Old Poison

by Joan Francis

  “Yes, very pretty,” I answered, but I was actually more interested in the man in the baseball cap who was leaning against one of the Ionic-style columns. I could not see him clearly. He was too far away and in the shadow of the temple, but his hat and body shape were familiar enough to be disturbing.

  Patricia stepped out of a side door and joined us, giving Roberto a friendly salutation and me a polite one in English. She and Roberto made small talk for a few moments while she waited for me to ask to see the earrings.

  When she opened the box I found myself totally distracted from everything else by exquisite, original pieces of art. As she displayed earrings carved in unique shapes from many natural woods, she told me the Costa Rican names and origins of each wood. She took great pains to explain how she came by the raw materials and wanted me to know that she was careful not to buy from those who poached from protected forest. I had planned on buying a pair or two to break the ice with her, but found myself so genuinely enchanted by her art that I had selected six pairs before I got around to the real purpose of my visit.

  It was Roberto who brought us back to the subject. “I’m very sorry to hear about Mark, Patricia.”

  She nodded but was unable to summon any words.

  He continued tenderly. “Patricia, I’m afraid there’s more bad news. Evelyn Lilac was murdered in the United States. This lady is here to learn something that might help find Evelyn’s murderer. Can you talk with her?”

  She considered me for a long time. “If Evelyn was killed in the United States, why look for her murderer here?”

  I put my wallet and the earrings in my purse as I answered. “Because I believe she was killed by someone who didn’t want her to complete the environmental work she was doing here. I am trying to learn as much as I can about her work and the other deaths associated with her work.”

  She turned to Roberto and spoke in very rapid Spanish. I didn’t catch it all but got enough to know that she was telling him this was too dangerous, that five people had already died, and that he must stop working for me or I would get him killed.

  As she was speaking, I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. I leaned back against the concrete bench so I might see more without turning my head. The man in the baseball cap had left his post by the column and was leaning against a tree that was just across the street. The iridescent blue butterfly on his cap reflected the sunlight.

  As he raised his camera, I stood between him and the two young people, turned my derriere his direction and bent over. That should give him a great shot of Aunt Tillie’s cotton slip and knee-high roll-up hose.

  I picked up the box of earrings and said, “You know, I’ve thought of a few other people back home who would love these.” Then in a low voice I instructed them. “In the park behind me is a man in a baseball cap with a butterfly on it. Don’t let him see you look, but try to get a peek at him as you look at me. Tell me if you’ve ever seen him before.”

  I had spoken low enough and fast enough that Patricia had missed it and Roberto had to repeat it in Spanish. By the time he had finished and they were able to steal a look in the direction of the park, Roberto reported, “There is no one there.”

  Patricia took back her box of earrings and glowered at me. “I don’t need to see him. I already see him twice. I don’t know if he follows me and now sees you, or if he follows you and now knows where I am. Either way we are all dead.” She said this mechanically, woodenly, without the emotion she had shown when she’d tried to warn Roberto. She was not only expecting death, but with the loss of Mark, almost seemed to welcome it.

  “Don’t count us out yet, Patricia. Maybe we can help each other and get this guy before he gets us.”

  She shook her head. “That is what Mark thought, but this guy owns everybody, even the police.” She started to turn and walk away, but I held her arm.

  “Please, tell me, where did you see him before?”

  She looked at my hand on her arm and I let go. She thought for a moment, then shrugged and said, “The first time was in a restaurant. It was me, Mark, and a computer friend, a German name Carl. Carl sell Mark a computer program. He did not tell me what it was but he pay a lot of money for it. He joke that he was going to be a big Internet publisher. I see that guy with the cap sitting at a table near to us and think he is listening to us. After that meeting, Mark took me home. I never see him alive again.”

  “The next time?”

  “Yesterday. I came home to find someone break up my house looking for something. While I was waiting for my uncle to come and help me, I see that man. He sits a few houses down the street in the shadows and just watch me. I think he was the one in my house. That is why I stay here.”

