Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  “There you are,” said Arlene, distracting Tosca from her scrutiny of Blair. “Have you met Nora? She just got back from safari in Kenya.”

  Tosca shook hands. As they exchanged pleasantries she noticed Blair hand Sally her fresh drink. Arlene and Nora began gossiping about the various guests, and Tosca listened eagerly, hoping for scandal. She’d learned hardly any since arriving on Isabel Island, except for the plight she’d found herself drawn into shortly after arriving from London.

  Tosca learned that the young blonde in the striped dress was engaged to a vice president of General Electric who’d taken forty-seven years to reach his lofty title, that the old fellow in the dark blue corduroy jacket had just lost his young boyfriend to a wealthier man, and that the dark-haired hippie on the floor near the sofa was just out of jail for possession of heroin. The girl next to him was the daughter of a millionaire who lived near Karma and had been ordered into rehab for six months but had left the facility to come home. Arlene also said that Karma’s outrageously large pendant was typical of the gaudy costume jewelry the young woman favored.

  Tosca found none of the information salacious enough or uncommon enough to warrant a newspaper column item, and she was inclined to tell Stuart, her editor in London, that he might as well kill off the American version of her English “Tiara Tittle-Tattle” column. There was simply nothing to report in California except a crime or two she hoped would materialize.

  “Fascinating,” said Tosca to Arlene, “but did I hear an English accent over there?”

  Arlene looked toward the side of the room Tosca indicated with her chin. “Yes, that’s Emily, one of our major Newport Beach socialites. She sponsors everything, it seems—or rather, her husband does. He’s co-founder of Monolith Airlines. I should introduce you. I forgot she might be here.”

  She and Tosca walked over to Emily, where Arlene made the introductions, explaining that Tosca had arrived from London several months earlier. The two Brits shook hands.

  “How do you do?” said Emily. “Tosca Trevant? You can’t be the gossip columnist who writes for that dreadful Daily Post, surely?”

  Tosca figured that if the woman’s nose was pointed any higher toward the ceiling, her neck would snap.

  “Oh, yes, I certainly am that person.” Tosca was beginning to enjoy herself. “I’m collecting gossip on this side of the pond, too, for that dreadful Daily Post, including about Brits who live here. Of course, Newport Beach does not have quite the Buckingham Palace ambience, but I find Americans are far more interesting than the expats.”

  “But how are you managing the culture shock? It took me absolutely ages to adapt,” said Emily. “In fact, in many ways I never have, because it’s so different here.”

  “How long have you lived in California?”

  “Eighteen years.” Tosca watched with amusement as the woman’s lip curled in derision.

  “How sad. Perhaps you should go back to the U.K. For myself, I deeply appreciate Americans. They are the most generous people in the world. Have you forgotten that in World War II they saved our arses?”

  With that parting shot pronounced in her best Queen’s English, Tosca turned away, catching Emily’s shocked expression out of the corner of her eye.

  “The next person who goes wittering on about being British and how they dislike it here, I just might strangle,” she said under her breath. “Those who miss rain are excepted, of course.”

  In her haste to leave Emily she bumped into Blair, causing him to drop his cigar holder. He bent immediately to retrieve it, as did Tosca, and their heads met as they both rose. Tosca was the first to laugh, expecting him to do the same but his attention was on the holder he clenched in his fist.

  “So sorry,” she said, “I was admiring your cigar holder. I thought I’d seen it with a cap on, but I must have been mistaken. Is it a Meerschaum?”

  But he’d already moved away to the bar.

  “I see you’ve been giving Graydon Blair the once-over,” said Arlene, coming to her side. “Looks like he’s brought his medieval harp. Graydon is known to collect odd musical instruments.”

  “How successful is he as the son of Taylor Blair, Fuller’s literary agent?”

  “No idea, but the gossip is he’s not doing well. He might have to sell his house and maybe even his boat. Graydon’s the one I told you was arguing with Sally, Karma and Oliver Swenson at the restaurant the other day. He owns the theremin Bill was playing.”

