Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) by Alice Duncan

Author:Alice Duncan [Duncan, Alice]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Five Star/Cengage
Published: 2009-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

I spent almost the entire hour I was allowed for lunch in the library, reading all about poisons made from plants. For instance, I learned that an alkaloid is an amine produced by a plant. That didn’t mean a lot to me, but I gathered that there were a whole lot of them, and they were all toxic to a greater or lesser degree. I also learned that alkaloids tasted bitter, contained nitrogen, and occurred generally in seed plants.

After reading for nearly an hour, however, what puzzled me most about alkaloids was how someone could come by one. I mean, it’s one thing if you’re an explorer traveling down the Amazon River or up the Nile, but most household cupboards weren’t stocked with stuff like codeine, morphine, strychnine, datura or curare. I guess some folks had supplies of codeine and morphine, but I couldn’t figure out how a fatal dose of either of those substances could have been delivered by a prick to Mrs. Hartland’s back. Datura and curare killed extremely fast according to the books I looked at, and many Indian tribes used arrows dipped in those two poisons. Oddly enough, when the substances were eaten, they produced no ill effects on the person doing the eating.

But where would a person living in Los Angeles, California, get his or her hands on a supply of poison-tipped arrows? I hadn’t a clue, and none of the library books helped me find one.

At any rate, after almost an hour, I had a notebook full of information about alkaloids and possessed not a single notion as to what to do with it when I left the library. I grabbed a tamale and a paper cupful of lemonade from a street vendor (in Boston, you’d probably get a Coney Island and a Nehi, but the principle’s the same) and headed back to the Figueroa Building. Ernie hadn’t returned from lunch yet, so I ate my own lunch at my desk and perused my notes. I didn’t feel as if I’d made any appreciable progress in the solution of Mrs. Hartland’s murder by the time one o’clock rolled around and the telephone started ringing again.

Since I really wanted to talk to Rupert Mullins, during a lull in the telephone nonsense I dialed Mr. Easthope’s home. Rupert answered the phone!

“Mr. Easthope’s residence,” he said in a voice stiff with the importance of his job, but I recognized it anyway.

“Is this Rupert Mullins?” I asked to be sure.

Silence greeted my question, and it occurred to me that Rupert might be nervous about talking to people since he’d been quizzed by the police and had a record and all. Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the vultures of the press had been bothering the residents of Mr. Easthope’s house all day.

“It’s Mercy Allcutt, Rupert. I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Oh.” Rupert’s sigh of relief carried all the way from Mr. Easthope’s house to my ear. “I’m glad it’s you, Miss Allcutt.

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