Digging Up the Dead (23 page)

Walking carefully down the side streets she wondered whether it was smart to knock on one of the magnificent wrought iron or carved wood doors to ask to use their phone considering the fact she must look like something the cat dragged in.

Instead, she turned and went back to the beach where the sole occupants, a group of young people, were huddled together, beach towels and blankets wrapped around their shoulders. The temperature was mild, but the sun was still blocked by the dark, low clouds.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I might possibly borrow a cell phone to make a rather urgent call?”

The five teens, all holding beer cans, looked up. “You mean 911?” the girl in the blue bikini said.

“Um, no, not exactly.”

“Wow! What happened to you?” The tallest of the boys stood up. “Were you in an accident?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. I got caught in the Wedge, back there,” Tosca pointed to her left. The other teens got to their feet and crowded around, concern on their faces.

“Man, that’s a dangerous place, we heard. It’s a riptide. Nothing like that back in Omaha.” He picked up a backpack, removed an iPhone and handed it to her.

Tosca thanked him and dialed J.J’s number. No answer.
Re’m fay
. At the track, I suppose. She tried Arlene’s number. The answering machine came on. Not home either. She knew Arlene’s husband had a cell phone, but he was at work, and Arlene didn’t use one.

Resigned, she called Thatch.

“Are you busy?” she said, trying to keep her voice light and cheerful.

“Filling up the truck at the gas station. What’s happened? I can hear your voice quavering.”

“I’m on the Peninsula, and don’t have my car here. Would it be too much of an imposition for you to come and pick me up?”

“Sure, honey. Where exactly?”

“Right at the end of the road where it dead-ends at the Wedge.”

“Be there as soon as I can. Don’t go near the Wedge, though, the radio’s been issuing warnings that the waves are terrible today. Might set a record.”

Tosca handed the phone back to its owner, thanked the group again and walked the half-mile that took her back to where the jetty began. Heavy spray was hitting the warning sign like bullets, and huge waves continued to pound the rocks. She considered rinsing off the blood from her arms and legs but couldn’t face entering the water again. She sat on the curb, dejected, and waited for the dressing-down she knew Thatch would give her.

Thatch drove up, parked, stuck his head out the window and waved. Tosca walked slowly over to the truck. The closer she got, the more his smile disappeared. He jumped out.

“You’re soaking wet. Is that underwear? You’re bleeding. How did you get here without your car?”

Thatch reached into the truck and brought out his jacket, placing it around Tosca’s shoulders. He lifted her up in his arms, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and set her on the seat.

“Right,” he said, his forehead creased with worry. “What’s the story this time?”

Tosca looked at him, bit her lip and began to cry, releasing the tension of the last several hours.

“Come here, honey.” He pulled her into his arms. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I never know what to do when a woman cries. Here, I’ll take you home. You just snuggle down. I’ll turn on the heat.”

Thatch drove with extra care as if an invalid was in the next seat until Tosca said, “Come on, I won’t break in half. I need to get home quickly and change. I have to talk to Detective Parnell, it’s urgent.”

She related the boat ride with Blair, his confession and his attempt to drown her at the Wedge.

Thatch said nothing, but his expression told her of his anger. He sped up, and they arrived on Isabel Island. Tosca brushed aside Thatch’s offer to carry her up the spiral staircase, pointing out it narrowness, and took a shower as hot as she could bear. She didn’t bother to blow dry her hair, figuring he’d already seen her in a sorrier state, and changed into a clean sweatshirt and grey knit workout pants. She half-hobbled downstairs.

“Honey, you should be in bed,” Thatch said. “You’ve had a terrible experience. You must be exhausted.”

“Aside from these bruises and a sore back, I feel a lot better after the shower. I might see a chiropractor tomorrow, but I’m anxious to talk to that Parnell as soon as possible.” Tosca stretched out on the sofa and rested her head on a pillow.

“I’ll see if he can come to the house.” Thatch dialed and asked for the cop. “Not in? This is extremely urgent. Please try to contact him, and ask him to call me.”

