Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  Arlene had mentioned that some of the guests would be Newport Beach socialites who were underwriters for Orange County’s Performing Arts Center, where a massive sculpture of a Firebird hung above the main lobby. No doubt Karma was hoping her musical nod to their choice of décor would persuade them to write similarly large checks for the Sanderson Library she planned to build.

  A cool easterly wind had picked up, and only a few people stood about on the outdoor patio, holding cocktail glasses. Two men were arguing loudly while a tall, elderly blonde woman lingered nearby, her narrow face etched into an expression of displeasure. Tosca wondered if they were some of the same people that Arlene said she’d heard arguing in the restaurant.

  As she approached, her heels clicking on the stone walkway, the group turned toward her, suddenly silent. Tosca nodded as she walked by them to the open front door, where she spotted Arlene waiting for her. They greeted each other with a quick, affectionate, one-armed hug.

  “Where’s the hostess? I’ve brought the mead.”

  Arlene took Tosca’s elbow and walked her into the cottage, which was crowded with guests.

  “I’m so glad you came, Tosca,” said Arlene. “Karma’s set up a bar, so you can leave the jug there. I’ll introduce you to her when she’s finished playing.”

  Arlene, dressed in a long black silk gown that hugged her curves too tightly, tilted her head sideways to the back of the room, where the redhead was seated on a high stool, intent on strumming her guitar. Next to her stood a thin young man waving his hands in the air over the card table on which sat a box no larger than a small radio.

  “What on earth is he doing?” whispered Tosca to Arlene. “Is he a magician or a guru performing some kind of eccentric American ritual?”

  Arlene giggled, setting her chipmunk cheeks quivering. “That’s Bill Weinstein. He’s playing Graydon Blair’s theremin. I thought it was an odd instrument too when I first saw Graydon perform with it a couple of years ago. It’s an electronic instrument you don’t need to touch. It works on frequencies, I was told. Makes a really eerie woo-woo sci-fi movie sound, don’t you think?”

  Tosca quietly agreed but thought that the strange contraption, combined with Stravinsky’s despondent piece of music, was an odd choice for a party. Yet it seemed to fit in perfectly with Karma’s hippie home environment. The cluttered, untidy living room with a low, beamed ceiling, small shuttered windows, and drab, olive-green rug added to a general air of gloom. The dreary atmosphere was intensified by dark blue walls covered in huge, unframed black canvasses depicting yellow and orange planets and moons.

  “Those were painted by Karma’s mother, Destiny,” said Arlene. “She was always talking about the Universe and astrology.”

  Beneath the paintings and along two of the walls stretched ramshackle oak bookshelves, their contents jammed together haphazardly in untidy piles. The whole room had an air of carelessness, and Tosca hoped Sanderson’s first editions weren’t treated so cavalierly, if Karma owned any.

  Facing the front window was a dark mahogany desk on which sat a vintage Olivetti typewriter, a briar pipe resting in a black ceramic ashtray, a jar of pencils and a few copies of Sanderson’s books. Next to the typewriter was an open cardboard box containing several pages of what appeared to be a typed manuscript.

  Tosca reflected that the entire room was probably exactly as the author had left it many decades earlier. She took a second look at the pipe, knowing Sanderson never smoked one, and guessed that Karma had added it to copy the items on Raymond Chandler’s writing desk.

  The photo Tosca had seen of Chandler’s desk came to mind. It showed several more items than on Sanderson’s desk, including the movie script of The Blue Dahlia, a box of chessmen and a brass stamp holder. Had Karma set up Sanderson’s desk as a deliberate parody, she wondered, or was it mere hubris? Perhaps she wanted to invoke an image of Sherlock Holmes, whose long-stemmed curved pipe was mentioned often in the Conan Doyle books.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” said a tall, pink-haired young woman, holding out her hand. “Charlotte Carver.”

  Dressed in a low-cut taffeta gown that matched her hair, with layers of ruffles around the hemline, she swayed forward enough for Tosca to detect liquor on her breath. The woman over-corrected herself, leaning back.

  “How do you do? I’m Tosca Trevant. Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Do I detect an accent?” The word came out ‘assent.’

