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.
“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.
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