Old Poison (5 page)

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.

* * * * *

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 turned 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.”

* * * * *

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.