  “What about the computer guy, Carl? Has this guy been looking around Carl’s too?”

  She shrugged. “Two days after Mark disappear, Carl disappear. A reporter at Hoy find out Carl fly to Germany. He leave all his belongings, even his computer, and tell no friends where he go.”

  I was processing what she had told us when she added, “Roberto, we get the autopsy report today.” She paused, trying to control the tears that were welling up in her eyes. Her voice broke as she continued. “Mark was tortured many times in many horrible ways. He died of this torture. Get out of this. Go hide and forget it.”

  Again I took her arm to keep her from fleeing into the club. “Patricia, you need to hide also. I can help. I can send you to a friend in California who will keep you safe.”

  She wrenched away from me and turned toward the door. Then she paused, turned back, and gave me a look I could not interpret. Standing so that I was between her and Roberto’s line of sight, she reached inside the earring box, lifted the felt-lined bottom, and pulled out a CD in a paper envelope. She leaned in close and slipped the disc in my purse. “Here is a special pair of earrings as a present if you promise to leave Roberto out of this.” With that she turned and went inside.

  * * * * *

  THIRTY-TWO

  When she refused my help and turned to go into the house, Patricia had the same look of fear and resignation that Evelyn had the last time I saw her alive. It was unbearable to think that it might happen again and that I was helpless to stop it. How can you force someone to accept help? As Roberto drove me home, I was terribly afraid for both these young people. Patricia obviously didn’t trust the police, and considering the suspicious circumstances relating to Mark’s murder, her suspicions might have some substance.

  As Roberto drove us back to Los Yoses, I was quite sure we were now being followed. On the way to my apartment I made my plans. “Roberto, Patricia is right. This is getting too dangerous, and Tia Tillie is going home. I want you to drop me and never come back here. If anyone should ask you about me, remember, they may have been watching us, so tell them the absolute truth about where you took me and when. You don’t know me, or anything about why I stopped where I did. I was just another fare you picked up at the airport. You took me to Patricia because I had heard she made nice earrings and had asked you to, not because you recommended her. I bought six pairs of earrings and you took me home. That’s it. Get it?”

  He was silent a moment and then said, “I will pick you up for your plane in the morning. I will be your bodyguard and see you get away safely.”

  “Roberto, cabs here are plentiful. All I have to do is step out the door of Maria’s house and flag one down. I’ll get to the airport just fine. You and your family will have to live here. Think about your son and what happened to Mark and stay away from me. Is that clear?”

  He took a while to answer, then shrugged. “Yes.”

  As soon as I got up to my apartment, I grabbed a plate of leftover casserole, poured a scotch on ice, then sat down and put the disc into my laptop. I opened it with no problem, but it was written in a computer language that was Greek to me. I turned on the voice system, activated the scrambler and the encryption programs, plugged the modem into the phone, and dialed up Sam’s number. He an
swered on the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Sam. The programs you gave me are on. If I were to send you a copy of a disc written in a programming language, would it come through OK?”

  “Should, yes.”

  “Stand by.” I copied the disc and zapped it to him as an attachment. He sent a return message: “Received yours, will examine and report.”

  I left the laptop plugged in with the call alert on and began my packing.

  In about an hour Sam called back. “It’s basically an Internet mailing program designed somewhat like a virus, but not designed to do any harm. First, it’s addressed to a large number of specific people, mostly news, media, scientific, environmental, and political types. Then, after it’s sent to that list, it will access the mailing list of each person and send its message to everyone they have on their list. There is no message yet, but there is a place to insert one. Here’s the tricky part. It transmits as an email with no attachment showing. The minute you click ‘read,’ the hidden programming quietly begins mailing copies. Scary damn program. Where the hell did you get it?”

