Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  However, instead of seeing any of Sanderson’s notes at the end of the document or synopses for future books, she was faced with another title page: Seven Doors to Doom. A second book? Tosca checked the word count, which was eighty-five thousand, five hundred. Again, this was more than the author had ever previously written.

  Mystified, she clicked on the down arrow to the final chapter, pressed Enter again and came upon yet another title page: Silver Blue Shadow. This third document had no chapters listed and appeared half finished. It ended abruptly in the middle of chapter seventeen. There were no further writings.

  “What on earth is all this?” she asked aloud. “Two Sanderson books he never published and one in progress?”

  Barely containing her excitement, she printed everything out, thanking her stars she’d bought five reams of copy paper for her laser printer the week before. When the machine finally stopped she collected the pages from the tray. Why had he written these books with far more words than usual? Here were close to two hundred fifty thousand for all three. Ideally, there shouldn’t be more than one hundred eighty thousand words, but what a discovery!

  Engrossed in trying to figure out the puzzle, Tosca was alerted by a harsh whistle. Steam was shooting out of the electric kettle’s spout. She got up, poured some hot water into the teapot to warm it, swished it around, and poured the water out into the sink. This time, deciding she needed something special to celebrate her find, she spooned loose black Darjeeling tea into the pot, added hot water to the brim and put the lid on. She covered the teapot with a padded linen tea-cozy that had the words “St. Ives” embroidered all over it in knotwork and sat back down at the laptop.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tosca studied the first manuscript and became fascinated by the new story as related by Sanderson’s fictional detective, Johnny DiLeo. She chuckled as she followed the tale of murder and mayhem in old-time Hollywood, when movie stars were treated like possessions by the studios. But as she read she came across one or two anachronisms. Surely cars had no seatbelts back then? And Sanderson had changed DiLeo’s eyes from blue to hazel. Tosca figured that the author’s aging memory was probably the cause of the missteps, and the publisher’s editors would have caught the mistakes before publication.

  Familiar with the author’s entire body of work, she knew these titles had never seen the light of day—at least, not commercially. As Tosca had told Arlene, Sanderson was her favorite crime writer, and she had not only read all his books but had studied his style and life. After she had read The Total Surrender, his most popular because of its exotic sex scenes set in Tahiti, she’d wanted to visit the island and go to all the locations the author mentioned, but life had intervened, or rather, J.J. had. At least now I’m living on an island, Tosca thought, and there’s plenty of sun, sand and ocean, although far from the alluring South Seas that Somerset Maugham made famous with his stories.

  The more she studied the books, the more she wondered why Sally and the others pretended they were looking for a single manuscript. Or were they pretending? There was no telling who the flash drive belonged to, as anyone at the party could have dropped it.

  Tosca went into the kitchen to make another pot of tea, telling herself she could easily drown in tea if she didn’t figure out the puzzle soon.

  Sally must have known what was on the drive, of course, if it was hers, but she was dead. Karma, then? Yet, for some reason, Tosca hesitated. She liked the woman and didn’t believe she’d get involved in what appeared to be some sort of nefarious scheme. Had another writer added to these unpublished books she’d found? It would be a world-wide sensation in the publishing industry, if so, and ruin Sanderson’s reputation. Was that what the argument at the French restaurant had been about?

  If the books were fakes, which one had planned the scheme? Of the four—Blair, Sally, Swenson and Karma—she’d put her money on Graydon Blair to be perpetrating the fraud. Or was he unaware of these manuscripts, and they were real? Yes, she’d better ask him first and sort it all out. After all, he was Sanderson’s agent of record. If he had no idea they existed, he’d be thrilled that these works had been found, and he’d know exactly how to handle them.

  The icing on the cake for Tosca would be the fact that she had made the discovery and would be able to write an article on how she solved the mystery for Karma. It was the sort of tabloid article she excelled at, a poverty-stricken, titian-haired young woman who was the heiress to a possible fortune through her famous grandfather and his long-lost manuscripts. If they were fakes, the story would be even more fascinating.

  Satisfied with her decision, she returned the Darjeeling tea to its shelf and looked for the green and beige foil bag that contained her favorite loose leaf Yorkshire Gold. She’d discovered it while talking to a fellow author, Catriona McPherson, who loved its rich malty flavor from a blend of thirty varieties from India, Africa, and Sri Lanka. The bag bore a photo of the English countryside, which reminded Tosca of home.

  On second thought, she decided her discovery called for mead, the very special muscatel that had taken six months or more to mature before it was ready to drink. It had a seventeen percent alcohol content, but she didn’t plan to drive anywhere. She was too absorbed in what she’d found.

  The task of reading all three books took Tosca several hours, and by late afternoon she still had not finished. In order not to break her concentration, she stopped reading at four p.m. to toast more bread, spread it with coconut oil, her replacement for butter, and add dollops of marmalade. Fortified with yet another cup of tea, Tosca resumed reading.

