Digging Up the Dead (6 page)

“It’s beautifully textured. Look at the ridges. Did someone carve it?”

Thatch laughed. “No, the striations are naturally formed. It was extracted from the mine exactly as you see, polished up, of course. I wonder if it could be Sally’s?”

“Sally’s? But the name or word on it is ‘Sunida,’” said Tosca, pointing to the plaque. “Wonder where she got it?”

“Sunida sounds like it could be a Thai name. I can’t believe I’m holding the Chandelier. It’s worth close to a million dollars,” said Thatch, “a very expensive bauble.”

He handed it to Charmaine, who put it back into the box and said, “We should leave everything here on the desk. Karma can sort it all out when she comes home.”

She placed the box next to Sally’s other belongings on Fuller Sanderson’s old writing desk.

The heart had gone out of the evening, and the guests drifted off, walking to their island homes or heading for the ferry to return to the peninsula. Those who had driven from the mainland got into their cars to cross the bridge to Newport Beach.

“I think I’ll spend the night on my boat,” announced Blair. “It could be hours before we hear anything from Karma. There’s a full moon. Might even do some night fishing. Oliver, like to join me?”

Swenson turned his back and lumbered out the door without replying.

Blair shrugged, grimaced and said, “Goodnight, ladies,” as he, too, left.

Tosca looked around the living room. “The least we can do is clean this place up now that everyone’s gone. Thatch, could you make sure the candles in the Chinese lanterns in the yard are out? Thanks. Arlene, perhaps you’d take the glasses and dishes to the kitchen. There’s probably a tray in the kitchen you can use. I guess we’ll leave all that booze on the table. I’ll mop up the mess on the carpet.”

“Sure, be happy to. The White Russian she was drinking has soaked in real good, looks like. Might be difficult to get the stain out.”

Arlene picked up the carton of cream, went into the kitchen and placed it next to three similar cartons in the refrigerator. After half an hour the three decided they’d done the best they could to ensure that Karma came home to a semblance of order although, as Tosca confided to Arlene as they bade each other goodnight, Karma might not even notice, given the slovenly state of the house.

“I agree,” said Arlene, “but her garden center is beautifully neat and organized, and she does a great job with our yards. Another thing I give her credit for is rescuing special needs cats. Oh, here, this must be yours. I found it near the window when we were cleaning the carpet.” She handed Tosca a two-inch black flash drive. “Probably slipped off your keychain. I notice you always have a couple of them on there.”

“Arlene, I’ve never seen this one before. It’s not mine.”

“Must belong to one of the guests, then, or to Karma. Hold on to it for now. We can check with her tomorrow. Such a sad ending to the party. Sure hope Sally’s all right. Well, goodnight again.”

After Arlene left Tosca felt Thatch’s arm around her shoulder.

“It’s only ten o’clock, Tosca. How about a drink at the tavern? Oh, are you taking the Chandelier with you?” he said.

“After you told me its value, I don’t feel comfortable leaving it. I don’t see any way to lock the front door. There’s no deadbolt or mechanism to secure it. If this thing is not Karma’s, she won’t know its value and might not take good care of it, judging by the lack of security here. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“Good plan. How about a drink?”

“After what we just went through with Sally, poor thing, I’m not in the mood. Come home with me and have a glass of mead. I have a fresh batch ready for sampling. It’s almost as good as the blackcurrant they make at Ninemaidens Mead in Redruth, Cornwall. Aren’t you tempted?”

By now Tosca was well aware of Thatch’s aversion to her home-brewed wine, and she took every opportunity to tease him about it.

“Nine maidens?” he said. “Where do you Brits get these wild names?”

“Thank you for not calling me English now that Cornwall is officially recognized as a cultural minority like Wales, Scotland and Ireland. I’m thrilled. Now, Ninemaidens, Thatch, actually is a real place, a magical area. It’s an ancient monument, a row of nine granite megaliths that legend says were a group of young girls who were turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. The Ninemaidens meadery itself has beehives all over Cornwall, and probably some are near the monument, though I think they are based in Truro.”

“Sweetheart, I love all your tales, but right now I know you have some beer in the fridge unless J.J. and her pals have snagged it all. Let’s go.”

