Old Poison

by Joan Francis

  There was a Long Beach Environmental Expo schedule and Evelyn’s conference identity badge. I pocketed these and her speech, took one last look around the room, and headed home.

  After a slow, careful ride back up the river trail, I swapped my bike for my baby blue 1957 T-Bird with the vanity plate “PRE10D” and headed to urgent care. No, the ribs showed no break; and yes, they would probably hurt for three or four months. I filled my pain pill prescription, picked up Chinese take-out, and headed home.

  After an early dinner and a steaming hot shower, I took two pain pills and climbed into bed with Evenly Lilac’s speech. By the second page the pills hit and my eyes closed.

  It was eight a.m. the following day when I opened my eyes again. After that many hours in dreamland, I woke up with that wonderful blank memory you develop while you sleep. The first movement, however, sent pain through the ribs and brought back yesterday’s events. With a groan I climbed out of the sack.

  Sipping coffee, I stared out the window as my mind kept replaying my meeting with Evelyn Lilac. What could I or should I do about her? She was not my client and had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me. She had left with nothing but a backpack, and I had no idea where she was or how to contact her. I could go to the conference and see if she showed, but I didn’t expect her to. There was nothing I could do. So why did I feel so guilty?

  I shook it off and filled the morning with breakfast and the newspaper. About 1:30 I sat down at the computer and typed a brief report for Borson, telling him about the incident on the river trail and that I would not continue the case. In figuring out how much of his retainer could be legitimately billed and how much had to be returned, I toyed with the idea of including the hours spent in the emergency room but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Bill attached, I sent his report via email and asked for a physical address to return the retainer.

  I spent about fifteen minutes checking my case log and was about to shut down when the little voice on my computer told me I had mail.

  Mysteriously, the Borson report had been returned as undeliverable. I checked the address–it was the one he had given me. “Damn! Now what?” I sat and stared at the screen a moment. With a rising awareness of professional incompetence, I realized that I had no other means of contacting him. How had I let that happen? I lectured everyone I knew on the need to get full information on their business contacts.

  “Well, just peachy keen! If he wants his report and his retainer, he will have to contact me.”

  I slapped a hand over my mouth. I had to quit talking to myself. Listening to Merle mumble angrily as she delivers me to my floor is like seeing the Ghost of Christmas Future. I turned to my only residential companion and added, “Right, Yeabot?” Maybe that’s why my great-aunt Leah talked to her little Chihuahua all the time.

  At the sound of his name, Yeabot rolled over to my desk and said, “Good afternoon, Mother. Today’s calendar has one deadline. You must serve Terrence Carpenter.”

  “Thank you, my little friend.” I shut down my computer, pulled the subpoena out of the file, grabbed the essentials, and headed out the door. “You have security, Yeabot.”

  “Security on,” he replied.

  My background investigation complete, it was time to nail Terrence Carpenter in a way that would leave no question about his identity or the legality of the service. That’s what my clients pay me fifty bucks an hour for.

  At 4:30 I arrived at his work parking lot, found his pickup, and parked close by. Rule number four: Never let them see papers. Since I had no pockets, I folded the subpoena and stuffed it into my bra. As I stashed it there, I thought of Evelyn and wished I knew where she was.

  I busied myself with rearranging the mess in my trunk until Carpenter’s shift was off at five. As he walked out to his car, I looked up and smiled.

  “Hi, Terry.”

  His face registered a blank as he tried to figure out who I was. Like most people, he didn’t want to let me know he didn’t recognize me.

  “Hi there. How’s it going?” he replied.

  “Not bad. Did Marge get that folder to you today?”

  Now he really looked blank. He stopped right in front of me and asked, “What folder?”

  That is how it works. I don’t chase after or door-knock anyone. I do my homework and let them walk right up to me and practically ask me to hand them the service.