  “Indeed, yes,” said Tosca. “I’m from Cornwall.”

  “What’s that? Some new state we just added on? I can’t even remember the names of the twenty-seven we already have.”

  “Cornwall is in the United Kingdom, at the bottom, below England. I’m from St. Ives. It’s on the left, if you look at a map.”

  Charlotte gaped and tottered off toward the bar, leaving Tosca to inspect the other guests. She looked around the room and was delighted to see that a few of the women wore calf-length, tight black skirts with slits up the sides and black stockings with seams running up the back, reminiscent of the 1940s fashions in Fuller Sanderson’s books. Three of the women wore little, flat, pancake-style hats tilted to one side, recently made popular again by the Duchess of Cambridge.

  Two red velvet wing armchairs, missing most of their brass nail trim, were occupied by a couple of women in gold and scarlet caftans and thick platform shoes with ankle straps. Bloomsbury fans, Tosca mused, thinking of the group of London intellectuals, artists and writers who had been famous in the early 1900s.

  Chapter Eight

  Sitting on the tattered peacock-blue sofa facing the chairs was an elderly man squeezed between two Downton Abbey-style dowagers, their hair fashioned into styles of the era.

  Tosca’s gaze swung to the worn beige cotton rug against the far wall where a group of hippies with unkempt hair and in frayed denim cutoffs and T-shirts lounged on the floor. They were whispering among themselves and breaking into occasional laughter. Friends of Karma, Tosca assumed. Off in one corner on a loveseat sat a woman who appeared fast asleep, her head on her chest, curled over like a hedgehog.

  Arlene came to Tosca’s side, asking what she thought of the crowd, the cottage and the party in general.

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” Tosca said. “The whole experience is fascinating. Who’s that woman in the slinky leopard-print dress slit all the way up her thigh? The one with the young man wearing a cravat. Mother and son?”

  Arlene giggled. “No, Tosca. They’re a December-April item.”

  “Oh, you mean she’s a jaguar.”

  “Jaguar?”

  “Yes, older woman, younger man. Don’t you have that expression here?”

  “You must mean cougar.”

  “Ah, cougar, is it? At least they’re all from the same cat family.”

  “Time for you to have a cocktail,” said Arlene, taking her friend’s arm. “Let’s go and get a drink.”

  The most popular spot was an oak table that served as the bar, its surface almost completely covered by two large trays of liquor. A bottle of Tanqueray gin stood between three stately bottles of Grey Goose and the more pedestrian Absolut. Whiskey, sherry and several liqueurs, including Kalua, Chambord and Tia Maria, crowded out the cocktail, wine and lowball glasses. A bucket of ice held a carton of heavy cream wedged halfway down in the midst of the cubes. In the center of the table was a large photo of Fuller Sanderson holding a cocktail glass filled with a cream-colored liquid.

  “His favorite drink, a White Russian,” murmured Tosca to Arlene as they approached the bar.

  “Would you like one?” asked a voice behind her.

  Tosca turned to the young woman who had been playing the guitar, taking in the gypsy-style dress and the several long strands of beads that festooned her neck, among them a large crystal pendant. Tosca judged instantly that this was Karma and must favor her mother because she had none of the Sanderson side of the family’s fine, almost delicate, features.

  Karma’s long fac
e appeared even longer due to the dangling gold hoops that dragged at her earlobes and hazel eyes whose outer edges tilted down toward a nose that drooped unattractively. Her thick red hair, masses of it piled upon her head, was her best feature and, thought Tosca, saved her from being nondescript.

  “I’m Karma,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Welcome to my home. I hear you are a Johnny DiLeo fan, that you sing opera, the queen kicked you out of England, and you come from Cornwall.”

  “How on earth do you know all that?”

  “It’s a small island,” said Karma.

  Tosca hastened to explain that she was indeed a fan of Sanderson’s fictional detective, that her singing was strictly confined to the bathtub, because although she came from a family of opera singers, she was not one herself, and yes, she was a Cornishwoman. As for Her Majesty, Tosca admitted the palace had been instrumental in her reassignment to America.

