Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  “Yes,” said Tosca, “with giant milkweed sap. That’s why we’re here asking about your plant.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  George and Cynthia both spoke at once, assuring Tosca and Arlene that they had been away and knew nothing about poisonous sap.

  Deciding the visit was another dead end, Tosca and Arlene thanked the couple, took their leave and continued on to the third address.

  “Ah, this is where Sunny lives,” said Arlene. “She’s a librarian at the Newport Beach library, and she belongs to our bunco group. Let’s see if she’s in.”

  A small cottage set between two others of the same size, its small front yard was filled with dozens of small and large pots. The women entered through the small gate and inspected the pots.

  “There’s the one with the cut stem,” Tosca said, pointing to a tall terra cotta jar.

  No bell or door knocker was in sight, but the front door was open behind the screen door. Arlene called out, “Sunny, are you home? It’s Arlene.”

  A short young woman appeared, holding a kitten against her shoulder.

  “Arlene! How nice to see you. Let me unlatch the screen door. Come on in.”

  Tosca was introduced, and she quickly gave the reason for their visit, explaining about milkweed plants and their toxicity to both humans and animals. She told Sunny that the stem on the plant in the large jar outside her front door had been slit.

  “Slit? How strange. Let’s go out, and you can show me.”

  The three went outside, and Tosca pointed out the damage.

  “I’ve never noticed it,’ said Sunny. “When do you think it happened?”

  “Maybe a week or so ago,” said Tosca. “It looks quite fresh, just like the cuts to the other ones we’ve seen on the island. They are all recent plantings.”

  “Do you think Karma may have done it by mistake, at least in mine, when she was putting it in? I’m usually at work when she comes here.”

  “You weren’t at her party, Sunny, were you? I didn’t see you there,” said Arlene.

  “No, Karma invited me but I was in San Diego, visiting my sister.”

  Tosca and Arlene took their leave, noting they only had two more houses to check out and hoping their owners were in.

  Five streets over, facing the bay and the peninsula, with a sweeping view of the harbor, they stopped at a three-story stone mansion on a double lot. It towered above its neighbors, which were equally as palatial but not as tall or imposing. The front yard included two tiered rock gardens in opposite corners, a large grass area and three planters, one of which held an exceptionally bushy milkweed.

  “Oh, yes,” said Arlene, looking up at the copper-topped cupola on the roof. “This is where Betty and Sol Bernstein live. A nice couple. They built this house a couple of years ago. She’s a big donor to the arts. Didn’t you meet them at Karma’s party? They were both there.”

  “No. Sally became ill before I had the chance to talk to everyone. Let’s see if they’re home. Oh, look. Wave, Arlene. We’re on Candid Camera.” Tosca pointed to the four small black security cameras positioned above the doorway.

  While Arlene reached up to the shiny brass lion-head that served as a knocker on the front door and banged it twice, Tosca went over to examine the plant she knew so well by now. Careful not to touch the large vertical cut in its thick stem, she reflected that the killer might have gathered enough of the poison from just this one plant.

  Could it be that the others had been slashed to draw suspicion away from the Bernstein’s milkweed?

  A woman’s disembodied voice came through a small box on one side of the doorframe.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Betty, it’s Arlene. I’d forgotten you have a security system. Can we talk to you for a moment?”

  “Oh, of course, dear. What a nice surprise. Just a second, I’ll be right there.”

  The tall door was pulled back, and a woman appeared. Her tightly coiffed, stiff hairdo and full-length blue jacquard gown gave Tosca the impression of a duchess awaiting friends for tea. Betty invited her visitors in.

  Tosca was introduced, and she and Arlene were led into a library. Floor to ceiling cherry wood bookshelves lined the walls with volumes of books interspersed with knickknacks. A baby grand piano occupied one corner, a music stand to its right.

  “Wasn’t Karma’s party fun, that is, until Sally became ill?” said Betty. “I had just mentioned to you, Arlene, that she seemed to be drunk, but now we know she was sick. I can’t believe she died.”