  I reached into my blouse and pulled out the subpoena. “I have a subpoena for you, Mr. Carpenter, in the case of Solco versus Marvin. The attorney’s name is on the top, right here. If you have any questions, you may call him at this number.”

  “Hey, lady, you got the wrong guy. My name’s not Carpenter.” He tried to hand the document back and when I did not take it, he tossed it to the ground.

  “Yes, you are Mr. Carpenter. I have already identified you, your truck right over there, your fifteen-year residence on Hermosa Street, and your job as a foreman in the metal shop here. If necessary, I will testify in court that I served you. I suggest you call the attorney before he has the judge issue a bench warrant for you for failure to appear. Goodbye, Terry."

  I shut the trunk, climbed into my car, and drove away. In the rearview mirror I watched Carpenter bend over and pick up the subpoena.

  There is always a slight adrenaline rush after a service, and I didn’t want to sit around the apartment. I had several other cases to work, but Carpenter had been the only deadline, and I could not get Evelyn Lilac out of my brain. She was a mystery, she was in danger, and she had looked so scared as she drove away in that cab. I dressed in a business suit, pinned her conference badge on my lapel, and headed for the Long Beach Convention Center.

  * * * * *

  EIGHT

  The banner read, “FIRST INTERNATIONAL ENVIRONMENTAL EXPO,” not “Conference.” Looking around the convention hall, I understood the difference. This was an expo for the public, not for the environmental professional. It had that home-show atmosphere, with mind-boggling rows of exhibitors displaying their causes, organizations and products.

  I presented Evelyn Lilac’s badge and waited to see if the fresh-faced young brunette would call the gendarme and have me tossed out. She processed me with a smile and rote phrase, “Enjoy the expo.”

  On the back wall of the convention center was a huge screen flashing images of exotic places, interspersed with adorable animal pictures and colorful flora. I stood mesmerized until the pictures cycled into a presentation of death and destruction: clear-cut forests, dead animals, and barren land peopled with starving, emaciated children.

  I looked away. Since I was old enough to make a conscious choice, I have rejected any form of entertainment or information that graphically displays the inhumanity, cruelty, and stupidity of the human race. I understand that some people feel compelled to display such horrors in order to protest against them. I even concede that occasionally it works. Graphic news of the Vietnam War certainly helped bring that atrocity to an end. I, however, do not need pictures to feel the pain, and I cannot bear to watch. It is one of the ironies of my life that, both as a reporter and as an investigator, I have worked in cases of human tragedy that I would never allow on my television, either as news or entertainment.

  When I turned away from the pitiful scenes on the screen, I caught a man staring at me. He was a slender fellow, of medium height, with a thin bony face and eyebrows so heavy and dark that they seemed to hold up his brown leather hat. When I first looked his way, his brown eyes were fixed on the badge attached to my jacket.

  I pointedly returned his stare to gage his response. Most people caught staring will turn away. Not this guy. First his face registered surprise at my challenge, then assessment, and finally, a professional control. With real or feigned amusement, his mouth formed a smile, but his eyes remained coldly appraising. He saluted me with a slight tip of his brimmed hat and a nod of his head. His easy use of such Old World gallantry confirmed my suspicion that he was not from the U.S. With that salute, he t
urned and walked into the milling crowd.

  Good. The badge was doing its job. Now I needed to know who this guy was and how he was connected to Lilac? If his interest was more than recognition of the keynote speaker’s name he would be back.

  A musical fanfare interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to find the big screen dark and doors opening on each side of the huge room. A strange looking little two-passenger car rolled in through the door on the right, and climbed almost silently up a ramp and came to a stop on a circular stage. As the stage began to revolve, the loud speaker introduced this model as a clean, quiet, electric car, and said that in some cities you could ride the train to town and rent the little electric to run around town. Maybe Tweetie Bird’s little old Grannie was really ahead of her time.

