Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  Digging Up the Dead

  A Tosca Trevant Mystery

  by

  Jill Amadio

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.mainlymurderpress.com

  Mainly Murder Press

  Editor: Judith K. Ivie

  Cover Designer: Karen A. Phillips

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Copyright 2016 by Jill Amadio

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9861780-5-4

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9861780-6-1

  Published in the United States of America by

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.MainlyMurderPress.com

  ~

  Dedicated to my tolerant and unbelievably

  supportive children,

  Christopher, Janet and Kathy

  ~

  Also in the Tosca Trevant series

  by Jill Amadio:

  Digging Too Deep

  Chapter One

  “An exhumation! You saw Raymond Chandler’s dead body dug up and didn’t invite me along? That is inexcusable!”

  Tosca Trevant snapped open her parasol inches away from Arlene Mindel’s nose, turned on her heel and marched off along Isabel Island’s seafront bathed in the Southern California sun.

  “Re’m fay!” she muttered, the Cornish curse rolling off her tongue. “Imagine going to an event as exhilarating as an exhumation and not letting me in on it. A feature story on digging up the coffin of the crime-writing legend, the creator of the cynical, fictional detective, Philip Marlowe, would be a deliciously macabre piece, although I can’t possibly imagine why they did it. He died of natural causes. Still, if it turns out he was murdered, what a story! It would definitely help to promote me to crime reporter and get me back to England.”

  “Tosca, wait! That wasn’t what happened.” Arlene hurried after her friend and neighbor as fast as her chunky figure allowed.

  Ignoring Arlene’s shout, Tosca quickened her pace, paying no heed to the sparkling Pacific Ocean and immense Newport Beach harbor where tourists thronged Isabel Island, one of seven small islands within its bay. She still bristled at having been forced out of England five months earlier, but she had to admit that visiting with her race-car driver daughter, J.J., who now lived and competed in America, was a blessing.

  Yet Tosca was still homesick for St. Ives, her hometown in Cornwall, and for her job in London. I’d fly back there tomorrow, she thought, if the royals would drop the threat of their silly lawsuit against me and my newspaper. So what if I discovered a scandal at Buckingham Palace? It wasn’t their first and won’t be their last.

  “Tosca, wait up!”

  Ignoring Arlene’s shout, Tosca tightened her grip on the pink parasol and thought how nice it would be to hold a real umbrella over her head, if only it would rain, and how wonderful to have need of her wellies. She remembered for an instant she’d told J.J. she had given the rain boots away, but instead she’d secretly hidden them in her empty suitcase, now stored in a closet, hoping against hope she’d need them.

  Only twice since her arrival from London had rain clouds appeared over Isabel Island. The clouds hovered barely long enough to moisten the streets before moving toward the distant San Gabriel Mountains. What I’d give for a jolly good drenching, Tosca thought, as Arlene, dressed in too-tight jeans and an oversized T-shirt, jogged as fast as she could to catch up with her.

  Panting between puffs of breath, Arlene managed to say, “It was a re-burial, that’s all. In his will Chandler said he wanted his wife, Cissy, to be buried with him. She died before him, and her body was cremated, but her ashes were lost until recently. After they were found in a mausoleum storage shed, Chandler’s historian, Loren Latker, asked Alyssa Wayne, John Wayne’s lawyer daughter, to get legal clearance so Loren could arrange a ceremony for the couple to be reunited. She did, and he did, and now Raymond and Cissy are finally together in the same grave. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “The same grave! I’m sorry for biting your head off, Arlene,” said Tosca, slowing to a stroll and turning eagerly to her friend, “but he died more than forty years ago. I would love to have seen how he looked. Was there much decay? Was his skeleton all in one piece? What was he wearing? Had his hair grown? That happens, you know, after you die.”

  “No, no. You’ve got it all wrong again. Good heavens, you are so bloodthirsty. The coffin itself wasn’t opened, only the grave was uncovered. Cissy’s ashes were in a brass urn, which was placed at Chandler’s feet. Then the grave was covered up again, and a service was held.”

  Tosca stopped abruptly again and faced her friend.

  “Did you just say, at his feet?”

  “Well, yes. Cissy’s urn was set at the end of the coffin where the feet are. It’s customary.”

  “Disgraceful! You see what women have to endure? At his feet indeed. Anyway, go on and tell me the rest.”

  “It was a charming, nostalgic ceremony,” said Arlene, “complete with a minister, hymns and a Dixieland band playing Chandler’s favorite tunes. Afterwards we all went to the Whaling Bar, Chandler’s old hang-out at the Valencia Hotel in La Jolla, and drank gimlets, his favorite cocktail, if you remember. Such a shame the bar has been renamed, though.”

  “Of course I remember the gimlets,” said Tosca. “He first tasted one in England when he lived there. London’s Savoy Hotel originated it with half gin, half Rose’s Lime Juice, but Chandler preferred his with vodka instead. Lime juice prevents scurvy, you know.”