  “Yes, it was very sad. Tosca was at the party, too, and wants to ask you something.”

  “Really?” Betty turned to Tosca, her eyebrows raised. “How can I help you?”

  “I know it’s a bit of a cheek asking you this, but I wondered if you or your husband had any dealings, business or otherwise, with Sally and her publishing house. I seem to remember that you told me Sol collects first editions.”

  “Good heavens, yes, that’s right. He’s in Japan at the moment, chasing down some rare book, and he’s always asking Sally if she knows of any serious book collectors who have Fuller first editions. She always says no, but Sol suspects she must have the entire collection, knowing the longer Sally keeps them, the more they’ll be worth. Let me show you his collection; he’s real proud of it.”

  She led them through the hall and into a study where a tall, glass-fronted cabinet stretched from one side of a wall to the other. On the shelves were hundreds of hardcover books, most leather bound, with several of the titles in gilt. A few paperbacks were evident in pristine condition.

  “Sol heard a rumor that Sally might close up shop because she was broke,” said Betty, “and we were willing to pay a hefty sum for the first editions.” She turned to Arlene. “You seem to know so much about the Sandersons. Have you heard anything about the estate and its contents? She must have left a will. I wonder who’s the beneficiary? I bet she owned all of Sanderson’s first editions. I know Sol would do anything to get his hands on them.”

  Tosca was taken aback by the callousness of the reply and was momentarily thrown off course.

  Arlene answered, “Betty, we know that Sally was in financial difficulty, but I have no idea about a will.”

  “My husband is obsessed with buying a first edition of The Total Surrender. Have you read any of Sanderson’s books, Tosca?”

  Tempted to reply that she owned every single one of Sanderson’s first editions just to see Betty’s reaction, Tosca instead changed the subject.

  “You do know that Sally was poisoned? And that it was with the sap from giant milkweed plants? You have two pots of them in your front garden. I noticed that the stems have been cut. Traces of the sap are still there where it’s been collected. It was put in the White Russians she drank.”

  Betty gaped at Tosca and straightened up in her chair. “Good heavens, you don’t think either Sol or I know what’s in our yard, do you? Karma comes in every week and takes care of it. We have no idea what the plants are or what they’re called.”

  Arlene stood up, clearly upset. “Of course you don’t, dear. We’re just trying to figure something out, that’s all. Tosca gets a little carried away sometimes. She’s English, you know.”

  “Cornish.” Tosca spluttered the word as she, too, stood up and held out her hand. “Thank you for a fascinating conversation. Much food for thought. By the way, with such a valuable collection in the house, you are smart to have installed security cameras outside. I wonder if we might take a look at the tapes?”

  “The tapes? Sol takes care of all that.”

  “Perhaps we can have your permission to view them at your security company offices?”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask my husband when he returns.”

  Chapter Thirty

  On the way to the next house Tosca asked Arlene her opinion. Was Sol the kind of person who would kill in order to satisfy his obsession with first editions?

  “Oh, Tosca, I can’t imagine that So
l would kill anyone. That’s absurd. Although, now that you ask, I read true crime books, and sometimes it’s the nice guy next door who turns out to be a murderer. So I have to say I’m not sure. I don’t know him that well, but he and Betty seem like a very ordinary couple.”

  “It’s a little far-fetched, I suppose,” said Tosca. “I wonder if Sol knew for sure that Sally had first editions. If she was so broke, she probably sold them all off, but it was interesting how Betty missed the whole point of my question. She sidestepped by saying she didn’t know anything about her plants instead of answering whether she noticed they’d been cut.”

  The next-to-last address on Tosca’s list was a dilapidated duplex, but the garden looked well taken care of. Probably Karma’s work, noted Arlene, telling Tosca that she knew neither the current tenants nor the homeowner. Her opinion that Karma was the gardener was confirmed when Tosca pointed out the signature milkweed planted in a circle of soil in the center. Tosca quickly checked the stem and was surprised to see a very small cut, only a third of the size of the other slashes.