  There followed an entire parade of cars, carts, bikes and scooters, powered by batteries, solar panels, hybrid engines, and experimental fuels. Major car manufacturers as well as smaller companies were displaying their versions of the future. Finally, a troop of four policemen mounted on electric bicycles, put on a little show of synchronized riding, complete with wheelies. When the bike chorus line rolled off stage left, the show ended.

  I began my tour of the exhibits and found there were environmental groups from almost every country in the world, most states, and many for-profit companies. The amazing array of products and services included environmentally safe packaging, outdoor clothing and gear, eco-tourist trips, solar heating and cooling, alternatively fueled vehicles of every sort, ecologically safe batteries, and maps of electric recharging stations. Many companies offered technologies to clean the Earth, air, and water; and dozens of universities displayed their research projects covering myriad environmental issues.

  I turned toward the booths on the north wall and saw a man in a brown leather hat turn quickly and disappear into the crowd. The hat was made with a hard waterproof leather finish and styled as a cross between a standard slouch hat and an Indiana Jones hat. Both its style and its timeworn patina made me certain there could not be two in this crowd. Had he been watching me again, or was it coincidence that we were at the same place in this crowd?

  With my antenna up, I continued a leisurely tour of the expo. Everywhere I turned there were earnest, passionate people, young and old, asking for my support for some place, plant, or animal that was about to disappear from this Earth. In their fervor, they reminded me of Evelyn Lilac. Overwhelmed by problems I couldn’t solve, I decided it was time to get to work on the problem that had brought me here.

  There is some kind of energy transmitted when you are being watched. I am positive of this, though no science can yet prove it. I turned around quickly, certain that my friend in the leather hat would be there. The slight widening of his eyes showed he was startled by the sudden confrontation. I held him with my gaze as if to say, “Game’s up.”

  * * * * *

  NINE

  His response was to give me a charming smile as he walked over and removed his hat. It occurred to me that if he really hadn’t wanted me to notice him, he could have taken off that hat before following me around the hall.

  “Please allow me to present myself. I am Guillermo Jesus Montegro y Monteblan.” With the hint of a bow he added, “A sus ordines, that is, at your service, Senora.”

  The Old World charm was so natural I was sure he had been raised with it. He must come from a little patch of twentieth-century culture that had not yet given up the graciousness of its past.

  “Con much gusto, Senor . . .” His name had rolled off his tongue like music, but I found myself at a loss to repeat it.

  “My American friends call me Gill. I would be honored if you would also.” His voice was soft, resonant, and mellifluous. He had a slight Spanish accent overlaid with a cultured, almost aristocratic English. That he had chosen to accept a personal confrontation rather than disappear again displayed the assurance and audacity of a professional. Now to learn what type of professional.

  “I’m Diana Hunter. Pleased to meet you, Gill. Are you an exhibitor at the expo?”

  “You are Diana Hunter? Then, please tell me, Miss Hunter, why does your name tag say Professor Lilac?” A half mocking smile played on his features, but his eyes warned me that his question was no joke.

  “Evelyn and I had a passing acquaintance. She couldn’t be here, so I borrowed her pass.”

  “I see.”

  “Now your turn, Senor. Why were you so interested in Evelyn’s badge that you followed me around the hall?”

  “The professor is also an acquaintance of mine. It was natural for me to wonder who was masquerading under her identity and why.”

  “I see.” I studied his face, wondering what kind of acquaintance, friend or foe? Had he sent those two men to the bike path? “Why don’t we sit over there and order a couple of the Amazon coolers and talk about our mutual acquaintance?”

  He smiled. “I know something better. This way.” He held out an arm, graciously allowing me to go first. That also put him behind me where I couldn’t watch him.

  “Why don’t you break a trail for me though this mob?” I said.

  “My pleasure,” he replied. I followed him across the room to a booth I had visited earlier. The exhibitor was an institute called Enviro-Medic Research, which was based in Costa Rica. Running it were the Hoffmans, a husband and wife team: Judith, a medical doctor; and, Ken, a botanist. Together they had set up a foundation to protect a small patch of forest near their medical clinic. They provided modern medical aid to the local citizens and researched tropical plants used in traditional medicine.