  By eight o’clock she was halfway into the final partial manuscript and completely absorbed when she was startled to hear the first ten notes of Mozart’s “Symphony No. 40.” It was the ringer on her cell phone. Grabbing it, she blurted out “Jowl,” greeting the caller with the exclamation as the phone tumbled out of her grasp and fell to the floor face down. Tosca picked it up, saying into the speaker, “Terribly, terribly sorry. Let me try that again. Hello?”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Jowl? That’s a new one on me.”

  “Oh, Thatch, it’s you. Yes, you know I revert to my own language when I’m caught off guard. Anyway, I only said Damn.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s the most extraordinary thing. That flash drive Arlene found at Karma’s house contains what I believe could be three unpublished Sanderson books, or at least two and a half books, and not the single manuscript that Karma said she was looking for.”

  “That should make her happy,” said Thatch.

  “On the other hand, they could be fakes.”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “No,” said Tosca. “They are identical to Sanderson’s style. The only thing is, they are much longer than the books he wrote.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, but before you bury your head into the mystery much longer, think about taking a drive down to San Diego with me.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to go. I’ve heard so much about the San Diego zoo. I hear visitors can comb a pygmy goat’s hair and watch elephant husbandry training.”

  “Sorry, Tosca, not what I have in mind. Ever been digging for gemstones?”

  “Of course not, although my great uncles were tin miners in Cornwall, so I suppose digging is in my blood. Besides working in the tin mines, they dug for clay, too, which makes excellent cat litter. Do I hear a snigger? Anyway, I hope we’re not going to be digging up graves among the gems, are we?”

  Thatch laughed. “Not this time. I thought you might want to check out the Chandelier tourmaline, Sally’s gemstone that you took home. I told you how famous it is. It came from the Oceanview Mine north of San Diego. It’s one of nine mineral mines in the area and the only fully operating one that allows the public to spend the day screening for local gemstones. I’m surprised you don’t want to find out what Sally was doing with it since someone else’s name was engraved on the silver base.”

  “Of cour
se I want to find out. In fact, that is exactly what I planned to do myself. What kind of mine is it?”

  “Minerals.”

  “You mean as in calcium and magnesium? I take both of those supplements every day.”

  “No, no, not the kind you eat.” He smiled. “I’m talking about aquamarine, kunzite, garnets, crystal, quartz and, of course, tourmaline in all different colors of the rainbow. There have been some spectacular finds in the San Diego area, which is known among gemologists as the Big Kahuna.”

  Thatch reminded her that the Chandelier’s twin, the Candelabra, was found at the mine right across from the Oceanview Mine.

  “I’m sold. Be ready in a jiffy.” Tosca hoped Thatch would appreciate her brisk, brief reply in deference to his own style of talking.

  “How long is a jiffy in Cornwall-speak?” he said. “But we can’t go today, it’s too late. I need time to fill out the mine’s liability form for us both and make reservations, so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. You’ll need to bring gloves and a hat and be prepared to get dusty. We’ll be spending the entire day down there.”

  “All day down a mine? Exactly how much digging will we have to do?”

  She mentally envisioned herself with a flickering miner’s lamp strapped to her head, shovel in hand, covered in coal dust, and timbers falling all around as the roof caved in.

  “No, by down there I mean traveling south to the San Diego area.”

  “It’s not that hot Anza-Borrego Desert, is it? That was south of here, too.”

  “This time we’ll be up in the mountains. You’ll love it.”

  “That’s what you promised last time, and before we’d even had lunch we’d dug up a body.”

  “I can go alone, then, if you prefer. I know the mine owner, and I’d like to see him again as well as see if he’s found any more large tourmalines like the one Sally had.”

  “Don’t you dare leave me out. What time tomorrow?”

  “Dawn.” At her gasp Thatch added, “Okay, 8:00 a.m. Oh, you still have the Chandelier, right?”

  ”Yes, I was going to give it back to Karma today.”

  “Hold on to it for a little while longer. We need to take it with us to the mine.”

  “All right. Kosk ya ta, keresik.”

  “That’s a new one, although I’ve heard the last word before.”

  “It’s really easy to understand. It just means ‘Sleep well, Darling.’”

  She was still smiling when she pressed the red circle on the screen to close the call, not quite sure if she’d hung up or not. Her new iPhone5 had so many features she wasn’t always sure she’d closed down, signed off, hit the correct button, deleted the entire phone directory or ruined it in some way forever.

  At 10:00 p.m. she went to bed, her head buzzing with the discovery of the Sanderson manuscripts and their meaning to the publishing industry and to Sanderson fans. She was still trying to solve the puzzle of his decision to write far more than his usual word count, if indeed he did, as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At almost eight o’clock the next morning Thatch climbed into his battered silver pickup truck, a survivor of his many off-road geological expeditions, to make the short trip to Isabel Island from his hillside house in Upper Newport Bay. The steep white bluffs below his house bordered the Santa Ana River that had carved out a canyon to form the bay and mingle with the ocean-fed harbor below.

  He was always grateful to have found a home that was set back and high up, far removed from the bustle of the hundreds of yachts that sat at anchor below, music blaring from a few decks and the buzz of mechanical equipment as owners worked on their boats. On a good day he could see Santa Catalina Island, twenty-five miles to the west. For years before she died his wife had urged him to buy a boat so they could visit more often instead of having to take the catamaran ferry over, but he never took to owning a boat.

