, he brought up another topic, and Annie played along. But even as she did so, her mind rebelled against his advice.
Not every man was Philip, that was true. But she’d made one mistake with her ex that she vowed never to repeat: she had ignored every warning sign. When Philip was self-absorbed or demeaning, she’d dismissed it all as fleeting bad temper. She was already in love and didn’t want to believe that image of him. So she ignored everything she didn’t like. She simply pretended it didn’t exist.
Reid Gardner had set off warning bells the very day she met him. There was no doubt he had an agenda: to try to nab the killer of the mystery writers. Now she was a prime suspect. Suddenly he’s chasing her out of churches and showing up on her doorstep, even though she lives hundreds of miles away? Suddenly he’s possessed by the desire to get to know her better? How naïve could one woman be?
No, from here on out she would use her head when it came to her heart. She would not fool herself. Not again.
They finished their meal and cleared the table, less chatty than they had been all day. Annie thought maybe they were talked out. Or maybe Michael knew that his advice had disturbed her. She was sure of that when she was saying good night and suddenly he grasped her hand. “Remember what I told you, Annie. I want you to be happy.”
That prospect seemed a ways off. “I know.”
“Give him a chance. He may surprise you.”
That she wouldn’t promise. Or dare to believe.
She left the main house through the kitchen’s sliding glass door and stepped onto the patio. In the barbecue, the mesquite coals had disintegrated into ash but their smoky scent lingered. The air was chilly and the moon nearly full, lighting the yard with a silvery glow. Her leather mules slapped on the stone path, illuminated by tiny lights set every few yards apart.
She entered the guesthouse relieved she had unpacked earlier. It wasn’t very late but she was exhausted—no doubt the cumulative effects of champagne, very little sleep the last two nights, and major anxiety. It didn’t take long to wash her face, take off her clothes, and slip beneath the plump duvet, the sheets deliciously cool against her skin. She felt cocooned in heaven. Her eyelids drooped and soon sleep took her.
*
Annie never figured out what awakened her. A noise, a bump, she couldn’t trace it. But all at once she was upright, fully alert, her heart thumping and her breath coming fast, as if she’d been running in a dream and tricked her body into believing the exertion. For a few moments she remained still. Moonlight snaked through an opening in the curtains, slicing a thin white line across the hardwood floor. She leaned over to see the digital clock on the bedside table. It was off for some reason, the bright red numerals vanished.
She frowned. Had they taken a power hit?
She got out of bed and donn
ed the capris and tee shirt she’d worn earlier. For a reason she couldn’t name she was reluctant merely to throw on a robe. She poked her toes into her mules and opened the guesthouse door, then stood on the threshold and peered at the main house. All its windows were dark.
Her ears pricked, seeking sound. Nothing. Just the ocean a block away, the ceaseless ebb and flow of the surf.
Her feet began to move along the path toward the house. No little guiding lights now; they were extinguished. She reached the patio and squinted through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. All looked as it had before, the champagne flutes drying on the rack by the sink, the dishcloth neatly folded in thirds and hanging on the oven door.
She stared at the oven. Its digital clock was off, too. She glanced next door, where the bluish glow produced by a television flickered in an upstairs window.
So if there was a power hit, it hadn’t affected the whole neighborhood. Just Michael’s property.
She paused, unsure what to do. She knew she could go inside. The alarm hadn’t been set that night; Michael wanted her to be able to access the main house at any hour.
She wanted to go in. She found herself unwilling simply to turn around and go back to the guesthouse. She wouldn’t wake Michael if she went inside; by now he’d be upstairs sleeping. She found the small key to the sliding door where he always left it, in a chipped terra cotta pot behind the barbecue. She made a mental note to remind him not to leave it there anymore. These days it was too dangerous.
The door slid back and Annie stepped into the kitchen. She walked toward the light switch on the backsplash near the sink and flicked it on. Nothing.
She flicked it on and off a few times more. Still nothing.
That didn’t mean anything. Power hits happened. She even knew where the circuit breaker was, outside not far from the barbecue. She could go re-set it right now.
But that might wake Michael. A lamp might turn on, or a radio or something. She didn’t want to startle him.
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