Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  “Morning, Mrs. Trevant. Sorry to bother you. May I come in?”

  Newport Beach Homicide Detective Wally Parnell’s expression and tone indicated he’d rather be anywhere else than inside her house. A man in his mid-forties, balding, with a trim physique, his long face reminded Tosca, fittingly, of a bloodhound.

  “Come in, Chief Superintendent—oh, sorry, Detective. What brings you to the island again? Been quite a while since our last meeting,” she said, grinning when he winced.

  They had not parted on the best of terms during the time Parnell was investigating a murder on Isabel Island, and Tosca had been able to discover the killer.

  “Are you collecting for the Police Benevolent Fund? I’m very happy to contribute.”

  “No, ma’am. We’re interviewing everyone who was at Miss Sanderson’s party, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Really? If Karma is complaining about the way we cleaned her house afterwards, well, then that’s not very nice of her. I loathe housework, but it seemed the only charitable thing to do. ”

  “It concerns Miss Sally Hirsch’s death.”

  “That’s interesting. How can I help you? I’d never met her before the party, but I knew she’d been Fuller Sanderson’s publisher for years and years. We were all sad to hear she died. Oh, now I know exactly why you’re here. It’s about her purse, isn’t it? Well, I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking. ”

  “No, ma’am. Miss Hirsch’s purse has been recovered from Miss Sanderson. She brought it into the station yesterday. It’s the manner of Miss Hirsch’s death that we are investigating.”

  Tosca sensed at once that the detective’s visit was to be not only an interesting one that set her curiosity meter soaring, but also lengthy, if she could keep him talking long enough. She plugged in the electric kettle and asked him if he’d like tea or mead. He declined both. While he fidgeted on the sofa with his notepad, she made herself a pot of PG Tips black tea, thinking she really must try to find some Yorkshire Gold. She heard it worked best in hard water areas like Newport Beach. The kettle soon boiled, and she warmed the pot with a little hot water, poured it out, spooned the tea leaves into the teapot and left it on the kitchen counter to brew.

  “What do you mean, manner of death? It was epilepsy, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “Unfortunately not. Miss Hirsch might have been able to recover from such an episode. No. The preliminary autopsy states that her death was unnatural. She was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? Re’em fay!” Tosca’s swear word burst through her lips like a cheer, for which she instantly apologized.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Trevant. I don’t understand your language, and I’m sure my news is a shock to you. But it’s kind of strange that the last time I was here in your house it turned out that the murder weapon was also poison. Coincidence?”

  “Surely you are not suggesting I poisoned Sally? Besides, I caught the killer for you back then, remember?”

  And now, she thought, I’m going to be on the trail of another one. She practically hugged herself before feeling guilty and silently saying, “Poor woman,” to herself. Then, just as quickly, she hoped that if she solved the crime, it would mean her promotion to criminal reporter and return to the U.K. were in the bag.

  “What kind of poison?” she said.

  “The lab report says it is calotropin. It’s more toxic than strychnine.”

  “Never heard of it, Inspector. Where can you buy it? Where does it come from? Is it a chemical? Can it be made into an insecticide?”

  “Mrs. Trevant, I can tell you that it can be derived from the sap of the giant milkweed. I understand that Miss Sanderson planted some of those plants in six homeowners’ yards here on the island. We’ll be talking to them, of course. I don’t see your name on that list, but you were one of the guests at her party, correct?”

  “Yes, indeed, I was. The music was exceptional. Have you ever seen a theremin? However, I am sure you are busy and need to get on your way.” She stood up, anxious for him to leave so she could research calotropin on the Internet. “Unless you’d like me to help you interview those six homeowners?”

  Parnell squirmed. “No. We thank you for helping us out before, but I‘ve got it covered. Now, if you don’t mind, please sit down, and I’ll get on with the questions. As I said, we’re talking to everyone who attended the party.”

  Mind? Tosca could barely conceal her eagerness. What luck! She sat.