  A For Rent sign was in the downstairs window. There were no drapes, and when they looked through the glass, the rooms were empty. They went to the back of the house and found a flight of wooden steps that led upstairs. On the door was another For Rent sign.

  “Maybe it’s a tear-down,” said Arlene. “Looks in pretty bad condition. The paint’s peeling all over the place. Guess they’ve all moved out. Didn’t you see the For Rent signs when you came by earlier?”

  “Yes, I did see them, but I was hoping the owner might be around now, hoping to catch possible renters’ attention, and be here to answer questions. Neither of the signs have any contact phone numbers.”

  “So let’s move on to the final house,” said Arlene.

  Tosca was silent as they walked seven more blocks, deciding that the killer had most likely collected enough sap at the other houses to leave the plant at the empty houses barely touched. She also wondered what had been used to collect the poison. A glass jar? What would I use? The lab report said only a small amount could cause death. I think I’d use something I had around the house, or I’d buy a small jar of baby food at the supermarket, clean it out, and put the sap in. No, that would be too big to bring to the party and too noticeable. It could be carried in a woman’s purse, she conceded to herself, but not in a man’s pocket. So perhaps the murderer was one of the female party guests.

  In addition, how would the killer manage to empty the sap surreptitiously, whatever it was contained in, into Sally’s drink with so many people crowded around the bar, if that’s where it happened? Of course. She remembered Blair had given up his place in line until he was the last one, giving him privacy to add the poison, she believed, to the cocktail.

  At the final house the two women entered the yard through a rusty iron gate. Tosca scanned the area quickly and spotted the milkweed. It was near the low stucco wall that separated it from the neighbor’s yard.

  “It looks fine from here,” said Arlene, peering over at the plant’s stem. “I don’t see any cuts.”

  “My photo shows otherwise.”

  She walked to the wall and bent down.

  “Yes. There’s a cut just like all the others.”

  At the homeowner’s door Arlene rang the bell, setting off furious barking from inside, the same barking that Tosca had heard when she visited the house earlier in the day. There had been no response then, but she’d lingered long enough to admire the door’s two mullioned glass panels and the carved wood Tudor rose in the door’s center.

  “I think the architect has mixed Tudor with Elizabethan, but it’s still beautiful,” said Tosca to Arlene, reaching up to run her fingers over the red, green and white rose.

  “Really? I think it’s a gorgeous door. Tosca, sometimes you are a little too critical. You should be pleased to see a reminder of old England over here, no offense.”

  “The deliberate substitution and switching around of our historical eras can be jarring to the eyes of a foreigner like me, I suppose. Oh, the dog has stopped barking.”

  The door was opened by a young Asian man holding a German shepherd by its collar.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” said Tosca. “We were admiring your Japanese garden and plantings, especially the miniature red bridge over that little river of stones. Charming.”

  The three looked over at the garden feature that took up most of the front yard.

  “Thank you,” he said

  Arlene held out her hand toward him. “We’re neighbors. Arlene Mindel, and this is Tosca Trevant.”

  “Harry Tanaka. What can I do for you?”

  He shook their hands. Tosca was surprised that his accent was pure American and surmised he was born and raised in the United States.

  “We were wondering about the plant at the far end of the bridge,” she said, “the giant milkweed with the tiny purple flowers. The stem is broken, or rather, it seems to have a deep gash in it. Had you noticed?”

  The three walked toward the plant and inspected the stem. Tosca pointed out the damaged stem.

  “No,” said Tanaka, “I haven’t noticed anything. Maybe a cat took a dislike to it.” He chuckled. “Is that why you stopped by?”

  He bent down to touch the tiny drop of sap that remained on the stem.

  “No, don’t touch it!” said Tosca. “It can cause a rash!”