  “Long story. I suspect it is something Evelyn ordered through a friend, but the programmer didn’t deliver until after she was dead. The middleman, a local reporter, was tortured to death, and your friend in the Blue Morpho hat looks like the chief suspect. Right now he’s nosing around the reporter’s girlfriend, who is scared to death but won’t let me help her.”

  “Has Woods seen you?”

  “He got a glimpse of Aunt Tillie.” I looked out the window to where the surveillance car had stopped two blocks down the street. “So far he hasn’t followed up, and tomorrow Aunt Tillie’s out of here.” It was only technically a lie. Someone had followed us to the house, watched as I paid Roberto, then set up surveillance a couple blocks away. I was just thankful he hadn’t turned right around and followed Roberto’s taxi. There was no point in telling Sam. He could do nothing but worry.

  “No, Diana, don’t give him the chance. Get out of there tonight.”

  “Can’t, Sam, no plane. But I am all set for tomorrow morning. After Tillie boards the plane I will need everything up and running for Dolores Gomez. Got to get busy. More later.” I hung up and unplugged before he could ask any questions.

  I loaded my Walther, set portable noise alarms on both doors, and went to bed.

  * * * * *

  THIRTY-THREE

  I slept lightly and was up early. I went downstairs and apologized to my landlady, explaining that there was an emergency and I had to return home but that she was, of course, entitled to the entire month’s rent. She made faint protest, then agreed that she would have the expense of advertising and might not find a renter quickly.

  No sooner was I back in my apartment than the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Tia Tillie, are you all right?” His voice was frantic.

  “Yes, Roberto, I told you not to contact me again. What’s wrong?”

  “Patricia was strangled last night, right up there in the upstairs room of the Shady Lady, even with the guards downstairs. Police are all over the place this morning, but not last night. I had to know if they . . . if you are all right.”

  “What phone are you using?”

  “A pay phone on the street.”

  “Good man. I’m fine and I’m getting out of here this afternoon so don’t worry about me, just distance yourself from all of this. Promise me!”

  “Yes, I will. Goodbye. Be careful, Tia Tillie.”

  “Goodbye, Roberto.”

  “Patricia! Damn!” One more sad, frightened face to haunt my conscience and make me wonder if I could have done something differently, something to have protected her. Everywhere I turned in this case someone was killed or endangered. I was beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary.

  I had already planned to get rid of Tia Tillie, but now I would have to polish up the plan a bit. From my second-story window, I could see two cars parked about two blocks down the street. It looked like there might be a driver sitting in one of them, but I couldn’t be sure. From my back balcony, I saw no cars but did see Maria working in the garden. I was thankful for all the high walls and barbed wire.

  I unwrapped the cardboard box, discarded the day-old Gallo Pinto, unloaded my pistol, then wrapped it and my ammo in paper towels and packed them in the box. It might be chancy without it today, but I couldn’t risk any type of drop off that might be seen by my shadow, and I couldn’t have it on me for today’s business.

  Slapping a new label on the brown paper, I addressed the package to Dolores Gomez, care of the Hotel Aurola Holiday Inn in San Jose. Then I called Federal Express and asked specifically for an afternoon pickup. Walking down the back stairs, I joined Maria in the garden. “Maria, I wonder if I might ask you a small favor?”

  “Anything I can do.”

  “I’ve called for a Federal Express pickup, but they couldn’t get here until this afternoon. Could you please give them this package?”

  “Of course. Oh, it’s heavy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you.” I eyed the old orange and pink knitted cardigan that Maria had hanging on the line. “Maria, the plane sometimes gets so cold, and I forgot a sweater. If I promise to mail it back, could I borrow that sweater?”

  She seemed nonplused by the request, but like most of the Ticos I had met so far, she was too polite to refuse. “It is very old, but if you want it, keep it.”

  “Thank you, but I will mail it back to you.”

  I went back upstairs and made myself a cup of coffee and sat out on my balcony for the last time. While part of my mind tried to work out all the variables and all the things that could go wrong with my improvised plan, another part was thinking what a pleasant place this would be to come back to. Coffee finished, I reluctantly turned to the next task.