Two minutes later Thatch’s phone rang.

“Detective,” he said. “Can you come right over? We’ve got some urgent news about the Isabel Island murders. Okay, thanks.”

“He’ll be here in half an hour,” Thatch told Tosca.

“Half an hour? Blair could have taken his boat down to Mexico by now.”

“I’m going to see if the Riviera is docked, and then I’ll check his house, but we need to wait for Parnell. Please, Tosca, stay here.”

When Thatch returned he told Tosca that the boat was tied up, although the mooring lines looked as if they’d been hastily thrown around the cleats. The salon door was closed, and no one appeared at his knock. He walked past Blair’s house and saw a car in the driveway.

“Looks like he’s home,” Thatch said. “Of course, he must think you drowned at the Wedge, so there’s no reason for him not to come home. He’s probably waiting to hear of a death at the Wedge on the news.”

Before Tosca could reply Detective Parnell arrived, his face as dour as ever, and they all sat in the living room while Tosca related the day’s events.

“He told me he’d poisoned Sally,” she said in conclusion, “and taken Swenson out to sea and thrown him overboard, just as I said.”

Parnell listened, his lips pressed together, then said, “Hmm. Pity you have no proof of all this talk.”

“How about these cuts and bruises? And you could find the young surfers from Nebraska who were on the beach when I got out of the water. Come on, why would I make it all up?”

“Reporters have a reputation for exaggeration, especially the British tabloids.” He got up to leave.

“Just a moment, constable, I have a recording of Blair’s confession.”

Parnell stopped in his tracks. “A recording? You mean you had your tape recorder on again, like in the previous murder case?”

“No, no, not my tape recorder. My cell phone.”

“So let’s hear it.” The detective sat back down and looked at her expectantly, all traces of skepticism vanished.

“My phone’s not here.”

“Where is it?”

“On Blair’s boat.”

Thatch and Parnell looked at each other and then at Tosca in confusion.

“I had to leave my tote bag on his boat when he threw me overboard,” she said. “It’s under the seat on the flybridge.”

She explained that when Blair suddenly started the boat engines and sped away from the dock on his way to the Wedge, the momentum caused her feet to knock against the bag under the seat. She pushed it farther back in case the contents spilled out. Later, when Blair began telling her about Sally and Swenson she had reached down into the bag as unobtrusively as possible, found the phone with her fingers and pressed the record icon.

“How could you do that without looking at the phone?” said Thatch.

“I know that the symbol for recording is on the left side at the top of the screen. I located it by feeling where the tiny on-off vibrating button is and then sliding my finger slightly over to the right and down. Really,” she said, looking at both of them in turn, “it’s not rocket science. So let’s go to his boat and get my bag,” she added brightly.

Parnell sat, pondered and looked at Thatch, who nodded and said, “Yep, need a search warrant. Otherwise, whatever’s on her phone may not be admissible.” He turned to Tosca. “It can be thrown out of court if the Constitutional rights of the accused are not honored.”

“Oh, piffle. You two are such gormless wimps. Haven’t I told you enough for a search warrant?”

“It appears so, but I need to make more inquiries,” said the detective. “You’ve told me an interesting tale, and I’d like you to come over to the station tomorrow and make a statement.”

Parnell thanked Tosca, shook hands with Thatch and left.

Tosca said she thought she’d better rest some more, and if Thatch would pick her up tomorrow to take her to the police station, she’d be very grateful.

“I can’t stand the thought of dropping down into the Healey’s low seat with this pain in my back.”

Saying good night, Thatch made sure she was resting on the sofa, pillows behind her head, and tucked her up with the light red throw J.J. kept there.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

Tosca waited twenty minutes after the sound of his truck faded away before leaving the house. She went upstairs and changed into a black hooded jacket, black workout leggings and sneakers. Her dark hair, she knew, in the land of blondes was a decided advantage. She walked on tiptoe down the steps and along the sidewalk until she realized she must look ridiculous to anyone passing. She adjusted her stride to normal.