They left Karma’s cottage, closing the door carefully behind them, and walked the few blocks to Tosca’s house.

“Wonder what’s on this flash drive,” she said, taking it from her bag. “I suppose it must be Karma’s, but perhaps it fell from Sally’s purse.”

“Oh, no, you’re not about to start nosing around again, are you?” said Thatch. “Nearly got you killed the last time you got curious.”

“I’ll just take a quick peek, I promise,
keresik
.”

“Man, when you call me that I go all a-tingle,” Thatch laughed, “or I would if I remembered what it meant.”

“What? You’ve forgotten already? You know very well it’s a term of endearment.”

“Hmm. Before I leave tonight I will return the nice sentiment.” He tried to pronounce the word only to set Tosca laughing.

“Oh, dear, love, you’ve still got it wrong. The man says
keresigyon
, to a woman, not
keresik
.”

“Yeah? I think I’ll stick to good ol’ ‘sweetheart’ from now on. So are we on for a drink?”

“Oh, one more thing, Thatch. What about the pink sculpture that fell out of Sally’s purse? I’d like to know who the person called Sunida is, the name that’s engraved on it.”

“I doubt if it’s much of a mystery, and besides, it’s none of your business, although that’s never stopped you before.” He smiled to soften his criticism, then added, “As I told you, Tosca, it’s an extremely valuable piece. You know, I wouldn’t mind knowing who owns it myself.” Thatch opened the small wrought iron gate at Tosca’s house.

“But don’t you think it’s strange that Sally had two other women’s belongings in her purse? We know who Abigail is, and Sally, of course, but who is Sunida, a man or a woman? I asked Arlene, who knows everything that goes on here, and she said she had no idea. You know I can’t resist a puzzle, especially if it concerns Fuller. Let’s find out.”

“Tosca, I admit I am intrigued by the Chandelier and its disappearance for three decades, but who says it’s connected to Fuller?”

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket.”

“What’s that awful smell?” said J.J., sniffing loudly as she came through the front door and set her backpack down. The race helmet tied to one of its buckles bounced as it hit the floor.

“Ah, hello, love. How was your day?” said Tosca. “I assume you stayed overnight in Long Beach? How about an early lunch?”

“Not if what you’re cooking smells like that, Mother. It’s vile.”

“Pungent, perhaps, I’ll concede that. I’m making metheglin from an old Welsh recipe. It has a marvelous bouquet and flavor. A change from regular mead, although it’s similar. This one calls for rather strong herbs. I doubt it will be as good as Cornish metheglin, but I am giving it a try.”

Tosca added a lid to the small pot she’d been stirring. She rinsed the wooden spoon in the sink, placed it on a plate next to the stove, and took a seat on one of the two high stools at the kitchen counter.

“Whatever it is, it stinks,” said J.J.

“But I use only the very best natural ingredients in my mead. Unfortunately, I am now living in a country whose honey bees, I suspect, do not work as hard as ours in Cornwall, and when they do decide to collect nectar, the plants are probably genetically altered. However,” she said with a sigh, “I carry on. That’s what we Brits must do in times of strife.”

J.J. guffawed. “Come off it, Mother. Stop dramatizing. Anyway, you haven’t told me what’s in the pot.”

“Alas, I’ve had to compromise to make this next batch of wine. I bought some Turkish honey.”

“What?”

“Yes, made in Turkey. Their bees forage their nectar from Turkish Pines, among other plants. Says it right on the label. I’m boiling the honey to reduce it down, but it can’t be the honey that smells. I was going to use Albanian honey, but it lacks character. For this batch I’m not sure what the result will be, but I figure it’s worth a try. I added some herbs, too, maybe that’s the problem. Does it really stink?”

J.J. rolled her eyes as she went to each window to open it, and pulled the door back to its hinges. “Which herbs?”

“Umm, I am not exactly sure. I found them at the Asian market that Arlene told me about. I told the Chinese lady that I was making metheglin and needed something to give it strength. So she sold me these.” Tosca held up a large plastic bag of dried yellow leaves and dark brown pellets that looked like bark. “Do you think she misunderstood? She spoke barely any English but was very enthusiastic about these.”

