Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  “I agree,” said Arlene, “but her garden center is beautifully neat and organized, and she does a great job with our yards. Another thing I give her credit for is rescuing special needs cats. Oh, here, this must be yours. I found it near the window when we were cleaning the carpet.” She handed Tosca a two-inch black flash drive. “Probably slipped off your keychain. I notice you always have a couple of them on there.”

  “Arlene, I’ve never seen this one before. It’s not mine.”

  “Must belong to one of the guests, then, or to Karma. Hold on to it for now. We can check with her tomorrow. Such a sad ending to the party. Sure hope Sally’s all right. Well, goodnight again.”

  After Arlene left Tosca felt Thatch’s arm around her shoulder.

  “It’s only ten o’clock, Tosca. How about a drink at the tavern? Oh, are you taking the Chandelier with you?” he said.

  “After you told me its value, I don’t feel comfortable leaving it. I don’t see any way to lock the front door. There’s no deadbolt or mechanism to secure it. If this thing is not Karma’s, she won’t know its value and might not take good care of it, judging by the lack of security here. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Good plan. How about a drink?”

  “After what we just went through with Sally, poor thing, I’m not in the mood. Come home with me and have a glass of mead. I have a fresh batch ready for sampling. It’s almost as good as the blackcurrant they make at Ninemaidens Mead in Redruth, Cornwall. Aren’t you tempted?”

  By now Tosca was well aware of Thatch’s aversion to her home-brewed wine, and she took every opportunity to tease him about it.

  “Nine maidens?” he said. “Where do you Brits get these wild names?”

  “Thank you for not calling me English now that Cornwall is officially recognized as a cultural minority like Wales, Scotland and Ireland. I’m thrilled. Now, Ninemaidens, Thatch, actually is a real place, a magical area. It’s an ancient monument, a row of nine granite megaliths that legend says were a group of young girls who were turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. The Ninemaidens meadery itself has beehives all over Cornwall, and probably some are near the monument, though I think they are based in Truro.”

  “Sweetheart, I love all your tales, but right now I know you have some beer in the fridge unless J.J. and her pals have snagged it all. Let’s go.”

  They left Karma’s cottage, closing the door carefully behind them, and walked the few blocks to Tosca’s house.

  “Wonder what’s on this flash drive,” she said, taking it from her bag. “I suppose it must be Karma’s, but perhaps it fell from Sally’s purse.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not about to start nosing around again, are you?” said Thatch. “Nearly got you killed the last time you got curious.”

  “I’ll just take a quick peek, I promise, keresik.”

  “Man, when you call me that I go all a-tingle,” Thatch laughed, “or I would if I remembered what it meant.”

  “What? You’ve forgotten already? You know very well it’s a term of endearment.”

  “Hmm. Before I leave tonight I will return the nice sentiment.” He tried to pronounce the word only to set Tosca laughing.

  “Oh, dear, love, you’ve still got it wrong. The man says keresigyon, to a woman, not keresik.”

  “Yeah? I think I’ll stick to good ol’ ‘sweetheart’ from now on. So are we on for a drink?”

  “Oh, one more thing, Thatch. What about the pink sculpture that fell out of Sally’s purse? I’d like to know who the person called Sunida is, the name that’s engraved on it.”

  “I doubt if it’s much of a mystery, and besides, it’s none of your business, although that’s never stopped you before.” He smiled to soften his criticism, then added, “As I told you, Tosca, it’s an extremely valuable piece. You know, I wouldn’t mind knowing who owns it myself.” Thatch opened the small wrought iron gate at Tosca’s house.

  “But don’t you think it’s strange that Sally had two other women’s belongings in her purse? We know who Abigail is, and Sally, of course, but who is Sunida, a man or a woman? I asked Arlene, who knows everything that goes on here, and she said she had no idea. You know I can’t resist a puzzle, especially if it concerns Fuller. Let’s find out.”

  “Tosca, I admit I am intrigued by the Chandelier and its disappearance for three decades, but who says it’s connected to Fuller?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What’s that awful smell?” said J.J., sniffing loudly as she came through the front door and set her backpack down. The race helmet tied to one of its buckles bounced as it hit the floor.

  “Ah, hello, love. How was your day?” said Tosca. “I assume you stayed overnight in Long Beach? How about an early lunch?”

  “Not if what you’re cooking smells like that, Mother. It’s vile.”

  “Pungent, perhaps, I’ll concede that. I’m making metheglin from an old Welsh recipe. It has a marvelous bouquet and flavor. A change from regular mead, although it’s similar. This one calls for rather strong herbs. I doubt it will be as good as Cornish metheglin, but I am giving it a try.”

  Tosca added a lid to the small pot she’d been stirring. She rinsed the wooden spoon in the sink, placed it on a plate next to the stove, and took a seat on one of the two high stools at the kitchen counter.

  “Whatever it is, it stinks,” said J.J.

  “But I use only the very best natural ingredients in my mead. Unfortunately, I am now living in a country whose honey bees, I suspect, do not work as hard as ours in Cornwall, and when they do decide to collect nectar, the plants are probably genetically altered. However,” she said with a sigh, “I carry on. That’s what we Brits must do in times of strife.”

