Digging Up the Dead (21 page)

“See you in twenty,” Tosca repeated. “Do I sound like a native, J.J?”

“No, you’ve got the rhythm all wrong, and the way you pronounce the T’s gives you away. Besides, why would you want to do that? You’ve got people already mixed up when you speak in Cornish.”

“Oh, all right. I just thought it would be rather respectful if I spoke like an American. When in Rome, you know the saying.”

“Fat chance, Mother. You’ll never make the grade, and I wouldn’t want you to try. I love you just the way you are, although you might cut back on the mention of piskies because people have no idea they are Cornish pixies, and do stop forcing that mead you brew on the neighbors. No offense, of course.”

“I know you don’t like mead, J.J., but you mustn’t discount the piskies. Dear little souls. I wish I had a couple in the garden. We did in St. Ives, you know.”

“No, we didn’t. I do wish you would stop this fanciful talk. You’ll be spouting off about aliens soon.”

Tosca picked up her car keys and sunglasses. “I am off to beard the lion.”

On her way to the door she stooped down by the fridge, picked up a jug of mead and ran down the steps to her car.

At the Newport Beach police station, Tosca told the cop manning the counter in the lobby that she had an appointment with Parnell. The homicide detective came out with a scowl on his face. He waited for her to speak. Tosca put the jug of mead on the counter and pushed it toward him. He pushed it back to her. The cop behind the counter watched as they did it twice more before reaching for the jug himself and setting it on the floor.

“Whichever one of you wants this, it will be right here,” the cop said. A phone rang, and he went to answer it.

“What did you want to tell me, Mrs. Trevant?” said Parnell.

“I know how busy you are, but can we sit down, Inspector? It’s rather private.”

He led her into a small room furnished with a metal table and two chairs. He indicated she should sit and took the chair facing her, a small notebook and pen in front of him. Again, eyebrows raised in query, he waited for her to speak.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said. “Oh, don’t look like that, I really will. This is information I think you need about our two murders, Sally’s and Swenson’s.”

Parnell spread his hands and sighed. “They are not
our
murders, but please, go ahead.”

Tosca told him about the milkweed sap that was poisonous and the several clients who were growing it in their yards, and she concluded by declaring that anyone at Karma’s party could have slipped it into Sally’s drink.

“So now you have more than Karma as a person of interest,” she said.

Before Parnell could respond, she continued, “Now as to Swenson’s death, I have a theory about that, too. I understand that his body was found caught in the pilings under the pier. He had been strangled with something, my sources tell me. May I see the actual murder weapon?”

“Sources?”

“Yes, you know, those human beings who tell reporters all sorts of secrets. Sorry, but I cannot reveal their names.” She sat demurely, hands folded in her lap. “I just need to see what he was strangled with. A guitar string, I am told, and you are questioning Karma Sanderson because she plays a guitar and knew the deceased, Sally, I mean. Thousands of people play a guitar. I suppose you have found a motive for Karma to kill Mr. Swenson?”

“We know the woman is broke,” said Parnell. “Her business is about to fold, and she has two mortgages on her house that are in default. We believe she was counting on some fake books that Oliver Swenson wrote to resurrect Fuller Sanderson’s sales and bring in a lot of money. We’ve already interviewed the writer’s fiancée, a Thai lady in Laguna Beach. Not only were the two of them planning to write a book about her being Norman Sanderson’s mistress with a child, Swenson was also going to reveal that he ghosted Fuller Sanderson’s last book, and the supposedly lost manuscript didn’t exist. Swenson’s public confession would have ruined any future book sales.”

“I am very pleased you have been so successful, Mr. Parnell. Has Karma been charged?”

“Not yet, but we’re close.”

“With the case so well wrapped up, would you have any objection to my seeing the murder weapon, the guitar string that strangled Oliver Swenson, the poor chap?”

Tosca watched Parnell consider her request. He seemed puffed up with satisfaction and took on an aura of magnanimity.

“Wait here,” he said, getting up and leaving the room. Parnell returned three minutes later with a cop holding a plastic evidence bag, which he placed on the table in front of her. Tosca leaned forward, peering intently at the thin wiry strings curled in a circle inside.