  Change of plans meant change of packing. Years of business trips taught me to travel light: one small suitcase on wheels, like the ones the flight attendants use, and a large tote-bag purse with an ‘across the body strap’ for security, and a few secrets of its own. Both can go onboard with me, and I never have to check baggage unless I am carrying a firearm.

  From my suitcase I took my plastic makeup bag, a dark brown wig, and my laptop, and loaded them into the purse. I checked out the rest of the stuff, making sure there was nothing but the thrift shop clothing I had bought for Aunt Tillie. There could be nothing that could be traced. As a backup plan, I took a pair of wrinkle-proof polyester pants and a blouse, rolled them into small tight little balls, and stuffed them in the purse. I zipped up the case, headed out the front door, and flagged down a cab.

  As my taxi carried me downhill, we drove right past the surveillance car. The man in it chose that moment to turn and reach into the back seat, so I could not be sure it was Woods. All the way to the airport, however, that car shadowed us. He was very good, his tail loose and unobtrusive, but a single car surveillance can never be invisible.

  At the Juan Santamaria Airport, my driver set my suitcase up on its wheels and pulled up the handle so I could wheel it in. I draped the distinctive orange and pink sweater over the case and settled the security strap of the purse strap over my head , across my chest and under one arm. Using the cane and pulling the case, I entered the airport in my now practiced old lady walk. My shadow left his car in the loading zone and followed me as I waddled through the airport, past the metal detectors, and into the area where my airline had six gates.

  I could now see that it was someone other than Harriman Woods. Dressed in blue jeans and a navy colored T-shirt, this guy was younger, blond, very muscular, and not so stupid or arrogant as to wear a company cap. So there were at least two of them in Costa Rica. Which one had made his way into the Key Largo and killed Patricia last night? Where was Woods and what was he up to while Muscles was following me? What would Muscles’ instructions be? They were still searching for something, and since Aunt Tillie was probably the last person to see Patricia a
live, Aunt Tillie would be the next logical target to be searched.

  My flight didn’t take off for hours and that was just fine for my plans. I didn’t go near the check-in counter but settled into a chair and opened a magazine.

  My shadow went out to the ticket counter and checked the outbound flights. Finding no easy answer there, he wandered back to watch me for a clue as to which flight I might get on.

  Two hours went by before I finally saw what I had been waiting for. Three flight attendants came off a plane and headed for the ladies’ room each pulling a small flight bag identical to mine. I rose stiffly, picked up my purse and cane, grabbed hold of my suitcase and pulled it along, entering the restroom right on the heels of the flight attendants. I picked the one closest to my size and watched as she and the other two parked their bags beside the vanity mirror in the front corner of the room. Two of them entered the little booths, but, unfortunately for me, one stayed out combing her hair, washing her hands, and watching the bags. Plan B.

  I walked in until my bag was right beside the others. Then I stumbled, catching myself against the booth with my left hand and dropping the cane so it clattered to the tile floor just the other side of the stewardess at the washbasin. When she turned away from me toward the noise, I reached down with my left hand, picked up the sweater from my case, draped it over the stewardess’s case and then rested my hand on the handle of her case. The one at the mirror bent over, picked up my cane and carried it to me, asking, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, just clumsy I guess. Thank you.”

  I entered the first booth, pulling the suitcase with me. When the helpful stewardess at the wash-basin took her turn in one of the booths, I walked back out to the waiting area.

  Watching me sitting there reading my magazine was driving Muscles nuts. Patience was not his virtue. When my plane was at the gate and almost ready for the first boarding, I finally stood and collected my gear. Muscles followed me as I limped over to check-in. He stood near, trying to be nonchalant, until he was sure this was my flight. Then he raced for the ticket counter, leaving a cloud of Aramis cologne in his wake.