Digging Up the Dead (16 page)

Sunida told her tale in a quiet, assured voice, admitting she knew Norman was married and had a daughter.

“I didn’t care. He was such a loving man. I knew he had room for more than one wife, and in Thailand minor wives, what you call mistresses, are the norm. Some of the wealthier men have four or five, and they often all live together. But Norman planned to divorce his wife and marry me.”

“A harem,” said Tosca. “But it’s different here. What happened?”

“He had second thoughts about getting a divorce. He thought a scandal would ruin his career once he became a famous author, which never happened, of course. It didn’t matter to me whether we were married or not. He set me up in this house, and he was here much of the time.”

She stood up. “Let me show you his study, where he did his writing.”

Sunida took her visitors through the kitchen and opened a screen door. Across the tiny courtyard was a studio. She invited them inside. Thatch and Tosca looked around at the bookshelves, file cabinets and a richly carved teak desk similar in style to the coffee table in Sunida’s living room. On top of the desk were a laptop, a stapler and two framed photos. One showed Norman and Sunida standing in front of the Royal Palace in Bangkok, its richly ornate red and gold roof glinting in the sun. The second photo was of Sunida holding Jeremy as a toddler, his black hair and almond-shaped eyes similar to his mother’s.

Off to the side of the desk were an electric typewriter, another laptop and a laser printer. Tosca thought back to the night of Karma’s party and Fuller’s staged desk with its carbon paper, pencil holder and pipe.

“Norman spent a lot of time in here,” said Sunida. “I know he never produced a book, but it didn’t matter to me as long as he was happy, which he was. Luckily, his father’s earnings kept us all afloat, and after Norman died I was able to get a good job at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and I decided to stay.”

She sat at the desk and slid her hands across the typewriter keys. “I didn’t care whether Norman was a successful novelist or not. I loved him. Sadly, he never got out of his father’s shadow and had very little confidence about taking on any kind of creative work. Maybe that’s why he married an artist.”

They were suddenly interrupted by a man asking, “Hello? May I come in?”

Oliver Swenson poked his large, blond head around the door. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company, Sunida.”

“Come in, come in, dear.”

Tosca’s jaw dropped in surprise both at seeing the editor of Fuller Sanderson’s books in Sunida’s house and at how the Thai woman greeted him. Dear?

“Do you know Oliver? He was at Karma’s party,” said Sunida. “He’s the person who told me about Sally’s collapse.”

“Oh yes, yes, of course,” said Tosca. “Nice to see you again.”

His demeanor was totally opposite to the surly man she’d talked to briefly at the fundraiser party. Instead, his large face split into a wide smile, and he emanated friendliness. He turned to Thatch.

“I don’t think we were introduced that night.”

In a jovial mood, far different to the stormy exit he’d made after Blair had taunted him at Karma’s house, he offered his hand to Thatch, who shook it, nodding and smiling.

Sunida suggested they all go back to the house for more tea. They trooped into the living room, where Swenson settled himself clumsily on the floor, leaning his bulk against the tall Thai cushion and almost toppling it. When their hostess returned with a fourth cup and another teapot Tosca was struck again by the stark contrast between the two. Sunida’s petite frame seemed all the more fragile compared to the obese editor, whose fat neck fell in upon itself by his awkward sitting position as he hunched over.

Tosca decided it was time to ask Sunida how she came to have the Chandelier in her possession.

“There’s a very simple explanation, and Oliver knows the story.” said Sunida. “Norman gave the Chandelier to me a few months after we arrived here in America. He’d heard the story of the Empress of China and her obsession with tourmaline. It appealed to his romantic nature, so when he read about the Chandelier being discovered locally, he went to the mine and bought it. ”

“You must have been delighted,” said Tosca. “I hear it is a rare piece.”

“I was thrilled with Norman’s gift. I know there’s not another one like it. I have to confess there have been times lately, with money so tight, when I thought of selling it, but so far I’ve been able to survive without giving it up, thanks to Oliver.”

Tosca remembered the silver locket that had fallen from Sally’s purse.