  “We all know you, too,” said Karma, “for finding out how Professor Whittaker’s wife died. Here, let me make you a White Russian. Then I’ll introduce you to the friends of mine with whom I think you’ll have the most in common.”

  At Tosca’s raised eyebrows Karma added, “They’re in the publishing business.”

  She mixed the White Russian, handed it to Tosca and steered her toward a short, overweight blond man in his forties and an elderly, white-haired woman

  “These are two of my dearest friends,” Karma told Tosca, “and the most important people in Grandfather Sanderson’s legacy. Meet Sally Hirsch, whose company still publishes his books, and Oliver Swenson, our editor and the writer I want to work on the manuscript or manuscripts that Fuller is said to have left. Once we find it—or them, that is. We’ve been searching everywhere for years.”

  Chapter Nine

  Tosca shook hands with each in turn, taking Sally’s first, her fingers as dry as twigs, then Swenson’s fleshy, plump hand that felt like unkneaded dough. Sally smiled a greeting. Her thick make-up failed to cover the wrinkles her smile produced all over her plain features, but her expression was a sincere one.

  In contrast, Swenson’s thick lips barely moved, his chin sunk into a thick neck with two rolls of fat. His girth was mostly due to a bulging beer belly that strained at the buttons of his plaid shirt. Nevertheless, Tosca found herself fascinated by his eyes, a pair of perfectly matched black pearls glistening with bold intensity as he stared at her.

  “Ah, yes. Oliver. I read in Publishers Weekly that you will be working on Fuller’s manuscript if it shows up. Quite a challenge.”

  “Not really,” he said, his tone disdainful. With a quick motion that Tosca judged was a practiced one, he flicked back the unruly lock of fair hair hanging over his forehead.

  “I am intimately familiar with his style,” he said. “I can quote much of his writing, particularly the last book published just before he died.” Swenson glanced pointedly at Sally, who looked away.

  Tosca sought to fill the uncomfortable silence that followed. “Hirsch House has always published Sanderson’s books, I believe,” she said, addressing Sally. “A wonderful treasure of works.”

  “Yes, we’ve been fortunate enough to handle his books ever since Fuller wrote his first novel, a brilliant debut for one so young,” she said. “My father owned the company but passed away several years ago. Happily, we still enjoy a great, successful partnership with Karma and Graydon, although these days many of us in publishing are hurting due to the ebook revolution. Sanderson’s books are sold on the online Amazon web site, of course, but Chandler far, far outsells him. Sales for Fuller’s ninth and final novel before he died have, in fact, been disappointing.”

  Swenson snorted. “You should have promoted it more. You spent hardly any money on publicity or for a book tour.”

  “You know very well, Oliver, that Fuller was not a well man back then. He was in no condition to travel. He died only two months later.”

  Sally glared at the editor and gulped down her cocktail, then tipped the glass upside down toward Karma as if to say, “Look, my glass is empty.” Karma broke the impasse by announcing she’d better help her guests mix up some more White Russians and went over to join them. Swenson followed but stopped when he heard his name called. He turned to the front door, where a tall man, his gray hair tied back in a short, neat queue, had entered followed by an elegant fiftyish blonde. Despite his height and muscular build the man moved like a cat, softly and surely.

  “All’s well, right?” he asked Swenson, slapping him on the back. Aware of Tosca’s gaze, the newcomer turned to her and extended his hand. To her surprise his fingers were sweaty. They barely touched her own and were quickly withdrawn.

  “Graydon Blair,” he said. “I am Fuller Sanderson’s agent of record and continue to be, despite his death.” His pompous tone set Tosca’s antennae vibrating. “And this is Cynthia Turner,” he added.

  The blonde, her smooth shoulder-length hair falling across one side of her face, shook hands. Tosca was impressed with the woman’s old Hollywood glamour, noting the Lauren Bacall hairstyle and slinky white satin dress that clung to her body and fell in folds to the floor.

  After shaking hands with Cynthia, Tosca turned back to the agent, wondering if the man always pronounced his occupation in capital letters.