“Could you turn the bag over, please?”

“Sure,” said Parnell. “Looks the same from both sides, though.” He picked up the bag, flipped it and placed it back down on the table. Before he could stop her Tosca ran her fingers over the outside of the bag. Parnell snatched the bag away.

“Mrs. Trevant! You are not permitted to touch evidence. This is a murder case, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, it is indeed.” She got up and turned to the door. “I appreciate your cooperation. I can find my own way out. A very good day to both of you.”

“What the hell was that all about?” she heard Parnell exclaim as she walked to the reception area. “And I don’t like the gleam in her eye when she touched the bag. Maybe it was a mistake to show it to her. I think she’s done it to me again with that air of innocence. Damn!”

As Tosca reached the front door the cop at the reception counter called out. “Oh, ma’am, you’ve forgotten this jug.”

“Give it to dear Inspector Parnell,” she said, “He’s going to need it.”

By the time Tosca returned home from her walk the next day, showered, changed into shorts and a halter top and ate a quick breakfast, it was close to ten o’clock. She picked up the large, heavy file that contained the print-outs of the three manuscripts she’d found on the flash drive. Should she bring them with her? She decided to take only the title page of each book.

Tote bag in hand, Tosca arrived at Blair’s A-frame house. Sandwiched between a two-story colonial on the left and a Spanish-style hacienda on the right, the Swiss chalet appeared to be squeezed from both sides, causing Tosca to wonder anew at the eclectic architectural styles crowding Isabel Island.

She knocked on the door. No answer. She shaded her eyes with her hands to look in one of the front windows, seeing only walls of shelves that held books and a few small sculptures, and minimalist modern furniture. No one. She strained her neck to look up at the topmost window in the steeply angled roof that came down almost to the ground-level outdoor balcony, half expecting someone to walk past the glass as if in a horror movie to see who was knocking. Determining that the entire structure was devoid of human life, she left the house and walked over to see if Blair’s boat was tied up at his dock.

The Riviera bobbed gently at its moorings in the occasional swell that was rocking all the other boats. Admiring again its sleek, elegant design, Tosca called out a “Hello.”

“I’m up top,” came the response from above.

Graydon Blair, at the wheel in the flybridge cockpit, peered down at her, a small smile on his face. “Tosca! What a nice surprise. Come on up, you haven’t seen the view from here.”

Tosca ascended the steps awkwardly, the tote bag on her arm banging against the handrail, and joined Blair in the cockpit. He patted the shiny white leather captain’s chair next to the one on which he was sitting in front of the controls. Everywhere she looked the wood shone with wax and the chrome sparkled, and Blair himself was dressed sportily in a white polo shirt and green, red and white plaid Bermuda shorts that looked freshly ironed with a sharp crease down the middle. Who irons shorts? she mused. Obviously, the man who is meticulous enough to keep his boat in such a pristine condition he probably never sat down for fear of wrinkling his clothes.

“I’m just checking out a few gauges,” he said, “and making sure I batten down the hatches, so to speak. There’s a storm rapidly approaching from the Tasman Sea that promises to trigger some dicey swells over this side of the world in an hour or so.”

“Oh, that’s hard to believe,” said Tosca, gazing at Santa Catalina Island visible twenty-five miles away. “The sea’s as flat as a pancake. Of course, I realize we’re in the bay, but the ocean from up here looks completely calm.

“You’d be surprised how quickly the weather can change when a storm hits,” he said. “Surfers love the huge waves, but boaters know enough to stay home.”

”I suppose you study the weather, being a boater?”

“As a matter of fact I am an official weather spotter and, as such, qualified to interpret weather conditions to help meteorologists make lifesaving warning decisions. I’m a trained member of the National Weather Service out of San Diego. They have a program that keeps a lookout for tsunamis, tornadoes, hurricanes and waterspouts.”

“That sounds like a huge and important responsibility,” said Tosca. “Do you wear a uniform? Have you won any medals?”