  Thatch’s quiet location also overlooked the several habitats in an ecological reserve with mud flats and a saltwater marsh. Home to wildlife and until a few years ago to a variety of birds, including loons, grebes, bufflehead, eared and pied-billed stoters, and mergansers, the area was under threat due to erosion and development. One part of the cliffs had already been ruined, in his opinion, by a row of thirty identical luxury homes built on a summit, all painted white, resembling a row of outsize teeth.

  Nevertheless, migrating birds flew in for brief stopovers on their way elsewhere, and Thatch enjoyed watching their activities. As an amateur geologist, a hobby he’d turned to after retiring a year earlier as an agent with the U.S. Secret Service, he liked poking around the estuary, chipping carefully away at the small rocks, inspecting the silt carried down from the north and studying the strata in the tall cliffs that rose to one hundred feet from sea level to a flat mesa.

  Thatch took his time on his way to pick up Tosca, enjoying the smell of the sea air and anticipating the pleasure of her company for the entire day. He knew there was a mutual attraction between them but recognized she was a prize he had to be careful not to lose by coming on too strongly as a brash American. He had learned by now that Tosca, despite her erratic impulsiveness, was one shrewd lady and the most honest woman about expressing herself he’d ever met, even if sometimes she appeared naïve.

  He told himself she hadn’t had much experience with rodeo riders from Wyoming and certainly not with a former secret agent. He liked to imagine her having tea every day with the Queen, although he knew it wasn’t true. Tosca told him she’d found the gossip for her newspaper column mainly through her friendship with the hundreds of maids, butlers and other staff who served the royal family, and definitely not with the royals themselves.

  Thatch approached the bridge onto Isabel Island, as always enthralled by the quaint cottages and over-the-top mansions that crowded into its three miles. Considered the jewel of the city of Newport Beach, the island’s residential streets lived up to its reputation by naming them for gemstones with signs for amethyst, topaz, agate, opal, onyx and others. The only commercial street, Moonstone, was crammed with storefront art galleries, boutiques, tiny but chic restaurants and a tavern. The street ended at the bay front where the ferry, an old barge, carried three cars, bicycles and dozens of passengers between the island and the peninsula that linked up to Newport Beach at its northeast end.

  Reflecting on how the island had evolved from a quaint little beach community built on a sandbar to a sophisticated all-year resort where sleekly toned women jogged in Chanel sweat suits and shopped in Ferragamo shoes, he chuckled at a saying he’d heard that in Newport Beach it was a bigger sin to be fat than financially unethical.

  Tosca and J.J. were standing on the sidewalk when he arrived on Fenton Street. He found a free spot, parked and jumped out of the driver’s seat.

  “Are you coming with us?” He noticed J.J. held no racing helmet in her hand.

  “No,” interrupted Tosca. “She’s waiting for a ride to pick up your daughter. You gave J.J. permission the other day, remember? They are going to visit a couple of retirement homes,” said Tosca.

  At Thatch’s puzzled expression J.J. quickly explained, “No, not for you or my mother, although I think people should plan ahead.” Tosca rolled her eyes as J.J. continued, “It’s just that I found out something interesting that isn’t gossip or crime related, for a change. There’s a new program with a musical connection that appeals to me. As you know, I can’t stand opera, even though our family boasts of two divas and a tenor, and I have to tell mother to pipe down when she gets the urge to sing those high notes around here.” She gave Tosca a hug. “Anyway, I heard about a music program that can unlock memories in Alzheimer’s patients. The father of one of my racing buddies is in a care home where they have just started the program. He told me about it, and he’s just added their logo to the side of his race car.”

  “Is it a sing-a-long?” said Thatch.

  “No, nothing like that. The patients are provided with iPods and hea
dphones,” she said, “and they are invited to select their favorite music from their past, the kind they listened and danced to as teenagers. I’ll know more after my visit. Oh, here’s my ride.”

  A candy-apple red 1964 convertible Mustang slid alongside Thatch’s truck. J.J. ran over to the car, waved goodbye and got in. The driver smiled at Thatch and Tosca and roared off down the one-way street. They watched it turn the corner and disappear.

  Thatch opened the passenger side door of his truck. “Okay, so it’s not a snazzy, sexy machine like the Mustang,” he said to Tosca as he helped her climb up onto the seat, “but I like my workhorse.”

  He patted the door after closing it, went around to the driver’s side and eased onto the worn vinyl. He handed Tosca a map, pages of pictures and text he’d downloaded from the mineral mine’s web site, and his Garmin GPS device.

  “I’ve set it to take us to the mine,” said Thatch. “It’s been quite a while since I was in that area, which is pretty desolate. The roads can flood or be blocked by a mudslide. If so, the Garmin can lead us to detours.”

  “Why do you always find such unpleasant places for me to endure?”

  “Aren’t you my hardy Cornishwoman, used to struggling over those wild, windy moors?” said Thatch, grinning.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thatch slid the truck into gear, and they left Isabel Island to head for the Interstate 5 South. As they passed Camp Pendleton Marine Base, Tosca looked for the resident buffalo and horses.