  “I’m Tosca Trevant,” she said. “I am very familiar with your name, Mr. Blair. I’m a huge Sanderson enthusiast and a keen student of his life. I’ve been hearing about a lost manuscript. Is it true?”

  “Perhaps more than one manuscript, dear lady, more than one, we believe. Karma was telling me last week you are a gossip columnist. Do you write anything literary that would be considered worth reading?” he said.

  “Occasionally Kernewek, penn bras,” said Tosca, smiling sweetly.

  “Hmm. A foreign language. Not one I’ve heard before, and I’m sorry to tell you that it fails to pique my interest.”

  Blair stepped away, gripping Cynthia’s arm as he guided her toward the bar.

  “Good gracious, Tosca,” said Arlene who’d been hovering nearby. ”He was kind of rude. Just out of curiosity, what did you say to him?” said Arlene.

  “I simply told him ‘occasionally the Cornish, you fathead.’ It’s true. I have written several articles about the Cornish and our language.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “For a bookish man Mr. Blair looks very fit,” said Tosca.

  “He is. He run marathons all the time and wins quite a few.”

  “Tell me about his bit of totty,” said Tosca. “I’m interested in a woman who doesn’t appear to mind being outshone by her partner’s flamboyance.”

  “Totty?” said Arlene.

  “Yes, you know, bit of skirt. It’s English, dear, plain English.” Tosca shook her head in exasperation.

  “Oh. Okay. I don’t know a lot about Cynthia. I do know she tells people she was once engaged to a Saudi prince, but every blonde in Newport Beach claims that. They all hang out at the Greenways Hotel’s penthouse nightclub.”

  “She’s wearing some beautiful jewelry.”

  “Cynthia owns a jewelry store,” said Arlene, “and has a second store, a boutique, really, at the Barracuda Bay Club, which does very good business. I heard she’s an expert with diamonds. Did you see her sneering expression when she saw that big old fake jewel our hostess is wearing? I’m surprised she didn’t tease Karma about it. She’s been known to insult people for wearing costume jewelry.”

  Tosca’s attention swung over to Blair at Cynthia’s side as he stood drinking and twirling a stubby, white enameled cigar holder. Despite its thickness, Tosca admired its elegant Art Deco 1920s design and the silver band but wondered why a plastic cap covered the opening for a cigar, and a piece of tape extended over the other end of the holder. She decided they acted as barriers to dissuade Blair from smoking. Pretty clever, she thought.

  “Have you ever seen him smoke cigars in that thing?” she asked Arlene.

  “Can’t say I have, Tos
ca. Excuse me, I want to catch Nora over there.”

  Chapter Ten

  Arlene hurried off while Tosca continued to study Sanderson’s agent. She decided Graydon Blair had to have come posthaste to Karma’s party straight from a beauty spa. He appeared to have been massaged, groomed and polished from head to toe. His hair barely covered the bald areas that gleamed in the candlelight, and his pink skin glowed like the face of a porcelain doll. He wore three rings, but she daren’t check his glossy nails closely for fear they’d blind her. Blair’s pale blue silk shirt, a perfect color match to his small, suspicious eyes that darted constantly around, was tailored to his figure with tucks on each side and a single breast pocket. His starched jeans had a crease she was sure could cut through melons.

  What impressed Tosca most about the man was his air of supreme satisfaction with himself, that mysterious smug aura that surrounds some people after sensational sex. Had Blair’s massage, if he’d had one that day, included a quickie? Tosca smiled inwardly and mentally shook herself out of her daydream. She saw him set his glass down on the desk, still fiddling with the cigar holder. She waited to see if he’d remove the cap and tape in order to insert a smoke and light up. Instead, he continued to play with it. Then he went over to Sally and took the glass from her hand.

  “Here, let me get you another.” Tosca heard him say.

  Blair gave Sally a quick kiss on the cheek and joined Karma where the line for refills was seven deep. An older man in a fur-trimmed brown suede vest offered his place to Blair, but the literary agent declined. Still fascinated with him, Tosca wondered why Blair kept giving up his own place in line until everyone else had fixed themselves a drink or taken a bottle of beer. Perhaps her assessment of him as rude was misplaced. Finally, he was the last one.