  “Mr. Parnell, can you tell me more about the poison? How was it administered? Is it sticky stuff? Was it added to the hors d’oeuvres? Goodness, I ate several of them, mostly the tiny quiches. Why do you think I know anything? Sorry, I tend to ask questions all at once. Drives Thatch crazy. I very much admire your expertise in these matters. If I knew more about the poison, I might be able to help you,” she added, thinking fat chance, buddy.

  Parnell flipped a few pages over in his notepad and began to read.

  “Calotropin is like morphine, an alkaloid extracted from flowering plants commonly called milkweeds. The white sap is the poisonous part and is used in pesticides. A fatal dose for humans is not very large, and the symptoms resemble an epilepsy attack with convulsions and vomiting.”

  “Of course! So that’s what it really was, not epilepsy. Very Agatha Christie, although she much preferred her killers to use arsenic. Yes, Chief Superintendent, we all saw Sally convulsing, but she certainly didn’t throw up. The only mess on the carpet was the drink she spilled as she fell, and we tried to clean it up as best we could.”

  “That was unfortunate,” Parnell said, frowning at her, “because you removed much of that evidence, Mrs. Trevant. Thankfully, forensics was able to get enough of a sample for testing, and the result was that they found the calotropin. Now, I know you are keen on gardening, Mrs. Trevant. I wondered if you have seen anyone collecting sap from their milkweed plants.”

  Don’t be daft, she wanted to reply but instead said, “No, of course I haven’t. Who’d know enough to do that? Many of the islanders use Karma Sanderson’s landscape service. She’s here all the time and lives here, as you know. How is the sap collected?”

  “All I want to know, Mrs. Trevant, is if you have seen your neighbors who have the plants in their yards doing anything suspicious, as I know you like to, um, observe things.”

  “You mean have I ever seen anyone going around with a little cup and collecting it like maple syrup? You say the sap is used in pesticides. I think strychnine is in rat poison, but I didn’t know about calotropin. How fascinating.”

  “Yes, now, while you’ve been digging around in your neighbors’ yards and fixing their plants, as I’m sure you have, did you notice if they had sprinkled any rat poison powder or other insecticide in the flower beds?”

  “Me?” Tosca’s euphoria at the prospect of having another murder to solve gave way to outrage. “I haven’t been in anyone’s yard lately. Well, only a couple. People do allow their nasturtiums to grow too leggy, don’t you think?”

  She realized as soon as she said it that her remark was not appreciated. She watched Parnell’s frown deepen and sought to repair the damage.

  “You know, Constable, I haven’t seen any rats around, but we are having a problem with ants lately. I can’t imagine why they take the trouble to walk all the way upstairs to our kitchen, but they do. I’ll show you what I use to persuade them that the neighbor’s house would be far more hospitable.”

  She went to the cabinet under the sink and removed a tall can of ant killer. “As stated on the list of ingredients and the warning label, this is apt to be fatal, too. Let me read them to you. They include imipothrin and cypermethrin,” she said, stumbling over the names. “Oh, besides ants it kills crickets, silverfish and spiders.”

  “I doubt anyone is going to spray their human victim with enough of this to murder them,” said Parnell as Tosca saw him repress a smile. “It has to be ingested. Now please tell me your version of Sally’s collapse
at the party.”

  “My version? Don’t be silly, Mr. Parnell. I saw only what others saw. There were lots of people around, and we’d all have the same version, as you call it.”

  “Where were you standing?”

  “Behind some people. We were listening to the musicians, Karma and Graydon Blair, playing when one of the strings on her guitar broke. Then we heard someone scream. It’s not my fault if someone gets murdered, and I happen to be in the vicinity.”

  “Seems to happen to you a lot. All right, thank you for your time,” said Parnell, getting up and practically charging out the door. “Oh, here’s my card.”

  “I still have your card from the last time we met on the Whittaker matter, remember?”

  “Please call me if you think of anything useful to the investigation.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Parnell left, clattering down the steps as quickly as possible. Tosca was sure he was hoping she’d never contact him again. Their relationship had not been a happy one after she’d shown him how wrong he’d been about a previous case.