  “Scurvy? Is that some kind of scalp problem? ”

  “No, silly.” Tosca laughed. “Scurvy was mostly a sailors’ disease caused by a lack of Vitamin C. It’s said that nineteenth century British admirals provided their men with lime juice during long sea voyages when there were no citrus fruits to be had.”

  Arlene cocked her head to consider the information. She nodded once and said, “I know that Raymond Chandler was famous for talking about gimlets, and he mentions them in The Long Goodbye. We drank lots of them after the reburial.”

  “Ah, yes, the exhumation that wasn’t. All right, Arlene. I apologize, but you do see my point, don’t you? Reminds me of the exhumations of other famous people. When I came to America this year I read that Christopher Columbus’s body had been shunted to six burial places in three different countries before it was finally put to rest in Spain.” Before Arlene could respond Tosca continued, “Indeed. And Eva Peron’s body traveled here, there and everywhere. At one time Juan Peron had her disinterred and then buried in Madrid before his third wife sent Eva’s body back to Argentina.”

  “That’s bizarre. How do you know all this?”

  “Don’t you watch the BBC News on television? I thought everyone did. Or should. You really must broaden your horizons, Arlene. In 2012 the BBC News did an exhaustive report on famous exhumations. It was fascinating. But right now I’m focused on Chandler and Cissy.”

  Perhaps the re-burial, Tosca told Arlene, would provide a brand new angle for a newspaper feature about America’s creator of the hard-boiled detective story.

  “I could focus on Chandler’s sensitivity and great love for a wom
an eighteen years his senior, whom he adored until his death, and how grievous it was that he had to wait more than fifty years after he died to be with her,” she said. “Plus, I can make it relevant to British readers by linking it to another great passion, the Duke of Windsor’s scandalous love for Wallis Simpson. She, too, was older than he. Yes, that should work.”

  Satisfied with her strategy but unwilling to let her friend completely off the hook, Tosca added, “You know how hard I’m trying to convince my editor to promote me. I absolutely cannot go back home and keep writing that “Tiara Tittle-Tattle” column about the royal family any longer.”

  “Not even with those two darling little babies that Kate and Wills have?”

  “No, I’ve had enough of the palace and its goings-on. I am determined to be a crime reporter. This digging up of Chandler’s coffin could help. He’s been one of my idols for years, next to his great literary rival, Fuller Sanderson, of course. As for the gimlets, I much prefer Fuller’s White Russian cocktail. Not that anything’s better than my own mead, as you well know.”

  Arlene again cocked her head as if considering a momentous decision. “Yes, I have to say that both are favorites of mine. The writers, I mean,” she added quickly at Tosca’s raised eyebrows. “That Cornish wine you make is, uh, quite interesting. I’m saving the bottle you gave me for a special occasion. But I’m not familiar with the rivalry between Chandler and Sanderson. What was it about? I suppose it was because they both wrote hard-boiled mysteries.”

  “Yes, that, and the fact that they both fictionalized real Hollywood murder cases in their novels. For instance, in Chandler’s The High Window he wrote about an unsolved 1929 murder and suicide at Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills. The police at the time never figured out which of two men was the murderer. The theory is that Ned Doheny was shot by Hugh Plunkett, who then turned the gun on himself, but it’s not clear-cut and hasn’t been solved. Hmm. That’s an idea. I might have a go at it as a cold case myself, as a matter of fact.”

  Chapter Two

  Arlene, still panting to keep up as Tosca resumed her long-legged stride, said, “Oh, yes. I remember the Greystone Mansion case. In fact, it’s a chapter in a book I bought last month called Beverly Hills Confidential. The detective who wrote it chronicled the notorious scandals, murders and corruption there going back to the 1920s. Did Sanderson write about the same case?”

  “No,” said Tosca, sitting again on the sea wall. She went on to explain that Sanderson dredged up the equally unsolved 1928 Hollywood murder of a billionaire at his home, Winchester Hall, which was fictionalized in his book, The Total Surrender, published around the same time as Chandler’s The High Window.

  “But I don’t remember reading anything about a murder at Winchester Hall. Was it a true story?” Arlene asked, sitting down next to Tosca.

  “Absolutely true. It centered on Winston Battleby’s mistress shooting him five times,” said Tosca. “Sanderson had his fictional detective, Johnny DiLeo, mention it, but it wasn’t the focus of the book. I wonder if I should tackle solving both of those cases even if they are so old.” Tosca could almost see the cogs turning in Arlene’s brain. “You do know who DiLeo is, don’t you? He didn’t have a nickname like Philip Marlowe, who was often called Shamus—such a strange name for a private eye, but the DiLeo character was just as famous back then.”

  Arlene admitted that she did know a little about Sanderson, but she’d only read his first novel and half of the second one.

  “His books are too gory and filled with swear words. I had to stop reading,” she said, leaning toward Tosca, her words almost drowned out by a speedboat rushing by.

  “Stop reading?” said Tosca. “A little too bloody, perhaps, but cursing in those days was so mild compared with today’s dreadful obscenities. You don’t find my Cornish swear words objectionable, do you, Arlene?”

  “How could I, when I haven’t the slightest idea what they mean?”