  Before Tosca could reply, Karma’s voice cut through the chatter to announce she and Bill would play one more piece, and later in the evening they would be joined by Graydon on his rare Kinnor harp.

  “His lyre, she means,” Tosca said quietly to Arlene.

  The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard a deep voice whisper her name in her ear and found herself spun around and enveloped in a bear hug.

  “Thatch!” Tosca’s delight at seeing Thatcher MacAulay was written all over her face. “You’ve come home early. Catch any fish? Finished digging? Bring back any rocks?”

  “Blizzard.”

  As usual, she smiled at his terse reply. She’d learned to read behind the words of the retired Secret Service agent she’d met a few months earlier. His amateur hobby as a geologist had helped Tosca solve a murder soon after she’d arrived from England, and the two had begun a cautious romance, both having lost their spouses a few years earlier and still nervous about dating again in mid-life.

  “How did you know I was here? I turned my mobile off,” she said, studying his six-foot, three-inch frame, suntanned, lined face, and the thick salt-and-pepper hair that earned him his nickname.

  “J.J.,” he said.

  Tosca and Thatch had found something they shared in common: Each had a daughter in her late twenties, although Thatch’s daughter, Christine, lived in a residential half-way house for schizophrenics. He also had a son, Andy, who was a bicycle cop on Isabel Island and was responsible for introducing Tosca to Thatch when she began to unravel a murder mystery at a neighbor’s island home. She had almost pushed Andy off his bike to get his attention, and since then the MacAuley family and the Trevants had become friends.

  Chapter Eleven

  At the sound of three short peals Tosca and Thatch turned to see Karma holding up a small brass temple bell and hitting it with a tiny wooden mallet. The musicians had stopped playing, and everyone waited for Karma to speak.

  “Thank you all so much for coming tonight,” she said, “to celebrate my grandfather and his books. It is also to honor my parents who were both aged forty-three when they died, so that’s why I call it the forty-third anniversary. I’ve invited you all here tonight to give me your financial support for the Fuller Sanderson Library. I hope to finalize the building plans next month with David Wicks, my architect over there.” Karma waved in the direction of the red sofa and continued, “We’ll soon get the permits and everything else in motion. The site has already been staked out at my garden center, the land Fuller left to my father, and which is now mine, as you know. Thank you all again. Please have another drink while Graydon gets set up for more entertainment. He’s brought his little harp. Bill will continue to play Graydon’s theremin.”

  Blair stepped to Karma’s side, holding the harp still in its carrying case.

  “Just one thing, if you’d be so kind,” he said, addressing the crowd.” I’d very much appreciate it if you would not take photos when I play. The Kinnor is very special, and I don’t want any thieves knocking at my door.” He smiled to soften the words and returned to the bar.

  The immediate buzz of conversation and a general surge toward the liquor drowned out Tosca’s comment to Thatch.

  “Let me get you a drink,” she repeated more loudly. “Want to try a White Russian?”

  “Beer, please.” He nodded toward the front door, indicating a retreat into the front yard away from the noisy crowd. Tosca nodded in understanding and went to the bar. She noticed Graydon had left his cigar holder next to the
line of glasses. She picked it up, wondering if it was one of the Royal Meerschaums so popular in England for their natural filters that her grandfather had enjoyed. Noting no brand name as she turned it around, Tosca saw that it appeared to be new with no sign of use. She replaced the holder next to the glasses, where she’d found it.

  Tosca went out to the patio to bring Thatch back inside, remembering she hadn’t introduced him to their hostess. They re-entered the living room. Karma had retrieved her guitar and was sitting on the stool, strumming and preparing to play alongside Blair on his harp and Bill on the theremin.

  Pulling Thatch by the hand, Tosca brought him over to her. “Karma, this is a friend of mine, Thatcher MacAulay.”

  “Welcome. I sure hope you enjoy our music,” Karma said, stopping her playing long enough to shake hands and then continuing to tune up her guitar. Bill stood in front of the theremin and switched it on, arms raised. Blair rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, checking that they were of equal length on his forearms, and nodded at Karma. They began to play.