  J.J. guffawed. “Come off it, Mother. Stop dramatizing. Anyway, you haven’t told me what’s in the pot.”

  “Alas, I’ve had to compromise to make this next batch of wine. I bought some Turkish honey.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, made in Turkey. Their bees forage their nectar from Turkish Pines, among other plants. Says it right on the label. I’m boiling the honey to reduce it down, but it can’t be the honey that smells. I was going to use Albanian honey, but it lacks character. For this batch I’m not sure what the result will be, but I figure it’s worth a try. I added some herbs, too, maybe that’s the problem. Does it really stink?”

  J.J. rolled her eyes as she went to each window to open it, and pulled the door back to its hinges. “Which herbs?”

  “Umm, I am not exactly sure. I found them at the Asian market that Arlene told me about. I told the Chinese lady that I was making metheglin and needed something to give it strength. So she sold me these.” Tosca held up a large plastic bag of dried yellow leaves and dark brown pellets that looked like bark. “Do you think she misunderstood? She spoke barely any English but was very enthusiastic about these.”

  Grabbing the pot off the stove and snatching the plastic bag from Tosca, J.J. ran down the steps to the alley behind the house, and threw both items into the garbage can as Tosca watched helplessly from the back window.

  “You owe me one pot,” J.J. told her mother when she came back upstairs.

  “That was a bit drastic, don’t you think? You know, love, if there were some meadows nearby I could have collected my own elderflowers along with balm and mace. but all I see outside is hundreds of boats and unending sunshine.”

  “Don’t go off again about your need for rain, Mother. Talking of which, I gotta go take a shower.”

  J.J. ran up the spiral stairs to the bathroom.

  Tosca stood in the kitchen. unsure what to do about the turn of events. She had planned to spend the whole day making the spicy mead and setting it to mature for at least one year. Her recipes had been collected over several years’ time, some of them handed down from her mother and grandmother.

  She also had a book of ancient methods dating back to Greek and Roman times.
Every so often, when making the brew, she tossed some of the ingredients listed into the newer recipes, although the result, as in this instance, were not always happy. Tosca, a firm mead scholar, had read that the cave dwellings of primitive stone-age men show them collecting honey from bee colonies with the assumption that water was added to produce a mixture that could be fermented by wild yeasts.

  “What’s that awful smell?” said a male voice at the open door. Thatch stood outside, his hands raised in mock horror.

  “If you were a Druid,” Tosca said, “I’d have you drink the metheglin I was trying to brew, and your poetry would be inspired forever. At least, that’s what the Druids claimed.”

  Thatch had confided in her that he wrote poetry, felt shy about it, but had finally allowed her to read some. It was filled with reminiscences about his childhood on a Wyoming ranch.

  “Dang,” he said, “just as I was becoming so fond of your mead.” Tosca snorted at his joke. “So what’s this new stuff you’re concocting?”

  “It’s a version of mead, so you won’t like it either, but the neighbors will, I’m quite sure, although they won’t be able to taste it for years. That’s how long it needs to be at its best. I plan to leave several bottles here long after I have returned to London.”

  She told him it was made with honey and herbs, was quite a lot spicier than mead, and had often been used as a medicinal potion in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

  “Metheglin was made even earlier, before the Romans invaded Britain, as a drink for warriors, and it was a drink made by witches. So you see, it’s ancient. But J.J. has thrown away the Chinese herbs I bought,” she said, frowning, “so I’ll have to start all over again. Just as well, I suppose. I had no idea what I was buying, but the saleslady assured me the herbs were for vigor. Maybe I can order the elderflowers I need from home. Come in, I’ll make coffee. Does it still smell bad?”

  “Only enough to curl my toes. I see you’re trying to air out the house. Let’s go to the Coffee Can. You can tell me about metheglin, which sounds like one of your Cornish cuss words, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing to find Sunida. I figured I’d better come straight over.”

  “Ah, The Woman and the Mystery of the Chandelier. Not a bad book title.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The day after her party Karma drove the two miles to Sheldon Hospital, hailed as one of the One Hundred Great Hospitals in America, an imposing multi-story building that stood on the bluffs in Newport Beach. She found a spot in the self-parking section for her truck, grumbling to herself about the newly implemented parking program, and wondering how many times she’d have to come here before Sally’s death no longer required her attention. A parking rate sign declared that long-term passes were available for an annual cost of nine hundred dollars. At least I won’t need one of those, Karma thought as she found her way to the lobby inside the hospital’s main entrance. At the Information Desk she asked to see someone regarding a patient, Sally Hirsch.

  “She’s dead,” Karma said. “Poor woman,” she added at the receptionist’s disapproving expression at her bald statement.

  The receptionist made a phone call, directed Karma to a bank of elevators and told her to get off at the fifth floor. Soon seated opposite a charge nurse in a small room, Karma felt herself becoming anxious, wanting the meeting to be over as quickly as possible.

  “Did she have any relatives, Miss Sanderson? Whom should we notify?”