Blair snorted and ignored her question, saying, “Over there’s my NOAA marine weather radio for communicating.” He indicated a small side table where a square object was perfectly lined up to the table edge. Tosca reached out a hand to touch it and moved it slightly. Blair reached over and straightened it.

“NOAA?”

“National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.”

“And what’s that piece sticking out on the side?”

“A crank handle for charging in case the batteries go dead. It has a special alarm tone. That’s how I know that the storm that began way off in New Zealand is rapidly approaching the California coast and is due to hit here in half an hour or so. It’ll really kick up the waves.”

“Oh, my goodness, I do hope it’s going to rain, too. Even if the storm hits us, I’m sure we’re safe enough here at your dock.” She looked around the flybridge and its hardtop. “How beautifully open it is. No plastic side curtains to obstruct the view.”

“I have them, but they only need attaching when it’s raining. There are no current reports of that, just very strong winds, maybe of hurricane strength. Hey, it’s getting close to lunch. How about an aperitif, a dry sherry? I have an unopened bottle of Domecq manzanillo in the galley.”

“Splendid.”

She moved aside to allow him to pass and go downstairs. He returned in a few minutes with a tray that held two half-filled cordial glasses set into molded spill-proof holders.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he said, handing her a glass. “Something we can toast to?”

“To Sally and Oliver,” she said. “How odd that they have both passed on within a week of each other. Murdered, of course.”

Blair raised his glass but said nothing.

Tosca took a sip of the Domecq, then reached into her tote bag to retrieve the three title pages of Sanderson’s books.

“I’ll get right to the point of my visit. As Fuller’s literary agent, perhaps you can explain these?” She displayed each page in turn. “Ever seen them before?”

His mouth fell open, and he snatched them from her grasp. “Where did you get them?”

“On a flash drive we found on the floor at Karma’s house the night of the party. Obviously, you recognize them. I was curious to read the document I found on the drive, thinking it could be the lost manuscript you were all looking for, but I soon realized there were three books, not one, and they had to be fakes. Who wrote them? Certainly not Sanderson.” She watched him quickly recover his composure. “Graydon, I see you know exactly what they are. Do you know the author, or should I say, the ghostwriter?”

Blair was unable to hold her intense gaze. Eyes lowered, he said, “Why don’t you believe Fuller wrote them?”

“There are a few things mentioned that didn’t exist when he was alive. There’s also a different kind of humor, the kind Sanderson never possessed or wrote. I should tell you that I studied the flash drive with the so-called manuscripts on it. Own up, my friend. What’s going on? This is superb sherry, by the way.”

He watched her empty the glass. “Let me get you a refill.”

Blair went down the ladder, taking the title pages with him. No matter, Tosca thought, I can print out more copies. I bet he’s down there thinking up a story. Humph. Can’t fool me. It’s pretty easy to figure out that he, Sally and Karma were going to claim they’d found the lost manuscript and pretend to find two more later on. But Sally’s sudden death put a spanner in the works, and they have to wait. In the meantime, I’ve caught them out.

A creaking sound came from the dock, and she leaned over to look down. Blair was unwinding the rope around one of the cleats that held the boat to the dock. The other cleat was empty. Perhaps the boat was tied up too tightly, she decided, and needed to be loosened a bit to allow for riding the storm that’s coming in. I really should learn a little about boats now that I am living on an island that’s surrounded by them. Our old fishing boats in St. Ives can’t compare with these sleek models.

Blair came up the ladder, and she turned to take her replenished glass from his outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” she said as he sat back down. “So please clear up this mystery for me. I’m going to get to the bottom of it, whether you tell me or not.”

Blair suddenly reached toward the controls on the console and switched on the ignition. The twin engines roared to life. He pushed the throttle forward. The boat shot straight ahead, leaving the dock behind in a tall spray of water and Tosca clinging to the armrest as the momentum forced her back against the bench. She managed to keep the glass of sherry upright, but some spilled onto her bare legs.

“Where are we going? Whale watching?” she said, unable to express her outrage at her kidnapping by the sheer audacity of it and saying the first thing that popped into her head.

“We’re going for a little ride, Tosca. I’ll answer all your questions once we truly get under way.”