  “You have a point. But let me assure you, mine are completely innocuous compared to some I could use, like kyj dhe ves, which I won’t translate. The naughtiest thing I ever say is kawgh ki.” Tosca gave the phrase its harshest pronunciation.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Dog droppings. Another really descriptive curse I totally love translates to, ‘May the devil eat your organs,’ but I save that for very rude people. Anyway, Chandler and Sanderson became huge rivals. I‘m surprised you don’t know that. You can imagine the competition between them at book signings and author events they did together back in the 1940s and ‘50s. Must have been galling for Chandler since Sanderson was much younger and began publishing when he was twenty-nine. Chandler was fifty-one before his first book went on sale.”

  “Did one of them win out over the other at the end?”

  “Chandler was and still is the champion, but others, like Dashiell Hammett and Cornwell Woolrich, came close. All were said to have left unfinished manuscripts when they died. Chandler had completed only a few chapters of The Poodle Springs Story, so Robert B. Parker, who wrote the Spenser series, was asked to complete the book in the Chandler style.”

  “How do you know so much about our American writers?” said Arlene. She had recovered her breath and began to fan herself with a brochure she took from her purse. She nodded a greeting to a jogger who passed by.

  Tosca explained that she had written several articles about American writers because she admired their style, and she enjoyed telling proper Brits about Sanderson’s unconventional preference for wearing tattered shirts and going barefoot in public.

  “Yes, yes,” said Arlene, “but what about Sanderson’s lost manuscript?”

  “Ah. I heard that he left at least one, maybe more. If they exist, they are yet to be discovered. Perhaps I’ll take that mystery on, too. I don’t always have to investigate murders, you know. A missing manuscript is always a good story, although Sanderson’s last books weren’t critically acclaimed. Reviewers didn’t care for them that much.”

  Arlene tapped Tosca’s arm. “I bet you don’t know that his granddaughter, Karma Sanderson, lives two streets over.”

  “What? Here on Isabel Island?” Tosca had started to get up from the sea wall but sat down again abruptly, her mouth wide in astonishment.

  “Yes. His literary agent, Graydon Blair, does, too, and he keeps a boat here.”

  Tosca noted the triumphant smile, the gleam in her neighbor’s eyes, and knew there was more to come. The two had become firm friends after discovering a mutual passion for gossip. Tosca came by hers naturally as the star Page Eight gossip columnist at the London Daily Post before her sudden reassignment to America. Arlene, an Isabel Island first-generation resident, enjoyed her own reputation as the local busybody.

  Barely a week after arriving on Isabel Island, Tosca had stumbled upon some skeletal remains and hoped that by solving the mystery she could return to England in triumph, the royal lawsuit be damned. Arlene had unknowingly provided valuable information about the killer who lived nearby and whom Tosca ‘unearthed,’ as she liked to describe it. Although her story about catching the murderer ran in her London newspaper, Tosca wasn’t able to convince her editor to give her a shot at crime reporting full-time, and she was still obliged to send in a gossip column from her new home.

  “All right, Arlene. I see you are bursting to tell me something.”

  Chapter Three

  “I heard Karma and Sally Hirsch, who is still the publisher of Sanderson’s books, and Oliver Swenson, the in-house book editor, having a real heated argument,” said Arlene. “Graydon Blair was there, too. I’m sure you know he took over as Sanderson’s literary agent after Taylor Blair, his dad, passed away.”

  “Yes, I know. Where did you hear them arguing? What about?”

  “The four of them were having lunch near our table yesterday at that French restaurant you like.”

  Tosca nodded thoughtfully. “I know Sanderson’s estate kept the son on. He doesn’t have the same silly
nickname as his father, surely?”

  “No. Graydon is too pompous to be called Tinky, although, as his family were local tailors in their day, everyone thinks it’s a perfect fit. Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy.”

  She laughed. Tosca sensed her neighbor was about to confide more gossip, and she leaned forward expectantly, asking Arlene if the argument she heard was about book sales. She knew there was still a market among collectors for first editions of the 1940s classics.

  ”I don’t know anything about sales or first editions,” said Arlene, “but books were definitely at the center of what the shouting was all about. I heard words like ‘royalties’ and ‘cheat.’ Karma kept flapping those freckled arms of hers around, and Sally got really red in the face. It was quite a show. One word they kept repeating was ‘ghost.’ Did Sanderson write any paranormal books?”

  “No, never, but you’ve told me excellent news. Definitely material for my newspaper column. Tell me more about this granddaughter,” she said. “Who on earth would name a child Karma?”

  Arlene explained that Fuller Sanderson’s son, Norman, had married a hippie, an artist who went by the name Destiny and whose specialty was painting different versions of the solar system onto black canvasses over and over and over again.

  “Destiny was kind of wacky, a real character,” said Arlene. “Never sold a single painting. You could smell the pot they smoked at their parties all over the island. Night and day their house was crowded with poets, artists and all kinds of riff-raff. Poor little Karma was ignored most of the time. She’d wander around the island by herself, singing songs she learned in kindergarten. I don’t know why Norman put up with a lifestyle like that for a child.”