“Since you know Sally, do you have any idea why she had a locket in her purse with the name of Abigail, Fuller Sanderson’s wife, on it?”

“Yes, of course. Norman gave it to me after she died. It was another proof to Sally of my relationship with him.”

Sunida went on to tell her visitors she had asked Sally if there was a possibility that Fuller deeded any royalties to Norman in his will, and if so, whether she’d be able to share in them. Fortunately, Norman had paid in full for the little house and put it in her name, so there was no possibility of being evicted, but the Ritz hotel was being sold, and she feared for her job.

“I was basically appealing to Sally’s good nature when I asked her about the royalties,” she said. “I’m sure she knew where they were to go because of her original contract with Sanderson. I needed to prove to her who I was, so I gave her the tourmaline and told her to take it to the Oceanview Mine. The owner would confirm that Norman bought it and had it delivered to me.” She stroked the Chandelier and continued, “I was also willing to provide my son’s DNA to prove Norman was the father.”

Tosca glanced once more at the pair, still trying to come to grips with the paradox, the contradiction, of their body types. She was so tiny and willowy, and he was shapeless, paunchy and tall. Swenson’s presence dwarfed the diminutive Thai woman.

“What about my book?” Sunida said. “With Sally passed away, can it still be published?”

“Your book?” said Tosca. What other surprises did Sunida have up her Thai silk sleeve?

“Yes, I have written a tell-all of my life with Norman Sanderson. Sally came up with the idea. I wasn’t too happy about it, because Norman had letters from Fuller, his dad, showing he was critical of Tinky Blair. Sally said she’d provide a ghostwriter for me.” Sunida glanced down at Swenson, smiled and said, “She introduced me to Oliver, here, and we’ve been working on the manuscript for months. Before we knew it, we had fallen in love.”

The object of her affection appeared embarrassed and flicked a lock of his hair back, the same gesture Tosca had noted at the party. She’d use it in her article, she decided, as a way to describe the ghostwriter’s habits. Her editor always wanted colorful details. He called it particularity.

Sunida moved over to Swenson and gracefully lowered herself onto the floor next to him. He put his arm around her, pulling her close

“We going to be married,” he announced, a slight blush on his large face.

This announcement was another bombshell for Tosca and Thatch. Both sprang to their feet to congratulate the couple, who got up to stand shyly before them.

Of the two, Sunida appeared the most embarrassed. Swenson’s head was held high, a triumphant smile reaching from cheek to cheek. He was obviously thrilled to have won the hand of the beauty at his side.

“I never thought I’d fall in love,” he said, “and here I am with the most incredible fiancée I could ever have imagined.”

Tosca realized that Swenson was comfortable sharing his deepest emotion with the visitors and had no qualms about telling the world.

“When will you finish Sunida’s memoir?” said Thatch after they took their seats again.

“I’d say in three more months or so. Sally was really excited about it, and we’ve been working very closely with her all along. Now that she’s dead I don’t think I’ll have any problem finding another publisher. It’s been our secret; no one else knows, and I think it’ll be a bestseller because of the Fuller Sanderson connection.”

Tosca asked Swenson if he planned to ask Graydon Blair to be his literary agent for the project. Swenson scowled in reply, shaking his head.

“No way. I hope to sever all ties with him very soon.”

As soon as she and Thatch were in the truck, Tosca demanded to know how he’d tracked Sunida down.

“I still have a few connections around the various federal agencies, but this time I didn’t have to ask any favors. Jeff Stanger gave us the address that was on the receipt, remember?”

“Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? My powers of observation are being seriously compromised, living here in California. Everyone’s too laid-back, and I have fallen into the same trap.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tosca. Relax. Enjoy the sun.”

Tosca nudged the closed parasol at her feet. “It’s the lack of rain, you know. It can addle one’s brains.” She fiddled with the strip of silk that kept the parasol closed. “Even so, you had to find out her phone number because you’d already talked to her before we went to her house. Google?”

“Yep. Real easy”

As they drove north he answered all her questions about his time in Bangkok. No, he hadn’t been tempted by any of the delicate and beautiful Thai women, nor had he been tempted in Saigon, where the Vietnamese ladies were as graceful as butterflies.