  She watched Bill waving his hands above the theremin like a conductor without a baton, gazing seriously at the ceiling. Karma’s large hands moved awkwardly over the guitar strings, and Blair plucked at the harp. The combination of their instruments produced, in Tosca’s opinion, the worst cacophony she’d ever heard.

  Tosca and Thatch looked at each other and backed away behind the crowd. They went out again into the garden and sat on the wrought iron garden chairs, listening to the strange sounds that wafted through the open door and windows.

  “Tell me about the woo-woo thing that belongs to Mr. Dazzle,” said Thatch.

  “Sorry, I’ve never seen or heard of one like that before. I’m going to have to pay him a visit sometime and ask about it. I’m fascinated. Why don’t you go get that twangy thing you play and join them? I’m sure they wouldn’t object if you sat in. Maybe they’d stop and just listen to you.”

  “With my uke? Not tonight, Tosca. I’m a tad weary from driving.”

  After several minutes the guitar abruptly stopped playing in the middle of a tune.

  “Do you think that’s the end?” said Thatch. “Hope so.”

  They heard Karma swear loudly.

  “Sounds like she’s busted a string,” said Thatch. “An experienced guitarist would keep going by just using a different string, but let’s hope the concert is over, and I can get another beer.”

  He and Tosca stepped inside the living room where some of the partygoers were commiserating with Karma, who was holding her guitar. One of the strings was hanging loose. Blair announced that Bill would continue to play the theremin, and he would play his rare harp, with an emphasis on the word, ‘rare.’ As tepid applause in appreciation for more music died away, a piercing scream sliced the air.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Stand back! Give her room!”

  One of the guests rushed forward. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Call 911!”

  Everyone instantly pulled away, and Tosca saw Sally lying on the floor near Fuller’s desk, a broken glass nearby and what looked like the remains of her White Russian cocktail spreading across the carpet. Her limbs were shaking, and her entire body began to convulse. In response to the urgent demand, almost all of the guests rushed to find their cell phones in their pockets or in the purses they’d left on chairs or in Karma’s bedroom.

  “I’ve got a dispatcher on the line already,” a man yelled, and continued talking into his phone.

  Arlene clutched Tosca’s arm, trembling noticeably as husbands and wives sought out each other and huddled in shock. Thatch put his arm around Tosca, and Karma continued to kneel on the floor at Sally’s side, trying to hold her hand as the violent shaking continued to wrack the elderly woman’s body. Swenson stood next to her, gazing down in horror. Blair hurried over, his face expressionless.

  “Anyone know if she has epilepsy?” asked the doctor, checking Sally’s neck and wrists.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Tosca to Thatch.

  “He’s looking to see if she is wearing an ID bracelet or pendant that would indicate she suffers from seizures.”

  “Poor woman,” Arlene said quietly, calming down. “Probably too many of those White Russians that I saw her guzzling down like water. Hey, she didn’t drink any of your mead, did she? Look what happened to Professor Whittaker when you gave him some. Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

  “Maybe Sally should have skipped the hard liquor and had my wine instead. I hear sirens.”

  Karma ran outside to flag down the ambulance and a fire truck. Both pulled up outside, double-parking along the one-way street. A police cruiser joined them. Two paramedics unloaded a gurney and carried it into the bungalow along with an IV and other medical equipment. They checked Sally’s vital signs, lifted her onto the stretcher and wheeled it out to the ambulance, saying she’d be taken to Sheldon Hospital.

  “I’ll follow in my car,” Karma announced to the guests. “Please stay on, all of you, and try to enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ll let you know how she is as soon as I can. No, Graydon, no need for you to come, too. I’ll be fine,” she said as Blair came to her side. She knelt to pick up Sally’s raffia tote bag from the floor, its contents scattered under and around Fuller’s desk.

  “Here, she’ll need this at the hospital,” Arlene said, picking up a slender beige leather wallet and giving it to Karma. “They always want to see insurance cards before they even start trying to save your life these days.”