  Tosca planned to begin her own investigating. Here was an opportunity, albeit a sad one, to solve a crime, write it up and go home. Surely her editor couldn’t refuse her the promotion she would deserve.

  She started her online search by finding several web sites about the poisonous plant, following the trail of the calotropis gigantean, commonly known as giant milkweed. She read that the toxins within the plant were similar to digitalis or digoxin, a common heart medication. While all parts of the plant were considered toxic, it was the milky sap that could induce abnormal heart rates, tremors and seizures. It contained chemicals that were considered steroidal heart poisons.

  A site devoted to Hinduism warned in one of its forums that giant milkweed is extremely toxic, and if the stem is cut and the sap touches the skin, it can cause sores and ulcers. At her computer she Googled “giant milkweed” and read with mounting excitement more references to the plant than Parnell had mentioned. An article was posted on a Far Eastern website that welcomed readers to the “sacred world of Hinduism.” The lead headline read, “Giant milkweed – VERY TOXIC!” Several people commented in response on the site, one writing, “High doses can kill, and the sap was used in infanticide.” Another stated, “The sap was used as poison on arrows,” and that, mixed with food, can poison human beings.

  “How lovely,” thought Tosca. “A naturally green method of murdering someone.”

  Another web site suggested logging on to the Pet Poison Helpline. Here, Tosca typed “poison and milkweed” into the search box, not expecting any information when she clicked on it. To her surprise three pages showed up, noting the plant was poisonous to cats and dogs. “The toxins within these plants are similar to digitalis or digoxin, a common heart medication used in both human and veterinary medicine. Even the water in a vase containing the giant milkweed has been reported to cause toxicosis. Clinical signs from ingestion include cardiovascular (e.g. abnormal heart rhythm and rate), electrolyte abnormalities (e.g. a life-threatening high potassium level) … tremors and seizures.”

  At the web site of the Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences at a university in Florida, giant milkweed was discussed at length in an article by a horticulture agent whose specialty was tropical flowering trees. She noted that the plant, calotropis gigantean, originated in the Far East, including India, and that the milky sap was poisonous. A third article Tosca read claimed that a copious white sap flowed whenever stems were cut.

  Yet another article caught her eye, “A Poisoner’s Guide to Central Park.” The writer claimed that enough poisons existed in New York’s eight-hundred forty-three-acre park to threaten the health of every jogger. Tosca read avidly, confirming at other online sites that the white fluid was highly toxic and that one milkweed in the calotropis plant family was more lethal than strychnine. Even the water in a vase became lethal if giant milkweeds were placed in it.

  The plants were grown in many countries and sometimes used to attract Monarch butterflies. Full sun was preferred.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, “dandy for growing in Southern California.”

  Then she remembered seeing the large glass case of butterflies in Karma’s office. She hoped Sam was still at Karma’s business. She picked up her cell phone, found the number and touched the screen to dial.

  “Karma’s Garden Center. Yeah?”

  “Sam, this is Mrs. Trevant. I was there earlier today with my neighbor. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I wondered if you would mind taking a peek at Karma’s butterfly collection and let me know if there are any Monarchs included?”

  “Don’t have to. There’s a couple right here.” He took the jar down from the shelf. “Caught ‘em meself.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was about to hang up when he added, “Had dozens of Monarchs attracted to the giant milkweeds before she sold ‘em to her customers. Kama likes to collect Monarchs, but I’m not a fan of butterflies. They’re just winged worms, that’s all. Good riddance, I say. Karma tole me that’s why that publisher lady died. The cops said she was killed with the poison from the plant by drinking it. Ha!”

  Tosca pulled her cell quickly away from her ear at the sound of Sam slamming his phone onto its receiver, speculating that Karma probably still used an old-fashioned phone in the office.