Tosca finally lapsed into a skeptical silence for several miles, the Pacific Ocean on their left as they returned to Newport Beach. Every time she saw its sparkling blue expanse, Tosca liked to imagine the vast sea stretching silently up to the Arctic and west to Asia and Australia, then rushing noisily ashore.

“Not like you to be so quiet,” said Thatch as they neared the bridge to Isabel Island.

“I’m starving. We never had lunch, and it’s almost four o’clock.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. How about we find a fast food drive-through?”

“Okay. I think a fish sandwich would fit the bill.”

In Newport Beach they found a McDonald’s, and while munching on their food, they continued to discuss meeting Sunida, trying to absorb the surprises she disclosed.

“It’s amazing. There’s the son she had with Norman Sanderson, the fact that she’s writing a revealing memoir, her lovely Thai house, and most surprising of all, Oliver Swenson is her ghostwriter and fiancé. I can’t believe how it all fits so perfectly together. The only questions are, why was Sally poisoned, and who did it? Did Karma find out about the tell-all? Would she have killed Sally to prevent its publication? Who else would have a reason to get rid of the poor woman? Ah, Graydon Blair, of course.”

“Hey, you’re at it again. Slow down, Tosca. Didn’t mean to open the floodgates and get you going with throwing a bunch of questions at me all at once.”

He steered the truck with his left hand and reached out with his right to envelop Tosca’s hand in his large one.

“Don’t go all dramatic on me,” he said. “The cops are getting it all figured out. No need for you to get involved.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I am keeping my nose clean this time, but I dearly need some kind of dark, criminal activity for my next article. I’d better pay that nice Constable Parnell a visit. I know he needs my help.”

They pulled up in front of Tosca’s house. By now the sun was on its way to its inexorable evening rendezvous with the horizon before disappearing to the other side of the globe. She invited Thatch in, but he declined.

“I promised to take Christine out for an early dinner,” he said. “I’m sure she’s been sitting on the front steps for an hour already.”

“Give my love to your daughter. Ask about her visit to the Alzheimer patients.”

At his kitchen table at home, Blair plucked at the strings of his Kinnor harp, cradling its small frame on his lap and appreciating the medieval shape and set of two bridges over which the strings were stretched. His callused fingertips and hands were a little too dry from the harsh scrubbing he’d given them after varnishing the front deck of his boat, but he knew that if he used oil or hand cream to soften the skin, it would deaden the tone of the chords he was testing.

After playing a few melodies he put the instrument down and picked up the chitarra battente. Strumming it gently, he heard a discordant note in its five double strings. Blair stopped playing and tried out the low D string to see if it was the culprit. Yes, time to replace it. It was a nuisance, because instead of the nylon strings commonly used on the instrument, he preferred to order custom gut from Denmark, and the waiting period was often as long as two weeks. This time he’d be wise to order a full set.

From the outside pocket of the harp’s carrying case, he removed the tapered tuning key and unlocked the pin for the D string. Before he could unthread the offending string, his iPhone sounded.

“Karma, what is it?”

“You sound really testy, Graydon. I just wanted to let you know that Oliver has asked for a meeting with you and me. Sounds kind of serious. As far as I’m concerned, our arrangement with him shouldn’t change now that you’re going to find us a new publisher. We’ll just go on as usual, right?”

Graydon took his time answering before he spoke.

“I can’t think of a single reason why anything should be otherwise, but let’s hear what he has to say. He’s agreed with our plan all along except for that one argument the other day with Sally. I doubt Swenson will want to do anything different just because we’re taking those manuscripts to a much bigger publisher. It’ll be to his advantage. He knows we’ll insist he be hired as the editor.”

“Have you decided yet when the best time is to announce we’ve found them? My bills are piling up.”

He hated hearing Karma’s heavy breathing through the phone. “No. Don’t do anything until I say so. That would ruin everything. When does he want to meet?”

“Tomorrow, if we can both make it. I sure can.”

“Fine. Have him come to the boat at 10:00 a.m. We’ll take a short trip down the coast. I have some brandy that’ll soften him up.”