  Ken Hoffman walked over to us, and guarded looks passed between the two men. Ken was not really handsome but was large and athletic, with a strong masculine presence. From my first glance at his broad shoulders and thick neck, I pegged him as a college football hero and big-man-on-campus.

  With forced casualness Gill said, “Mr. Hoffman, allow me to present Diana Hunter, an acquaintance of Professor Lilac’s. It seems that Evelyn loaned Miss. Hunter her pass for the expo. I think maybe this solves the mystery of why it was said that Evelyn was here.”

  Ken tried to control his facial reaction but was artlessly transparent, revealing first relief then confusion and concern. His lack of skill in the fine art of duplicity seemed like a good opening.

  Shaking his hand, I said, “I stopped by your booth earlier, Ken, but I had no idea we had a mutual acquaintance. How is it that you know Evelyn?”

  His expression warmed immediately. “Oh, Ev lives in a small cottage at our institute. It’s somewhat of a symbiotic relationship. In fact, she says she is like one of the air plants that cling to trees. We give her free rent to help with her work. Then she stays there year round and keeps an eye on the place during the months we have to come back to the States and beg for money.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said. “So does Gill work with your institute too?”

  He started to answer in his same happy-puppy openness, but Gill interrupted before Ken could speak.

  “No, I just live in the same village.”

  “Don’t you believe him,” said Ken. “If it wasn’t for–”

  “Whoa, whoa, my friend. Before you begin telling lies about me, I promised Miss Hunter a glass of our wonderful homemade fruit juice.” The look that passed between them was sufficient to stop Ken’s open discourse.

  “Oh, ah, sure. Come on in the back here,” he said, inviting me into a small canvas enclosure at the back of the exhibit booth.

  It did not escape my notice that I was now out of sight of the people in the hall, and had lost what safety there had been in that crowd.

  Ken stuck his head through the curtain to the front of the booth and asked, “Judy, we still have some Number Ten on ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the ice chest, of course.”

  “Ah, which one?”

  Through the opening I could see Judy’s face and almost laughed out loud. Her expres
sion was one of both exasperation and resignation. “You want me to come and do it?”

  Ken gave her a little boy grin. “Please.”

  She came into the back to find the juice, and I was again introduced as Evelyn’s “acquaintance,” this time to Dr. Judith Hoffman, M.D. She was a tall woman who radiated an intelligent, calm control. The football hero had not married the cheerleader but the valedictorian. As she started rummaging around through the ice chest, Gill turned on his inquisitor voice and asked, “Miss Hunter, how exactly is it that you are acquainted with Professor Lilac?”

  I hesitated as I considered truth or lie. My people-reader pegged Gill as an investigative professional of some sort. Revealing information to another professional when you have no idea whether he is a good guy or bad guy is dangerous. Sometimes, however, it’s helpful to reveal some of your information in order to see what sort of response it draws. Here I had three people I could watch for reactions, and I already knew that one of them had a hard time with a poker face.

  “We met on the river bike trail yesterday. Some guy had pulled her off her bike and was trying to shove her into a waiting boat. I sort of ran over the guy with my bike and knocked him into the boat instead.”

  I had hoped for a reaction and got both more and less than I had hoped for. All the color drained from Judith’s face and air hissed past her teeth as she drew a sudden startled breath. She lost her grip on the bottle of green-colored juice and it dropped to the cement floor. The glass exploded like shrapnel, and the fragrant green juice splashed in a 360-degree radius. Ken cursed and all of us instinctively jumped away from the disaster. For the next few minutes all conversation about Evelyn Lilac ceased. We busied ourselves sopping up the liquid and picking dozens of sharp little diamonds of glass from the floor and our clothing. Judy was apologizing, Ken was reassuring, and Gill was very, very quiet.