Old Poison Read Online Free PDF

stand up. My ribs hurt, a lot. I reached down gingerly for my
bike. “That’s private investigator.”
    “What?”
    “I’m a private investigator, not a
detective.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “A detective is either a rank in the police
department or a character in bad fiction.”
    “Whatever you call yourself, I do wish you
could have been on time and protected me from this assault.”
    Now my voice got a bit testy. “If you want
protection, look up ‘body guard,’ or perhaps ‘executive protection
specialist,’ not private investigator. And in case you didn’t
notice, despite the fact that it is not in my job description, I
did rescue you from this assault at the cost of ribs which are
either broken or badly bent.”
    Her facial expression and voice changed. “I
guess you did, Ms., ah, Ms. Hunter, isn’t it? I guess I’m a little
rattled. When he grabbed me–I thought– three of my associates in
Costa Rica were murdered and–thank you, Ms. Hunter. I am quite sure
you saved my life today.”
    She had gone from snippy to a quivering
damsel in distress in thirty seconds, and my suspicion quotient
went up with equal speed. If I had busted myself and my bike over
some staged incident, I would toss this broad in the river myself.
With great control I said, “Well, we were lucky. If they had gotten
you into that boat they could have had you out to open sea quite
quickly. Why do you think they want to kill you?”
    She gave me an appraising look. Her
personality did another shift. “It’s a long story. Do you think you
could make it back down to my motel in Seal Beach or should we call
an ambulance and get you to a hospital?”
    “I’m okay,” I lied. “But I thought you had
this tight schedule and couldn’t talk to me anywhere but the bike
trail.”
    “This morning’s attack changes things.”
    “I see.” I hoped my voice didn’t reveal the
skepticism I was feeling.
    Dramatically she looked around the underpass
and down the river. “Let’s get out of here. We’re only five blocks
away from the place I am staying.”
    “Does your room have a coffee pot?”
    She looked blank for a moment, then smiled
and said, “Yes, and good Costa Rican coffee.” Her smile changed her
looks completely, and in a strange way revealed that she was older
than I had first thought, maybe in her late forties.
    Ms. Lilac didn’t want to talk until we got
back to her room, and that was fine with me because every breath I
took sent pain through my rib cage. This was definitely going to
require an x-ray.
    Her rental bike and my ten-speed were both a
bit bent and dented but serviceable. However, as I listened to the
bent fender rub against the tire on my bike, I decided this was a
perfect excuse to trade up.
    Her “motel” turned out to be a wonderful
B&B composed of many small cottages. I had always wanted to try
it, but the price tag was out of my reach. We parked our beat-up
bikes in front of her cottage, and Prof. Lilac welcomed me into her
two-bedroom suite. I looked around the adorably decorated rooms
with envy. Money must not be a problem for her. I avoided the soft
overstuffed furniture and sat carefully in a straight-back chair
that would support my back and put less stress on my ribs.
    The professor dug into her suitcase and
pulled out a plastic bag with coffee. She placed a small wooden
stand on the counter, hung a cloth filter from the top, and put a
coffee cup on the round wooden tray beneath the filter. As she
opened the sack and measured coffee into the cloth bag, that
wonderful aroma of fresh ground coffee filled the room. We made
small talk while she boiled water and poured it through the coffee
bag, distilling two steaming cups of aromatic coffee. When she
handed me a coffee and a sweet roll, my attitude toward her
softened. What a pushover I would be. They wouldn’t have to torture
me, just hold a cup of coffee under my nose.
    As she sat across from me I said, “Okay,
Professor Lilac, let’s