  Sam’s last remark sent Tosca’s brain spinning. Someone had to have known the white milkweed sap was poisonous and added it to Sally’s drink. It would have blended perfectly into Sally’s creamy White Russian cocktail without being noticed. But I can’t believe Karma would do such a thing, she thought. She’s a lover of nature behind that brash manner of hers, and she takes in stray cats. The woman readily admits she’s underwater financially, but surely she’s not desperate enough to kill someone. Yet, who else but her would know that milkweed sap could be deadly? Was Karma coerced to murder Sally? And if so, by whom?

  Sam said that Karma had planted the milkweeds in several yards on the island. Maybe one of the homeowners had a motive for killing Sally. Time to do some more investigating. But now she needed to explore the flash drive.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Still munching on toast and marmalade, Tosca sat in the dining nook and booted up her laptop, pleased that J.J. was planning to go out, leaving her alone. She didn’t want any distraction from what she was convinced was an exciting find.

  Tosca inserted the flash drive Arlene had found under the chair at Karma’s house and waited for its Windows file directory to appear on the monitor. This time I’m going to study this file from beginning to end, she resolved, and see if it really is Sanderson’s last book. If lengthy, it might mean all his notes are here, too, and probably several drafts of the same book.

  Hmm, she reflected. If part of the long document is the lost manuscript Karma was talking about at the party, it made sense that Sally would have it, but why was she keeping it secret? Had she even told Karma she’d found it, if indeed she had? The anniversary celebration the other night would have been the perfect time to announce the discovery of Sanderson’s lost manuscript. His granddaughter said they were still looking for it, yet here it was copied, Tosca assumed, from Sanderson’s own handwriting or typewritten pages and certainly from a computer’s hard drive. The question was, whose?

  The more Tosca thought about the possibility of the treasure trove of an undiscovered work, the more eager she was to read every word. It would be the centerpiece of the new Sanderson Library that Karma planned to build.

  J.J. interrupted Tosca’s musings. “I’m off to the garage,” she said, “then the track for practice. Will you be all right? What about the car?”

  “All right? I’m not ready for a wheelchair yet. What do you mean, all right?”

  “Now don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mother. I just want to make sure you’ll be okay here all day. And if you drive the Healey, please be gentle. Try not to grind the gears. It strips them.”

  “
Yes, yes. It’s not me that does the grinding, it’s the car. We really should get rid of that old bucket. It doesn’t like me, you know. Even when your father was alive and we’d go on outings, I always felt it wanted to chuck me out.”

  “Mother, stop being so melodramatic.”

  “Why do I always get the feeling our roles are reversed when you talk like that? Anyway, love, off you go, and enjoy your day.”

  While she waited for the Word program to appear, she filled and switched on the electric kettle, added a teabag to a Minton bone china tea cup and returned to the computer. A directory appeared, listing a single document with the simple heading, “Three.”

  Tosca clicked to open it and saw the words, Bright Purple Nights by Fuller Sanderson. A list of forty-six chapters followed. Did ‘Three’ refer to a subtitle? Familiar with all of the author’s books, she knew this could be the last one he had written before his death and perhaps had never delivered to Hirsch House. Who had saved this document to the flash drive? It must belong to Hirsch House, though, so it was Sally’s after all.

  What a coup for my newspaper, she thought, if I could write a book review of this unpublished manuscript. It would appear in the Daily Post Sunday Magazine, which was much more prestigious than the daily paper.

  Before hitting the Print button, she fast-forwarded to the final chapter, then pressed Enter to go to the next page in case he’d written notes and listed resource material. She had several author friends who kept jottings, questions, resources used for the plot, characters, settings and even musings at the end of their document, while others wrote them into the body of the work as it was written and played out. Tosca was a reader for two of her writer friends, dissecting their first drafts to see if all the elements hung together and each thread was tied up by the conclusion of the book. She disliked the job and found it time consuming, but friends were friends.

  Tosca checked the document’s word count. It was eighty-seven thousand words, about twenty thousand words longer than he usually wrote, she knew. All of his previous books were around sixty-five thousand, so it seemed there were indeed notes at the end, perhaps for even more books, including, she hoped, several synopses for future plots. That would make the document extremely valuable, because none of the drafts or notes for his earlier books existed.