It was eleven-thirty, and many residents were sleeping. The only noise was coming from the bar across the small bridge that connected the Little Island to the larger Isabel Island. Tosca liked the idea of living on the completely residential and much smaller adjunct island, away from Isabel Island’s busy, noisy commercial street. On nights like this, calm and windless, the sound of merriment carried over both islands.

Finding Blair’s dock, Tosca approached cautiously and looked around. Good. No one taking a late night stroll, and no lights showing from his boat. She studied the steps up to the flybridge and shuddered when she remembered how suddenly and roughly Blair had grabbed her and pushed her overboard. She guessed Swenson had met his Maker the same way, imagining the heavy man hauling himself up the ladder with difficulty. Or perhaps Blair had killed him in the cabin downstairs. Yes, a far more likely scenario considering Swenson’s weight. It would have been much easier for Blair to shove the writer’s body over the deck rail and into the sea.

Tosca raised her eyes to the skies and sent up a silent thank you to her father for insisting she learn how to swim in rough seas when he knew how much she disliked it.

Looking around once more to make sure no one was in sight, she slipped aboard the boat. Grabbing the handrails, she mounted the ladder to the flybridge. At the captain’s chair she’d occupied, she knelt down, reached under the seat and found her tote bag. She pulled it out and felt around inside. The phone was still there. She turned it on, careful to keep its bright screen shielded, and checked the battery. She’d been afraid the power would have run out, but all was well. I’d have looked a right pillock if Blair’s confession wasn’t recorded on the phone as I claimed, she thought. How Parnell would have crowed!

To Tosca’s relief the phone had automatically switched over to the twelve-hour extra battery case she’d bought to supplement the built-in energy supply. After she returned the phone to her bag, she stuffed it back under the seat for Parnell to find when he had the search warrant. She looked around at the controls, the weather radio once more perfectly aligned on the side table. She grimaced at Blair’s manic meticulousness and scrupulous attention to neatness.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Tosca pressed herself against the seat of the captain’s chair, hoping the person would keep going so she could stand up. Her knees were aching. Instead, she heard someone climb aboard. Oh, lord, not another boat ride. If whoever it was came up to the flybridge, she’d be discovered. She half-rose to peer over the side and saw patches of yellow reflected on the water. She guessed the person had entered the cabin and turned on the lights. As soon as she heard the first notes of the rebec being played she knew it was Blair. Although she didn’t recognize the melody, it sounded like a medieval folk song.

Despite the situation, she sat back down on the floor, relaxed a little and, stretching out her legs as much as the small space would allow, settled down to enjoy the impromptu concert.

Tosca calculated that over an hour had gone by before Blair stopped playing and turned off the lights. He closed the cabin door and got off the boat. His receding footsteps gave her the opportunity to stand up and massage her cramped legs, reminding her of the time she had hidden in a closet at Buckingham Palace to await the arrival of a chamber maid to confide a few juicy details about a visiting sheik from Kuwait.

Tosca made sure no one was around when she climbed down the ladder from the flybridge. The cabin was dark, but as she passed it something twinkled inside as a nearby streetlight shone on it. Curious, she slowly slid the cabin door open and stepped toward the object on the coffee table. When she saw it was Blair’s cigar holder, its silver band responsible for the point of light, she snatched it up and slipped it into her jacket pocket. What luck!

Walking home, Tosca felt the pain in her legs more strikingly than before and knew she’d have to take at least two aspirins. After closing the front door to her dark apartment and switching on the light, she wished J.J. was home. On second thought, she was glad her daughter was away. She probably would have kept too close an eye on Tosca and prevented her from leaving the house.

Just after 9:00 a.m. the next day, Tosca called the garden center and heard Karma’s voice in response. She hung up without speaking, got gingerly into the little sports car she despised and drove the short distance to the center. Her arms and legs still ached from her ordeal fighting against the waves, but a sense of urgency drove her on. Just one more significant piece of the puzzle to set in place before she could go to the police.

After parking outside Karma’s office, she looked around outside for the owner, then went inside, where she found her sitting at her desk in front of several untidy piles of papers.