Grabbing the pot off the stove and snatching the plastic bag from Tosca, J.J. ran down the steps to the alley behind the house, and threw both items into the garbage can as Tosca watched helplessly from the back window.

“You owe me one pot,” J.J. told her mother when she came back upstairs.

“That was a bit drastic, don’t you think? You know, love, if there were some meadows nearby I could have collected my own elderflowers along with balm and mace. but all I see outside is hundreds of boats and unending sunshine.”

“Don’t go off again about your need for rain, Mother. Talking of which, I gotta go take a shower.”

J.J. ran up the spiral stairs to the bathroom.

Tosca stood in the kitchen. unsure what to do about the turn of events. She had planned to spend the whole day making the spicy mead and setting it to mature for at least one year. Her recipes had been collected over several years’ time, some of them handed down from her mother and grandmother.

She also had a book of ancient methods dating back to Greek and Roman times. Every so often, when making the brew, she tossed some of the ingredients listed into the newer recipes, although the result, as in this instance, were not always happy. Tosca, a firm mead scholar, had read that the cave dwellings of primitive stone-age men show them collecting honey from bee colonies with the assumption that water was added to produce a mixture that could be fermented by wild yeasts.

“What’s that awful smell?” said a male voice at the open door. Thatch stood outside, his hands raised in mock horror.

“If you were a Druid,” Tosca said, “I’d have you drink the metheglin I was trying to brew, and your poetry would be inspired forever. At least, that’s what the Druids claimed.”

Thatch had confided in her that he wrote poetry, felt shy about it, but had finally allowed her to read some. It was filled with reminiscences about his childhood on a Wyoming ranch.

“Dang,” he said, “just as I was becoming so fond of your mead.” Tosca snorted at his joke. “So what’s this new stuff you’re concocting?”

“It’s a version of mead, so you won’t like it either, but the neighbors will, I’m quite sure, although they won’t be able to taste it for years. That’s how long it needs to be at its best. I plan to leave several bottles here long after I have returned to London.”

She told him it was made with honey and herbs, was quite a lot spicier than mead, and had often been used as a medicinal potion in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

“Metheglin was made even earlier, before the Romans invaded Britain, as a drink for warriors, and it was a drink made by witches. So you see, it’s ancient. But J.J. has thrown away the Chinese herbs I bought,” she said, frowning, “so I’ll have to start all over again. Just as well, I suppose. I had no idea what I was buying, but the saleslady assured me the herbs were for vigor. Maybe I can order the elderflowers I need from home. Come in, I’ll make coffee. Does it still smell bad?”

“Only enough to curl my toes. I see you’re trying to air out the house. Let’s go to the Coffee Can. You can tell me about metheglin, which sounds like one of your Cornish cuss words, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing to find Sunida. I figured I’d better come straight over.”

“Ah, The Woman and the Mystery of the Chandelier. Not a bad book title.”

The day after her party Karma drove the two miles to Sheldon Hospital, hailed as one of the One Hundred Great Hospitals in America, an imposing multi-story building that stood on the bluffs in Newport Beach. She found a spot in the self-parking section for her truck, grumbling to herself about the newly implemented parking program, and wondering how many times she’d have to come here before Sally’s death no longer required her attention. A parking rate sign declared that long-term passes were available for an annual cost of nine hundred dollars. At least I won’t need one of those, Karma thought as she found her way to the lobby inside the hospital’s main entrance. At the Information Desk she asked to see someone regarding a patient, Sally Hirsch.

“She’s dead,” Karma said. “Poor woman,” she added at the receptionist’s disapproving expression at her bald statement.

The receptionist made a phone call, directed Karma to a bank of elevators and told her to get off at the fifth floor. Soon seated opposite a charge nurse in a small room, Karma felt herself becoming anxious, wanting the meeting to be over as quickly as possible.

“Did she have any relatives, Miss Sanderson? Whom should we notify?”

Karma shrugged. “No one, as far as I know. She was around age seventy-two, and I never heard her talk about parents or siblings or any other family. She wasn’t married and I guess had no children. We weren’t that close. It just so happened she collapsed in my house.”

“Would you be the person responsible for any financial debt?”