  Tanaka jumped back at her vehement outburst and looked at her in consternation.

  “I’m sorry,” said Arlene. “We needed to warn you. Is Karma your gardener?”

  “Yes, she is, but my landlady takes care of the maintenance. I’ve only rented here for a year. The yard was a mess when I arrived, and then I had the idea for the little bridge. Reminds me of Japanese gardens. Karma asked the owner if she could build it for me and was given permission to do so.”

  “We’ve seen that same kind of plant in five other yards, and all of them have had their stems slashed,” said Tosca, bringing his attention back to the milkweed. “Have you ever heard of Karma’s grandfather, Fuller Sanderson, the author?”

  “I know hardly anyone on Isabel Island. I’ve only seen Karma a couple of times. I’m studying math at UCI and don’t have much time for reading anything but text books. Who is Fuller Sanderson?”

  After explaining that the illustrious former island resident was long gone, Tosca asked Tanaka if he knew of the party at Kama’s house at which a guest had died.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t even read the newspapers. My finals are coming up.”

  His visitors left and headed home.

  “Another one we can rule out,” said Tosca. “Thanks for your help, Arlene. I think I’ll sleep well tonight having satisfied my curiosity about the milkweeds in all those yards.”

  “You sure look pretty smug,” said Arlene.

  “Do I?”

  “I thought it seemed to be a bust. Were any of those people a help?”

  “Yes, but I can’t tell you why at the moment.”

  She didn’t want to explain to Arlene how pleased she was that they’d been able to talk to the homeowners before that surly police detective interviewed them, nor did she want her friend to know exactly how her own inquiries were proceeding. She liked Arlene very much but knew of her inclination to gossip.

  Takes one to know one, Tosca admitted wryly to herself.

  After they parted company at Arlene’s house and went their separate ways. Tosca went home to get the car and drove over to the Newport Beach police station located on the perimeter of the city’s famous fashion plaza. She asked to speak with Parnell.

  “I have some photographs to show you,” she said when he appeared.

  “What photographs?”

  “Of the damaged stems on the giant milkweed plants, where the murderer got the sap.”

  “You were trespassing again?”

  “Oh, no. My neighbor and I were invited in by each homeowner except at the house with no tena
nts. One of the homes has security cameras. Maybe the murderer is shown on tape colleting some sap. Wouldn’t you like to check it out?”

  The detective took Tosca’s phone to have the photos printed out and made a note of all the homeowners’ addresses. After half an hour Parnell returned and gave the phone back to Tosca. He led her out and bade her a curt goodnight.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “How many Alzheimer patients did you and Christine get to listen to with that music program yesterday?” asked Tosca as she and J.J. had coffee and homemade scones on the roof patio the next morning. From their vantage point they had a clear view of one of the two canals that encircled the island, and they looked up whenever a yacht sailed slowly by.

  “We managed to work with seven of them,” said J.J., “three men and four women who were willing to try out the iPods and headphones we brought. We had a difficult time at first because we asked them what music they liked, but most didn’t remember. They just looked at us blankly. So we picked out what we decided was from their high school years, after we learned their approximate ages from the nurse, and most of them really perked up.”

  “What a splendid idea. Music & Memory, Inc. Is that the name? Must have been heartwarming.”

  “Yes. The medical staff were amazed to see their patients reawaken. One old fella hadn’t spoken in three years, nor smiled, and there he was, grinning from ear to ear, when we put the headphones on him. He kept saying, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ It was such fun to see most of the patients respond, keeping time with the music by nodding their heads. One woman started to do a jig. We played some Irish folk songs for her, and she began to talk about Dublin, said it was her hometown.”

  “Tell me more. I’m so pleased you have this interest in music, even if it isn’t opera.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mummy. One woman had been a cellist with a Utah symphony orchestra, according to her medical file. We played part of an aria from La Boheme, and she began to talk about the opera. The nurse said she hadn’t uttered a word in months.”