  Karma shrugged. “No one, as far as I know. She was around age seventy-two, and I never heard her talk about parents or siblings or any other family. She wasn’t married and I guess had no children. We weren’t that close. It just so happened she collapsed in my house.”

  “Would you be the person responsible for any financial debt?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Karma almost laughed at the question. Her bank balance was so low she couldn’t face even reading her monthly statement. It was definitely no concern of hers what happened to Sally’s body, she thought. Damned nuisance she’d had the seizure at her house, and what a pity the woman hadn’t left early, as she’d said she was going to when I invited her. What was it she’d said, that she didn’t want to see Graydon Blair again if she could help it after the big quarrel they’d had the other day? Come to think of it, though, it was Oliver who’d started the argument.

  At least from today onward she was free of Sally. After a lifetime of bickering over grandfather’s contracts and the continual tension about his royalties with both Sally and Blair, Karma would now own the rights to all of Fuller’s books. If I can get a lot of publicity about the lost manuscript being found, she thought, and with Swenson’s help, we can start cashing in by getting a big publisher. Things are looking up, just as we planned.

  It was common knowledge that Hirsch House was a one-man band run by Sally for the past eight years and was on the verge of bankruptcy. Sanderson had been her last big author whose books were considered classics. Karma had been trying without success for years to get the rights back to his works. Maybe she could begin building the Fuller Sanderson Library sooner than she’d expected.

  “Miss Sanderson, you do know there’s going to be an autopsy?” said the charge nurse, consulting her files.

  “What?”

  “Her cardiac arrest was unexpected, and the attending physician was uncomfortable with the manner of death. Soon after you left last night he notified the medical examiner. It’s standard procedure in cases like this. Her body is now at the Santa Ana morgue. We can let you know the results, and perhaps you could arrange for a funeral home to pick the remains up after the authorities are finished with their investigation.”

  “What investigation?”

  “As we always do in such cases, we’ll be turning over to the police all the necessary materials, such as the death certificate, the autopsy report and the toxicology test results. Then you may claim the body.’

  “Look, Miss Hirsch was just a business associate,” Karma said. “Why should I be responsible for her?”

  For a few seconds Karma enjoyed the thought of having Sally cremated and sprinkling the ashes on her compost heap. Kind of poetic justice since Karma was convinced she’d cheated her of thousands of dollars in royalties.

  “Miss Sanderson?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was just trying to figure out the kindest way to treat dear Miss Hirsch’s remains even though I barely knew her. I suppose I could get in touch with the morgue and make the arrangements if I have to. As I said, I don’t know much about her business or her personal life, and right now I have to get back to work.”

  “Understandable. It will probably take a while for the autopsy results, as the morgue is really backed up, although in some cases there are priorities. In the meantime, let me know if there is any assistance we can provide.”

  The charge nurse rose from her chair and walked with Karma to the elevator, expressing condolences.

  Karma returned to the garden center, her mind racing. Sally’s death opened up all kinds of convenient possibilities, the most important of which was that now Karma held all the cards for the ownership of her grandfather’s books. Sally’s death meant there’d be a reversion of rights, in this case to the author’s heir, herself. Then there were the last, lost writings of Fuller Sanderson to be handled.

  She’d fire Graydon Blair, of course, when it was all over. She should have done it years ago, when her parents died, but she’d been focused on building up her garden business. She’d no longer have to pay Blair fifteen percent of the royalties, not that they amounted to much these days, but now, with control in her own hands, Blair would soon be out of the picture. Who needs a literary agent when Fuller Sanderson is such a famous name? Well, it used to be, but I sure don’t need that pretentious Blair, she decided.

  “Hey, Karma, them cats are still mean. I told you that yesterday.” Sam’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. “What’s that the humane shelter calls ‘em? Special needs cats? Don’t know
why you ever adopted ‘em. They don’t even catch field mice. Why d’ya let ‘em run all over?”

  “Don’t you dare touch them! It’s not their fault they’re arthritic. Running all over? They can barely walk, Sam, so stop complaining.”

  Karma stooped down under the desk and picked up one of the two sleeping tabby cats, stroking it gently. Her peevish expression softened as she bent her cheek to the cat’s head and nuzzled it.

  “Yeah, well,” said Sam. “I don’t care how cute you think they are, they sure have sharp teeth, and those claws work just fine. Look where they scratched me.”

  He pulled up the sleeve of his denim shirt to reveal three deep, bloody parallel red lines on his left arm.

  “I’ve had far worse,” said Karma. “Just make sure you put a bandage on those scratches before you go weeding in the giant milkweed patch again. I have told you several times that if any of the sap oozes out, or if you cut the stem by mistake, it’s toxic.”

  “Wait a minute, I already got a rash from those plants. Look!”

  Sam held out both hands, palms down. On the back of each hand was a small pink rash.

  “Oh, Sam, don’t be such a baby. It’s nothing.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Tosca was about to insert the flash drive into the laptop, excited to find out what was on it, she heard heavy footsteps coming up the outside steps. She quickly shut down the computer and went to the front door, where the top half was open. She knew it wasn’t Thatch, because he’d gone out fishing on a friend’s boat. When she recognized her visitor, she suppressed a groan. What’s he doing here? she wondered.