  After the ambulance, the fire truck, the police and their hostess left, most of the guests lingered for a while, then said their goodbyes to each other. Among those who remained there was muted talk, and several had already encircled the oak table to refill their glasses. Charmaine, an elderly woman who had been introduced to Tosca as a friend of Karma’s parents, gathered up the spilled contents of Sally’s bag and set them on Fuller’s desk. They included a lipstick, a packet of tissues, a silver business card case, a Honda key fob with several keys on it, and a silver locket on a long, oval-link chain.

  “This must be Karma’s,” Charmaine exclaimed, holding up the small heart-shaped pendant. “It has her grandmother’s name, Abigail, engraved on it. A gift from Fuller to his wife, I guess, and passed on down to Karma.”

  Blair, Swenson and a few others craned their necks to see it. No one remarked on the fact that it had been in Sally’s purse. Tosca figured they were too embarrassed to say anything, and it was quickly set on top of the desk along with the other articles. The largest and strangest item that had tumbled half-out of its box from Sally’s bag was a lavender and rose-colored glass-like object that had landed at Tosca’s feet. She picked it up, surprised at its weight because of its delicate design, and was still holding it when the ambulance left.

  Shaped like a miniature candelabra, its four small tubes appeared made to hold tiny tapers. Its heaviness led Tosca to guess it was a piece of carved gemstone, but she had never seen anything as odd or so colorful. A small silver plaque on the crystal base bore the word “Sunida.”

  As she stood examining it and admiring its beauty, Thatch practically snatched it out of her hands, turning it around and around, repeatedly exclaiming, “Good God!”

  “What? What is it?” said Tosca,

  “It’s the Tourmaline Chandelier,” he said. “The twin to the Candelabra tourmaline from the Queen Mine in San Diego. No one knew who bought this one after it was found in the Oceanside Mine.” Thatch held the tourmaline up to the light. “It’s an extraordinary, extremely rare, museum-quality piece. The other one, the Candelabra, was the tourmaline find of the century. It’s on display in the Smithsonian Institution. This one is slightly smaller and disappeared shortly after it was discovered.”

  “It’s beautifully textured. Look at the ridges. Did someone carve it?”

  Thatch laughed. “No, the striations are naturally formed. It was extracted from the mine exactly as you see, polished up, of course. I wonder if it could be
Sally’s?”

  “Sally’s? But the name or word on it is ‘Sunida,’” said Tosca, pointing to the plaque. “Wonder where she got it?”

  “Sunida sounds like it could be a Thai name. I can’t believe I’m holding the Chandelier. It’s worth close to a million dollars,” said Thatch, “a very expensive bauble.”

  He handed it to Charmaine, who put it back into the box and said, “We should leave everything here on the desk. Karma can sort it all out when she comes home.”

  She placed the box next to Sally’s other belongings on Fuller Sanderson’s old writing desk.

  The heart had gone out of the evening, and the guests drifted off, walking to their island homes or heading for the ferry to return to the peninsula. Those who had driven from the mainland got into their cars to cross the bridge to Newport Beach.

  “I think I’ll spend the night on my boat,” announced Blair. “It could be hours before we hear anything from Karma. There’s a full moon. Might even do some night fishing. Oliver, like to join me?”

  Swenson turned his back and lumbered out the door without replying.

  Blair shrugged, grimaced and said, “Goodnight, ladies,” as he, too, left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tosca looked around the living room. “The least we can do is clean this place up now that everyone’s gone. Thatch, could you make sure the candles in the Chinese lanterns in the yard are out? Thanks. Arlene, perhaps you’d take the glasses and dishes to the kitchen. There’s probably a tray in the kitchen you can use. I guess we’ll leave all that booze on the table. I’ll mop up the mess on the carpet.”

  “Sure, be happy to. The White Russian she was drinking has soaked in real good, looks like. Might be difficult to get the stain out.”

  Arlene picked up the carton of cream, went into the kitchen and placed it next to three similar cartons in the refrigerator. After half an hour the three decided they’d done the best they could to ensure that Karma came home to a semblance of order although, as Tosca confided to Arlene as they bade each other goodnight, Karma might not even notice, given the slovenly state of the house.