THE Conchenta Conundrum by Paul Anthony, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide.
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Then he took a walk in nearby woods and privately confirmed his intentions. He could not help but notice the wood was carpeted with a mass of foliage and wild flowers. There were so many, you see. And so many different colours caught his eye. He returned to the house and thought it all out, planned it to perfection, and then picked lavender and white crocuses from the garden border because it seemed the easiest and most convenient thing to do.
They were the dying blooms of spring and they were withered, wrinkled, and past their best, but he knew what powers lay dormant inside the plant. Selecting a twelve years old bottle of his finest scotch, he broke the seal and poured himself a good two fingers before taking a substantial mouthful. The liquid hit the back of his throat in a rush but gently slid into his stomach. Carefully, he pulled leaves away from the corm and placed them in a wooden pestle. Taking a mortar he ground his dry crocus leaves until they were virtually dust.
Then he added more crocus leaves and eagerly ground them into a fine powder. Another drink was taken and another two fingers were poured. As spring died summer was born and an early bout of sunshine invaded the coastline. He invited her to his lair intending to finalise matters once and for all. He swept the patio and tidied the area for the episode he planned, and then prepared clean towels and chilled wine for their lunchtime swim. He was frolicking in the pool when she arrived and he leapt from the water to welcome her and hold her close; deviant soul that he was. They swam together and bathed in the sunshine before relaxing on loungers he thoughtfully angled towards the sun.
She giggled in gleeful delight. It was as if they were such good friends, maybe even lovers. Later, laughing and smiling, he donned his Japanese silk kimono and strutted along the patio to a barbecue and a chilled drinks cabinet. Striking a match, he lit the barbecue. He uncorked the bottle, poured a sample, and sprinkled his lethal mixture into her glass.
She accepted, laughed, and sparkled in delight as she drank in the ample softness of her wine. Returning her laughter, he smiled and waited for her to die as he casually barbecued slices of chicken and prepared a salad. But she did not die. She did not even feel any discomfort, at first. Eventually, as the sun rose in the sky and rays began to burn into her skin, she developed an unquenchable thirst due to an irritable tingling smarting in her gullet. My throat is on fire. He obliged and she gratefully accepted another glass of chilled wine.
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But the time approached and he needed courage locked inside a bottle of scotch. Another two fingers were poured and drank in one and the half empty whisky bottle was unsteadily placed on the table. He chuckled deviously as he tried to hide the alcoholic state surely affecting his mind, remarked jovially on the fickleness of the English weather, and then poured her more wine. And the worry in her voice became anxious and questioning. Or was it cocaine? He dismissed her remark instantly. She drank quickly and clumsily hoping things would improve and her craving would subside.
It was, indeed, slowly deteriorating. The heat of the poison burnt steadily into her, scorched her gullet, scalded her insides, and drove her to despair. When the mixture finally delivered a climax of pain she could bear it no longer.
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Gradually, her heart gathered pace and beat faster. Her blood pressure was going through the roof and her lungs ultimately felt as if they would explode. Draining her glass in desperation, she placed it on the table before her. It was then she saw a fine pinkish white residue covering the bowl of her glass. With a slight of his hand her glass fell to the patio and exploded into innumerable pieces.
THE Conchenta Conundrum : Paul Anthony :
She tried to scream but could not. Her throat was on fire when she slowly crawled to the pool and scooped water into her. She opened her mouth but could not scream, could not even raise her voice to cry for help. Her hands cupped the pool water and threw the liquid into her mouth.
Almost immediately she could feel the benefit of the cold water. She began to gurgle, began to reboot her voice box, and began to utter a painful forced scream. The man realised something had gone terribly wrong with his murderous plan. He blamed her, of course. The man waited patiently, like the printed word said. Repeatedly, he checked the time and watched her slowly wither away. She suffered retching and stomach pain but she did not die.
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You bastard, you rotten lousy Several parallel stories involving murder, larceny, politics, organized crime and high finance that intersect in surprising and delightful ways. A thoughtful, engaging protagonist in Inspector Davies King who is dedicated to solving crimes by using his intelligence, wits and experience — but who is also not afraid to throw a punch or come up with a shortcut to the truth. You are commenting using your WordPress.
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Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Damyanti Biswas is an author, blogger, animal-lover, spiritualist. When not pottering about with her plants or her aquariums, you can find her nose deep in a book, or baking up a storm. We will not remove any content for bad language alone, or being critical of a particular book.
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