Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  Sunida suggested they all go back to the house for more tea. They trooped into the living room, where Swenson settled himself clumsily on the floor, leaning his bulk against the tall Thai cushion and almost toppling it. When their hostess returned with a fourth cup and another teapot Tosca was struck again by the stark contrast between the two. Sunida’s petite frame seemed all the more fragile compared to the obese editor, whose fat neck fell in upon itself by his awkward sitting position as he hunched over.

  Tosca decided it was time to ask Sunida how she came to have the Chandelier in her possession.

  “There’s a very simple explanation, and Oliver knows the story.” said Sunida. “Norman gave the Chandelier to me a few months after we arrived here in America. He’d heard the story of the Empress of China and her obsession with tourmaline. It appealed to his romantic nature, so when he read about the Chandelier being discovered locally, he went to the mine and bought it. ”

  “You must have been delighted,” said Tosca. “I hear it is a rare piece.”

  “I was thrilled with Norman’s gift. I know there’s not another one like it. I have to confess there have been times lately, with money so tight, when I thought of selling it, but so far I’ve been able to survive without giving it up, thanks to Oliver.”

  Tosca remembered the silver locket that had fallen from Sally’s purse.

  “Since you know Sally, do you have any idea why she had a locket in her purse with the name of Abigail, Fuller Sanderson’s wife, on it?”

  “Yes, of course. Norman gave it to me after she died. It was another proof to Sally of my relationship with him.”

  Sunida went on to tell her visitors she had asked Sally if there was a possibility that Fuller deeded any royalties to Norman in his will, and if so, whether she’d be able to share in them. Fortunately, Norman had paid in full for the little house and put it in her name, so there was no possibility of being evicted, but the Ritz hotel was being sold, and she feared for her job.

  “I was basically appealing to Sally’s good nature when I asked her about the royalties,” she said. “I’m sure she knew where they were to go because of her original contract with Sanderson. I needed to prove to her who I was, so I gave her the tourmaline and told her to take it to the Oceanview Mine. The owner would confirm that Norman bought it and had it delivered to me.” She stroked the Chandelier and continued, “I was also willing to provide my son’s DNA to prove Norman was the father.”

  Tosca glanced once more at the pair, still trying to come to grips with the paradox, the contradiction, of their body types. She was so tiny and willowy, and he was shapeless, paunchy and tall. Swenson’s presence dwarfed the diminutive Thai woman.

  “What about my book?” Sunida said. “With Sally passed away, can it still be published?”

  “Your book?” said Tosca. What other surprises did Sunida have up her Thai silk sleeve?

  “Yes, I have written a tell-all of my life with Norman Sanderson. Sally came up with the idea. I wasn’t too happy about it, because Norman had letters from Fuller, his dad, showing he was critical of Tinky Blair. Sally said she’d provide a ghostwriter for me.” Sunida glanced down at Swenson, smiled and said, “She introduced me to Oliver, here, and we’ve been working on the manuscript for months. Before we knew it, we had fallen in love.”

  The object of her affection appeared embarrassed and flicked a lock of his hair back, the same gesture Tosca had noted at the party. She’d use it in her article, she decided, as a way to describe the ghostwriter’s habits. Her editor always wanted colorful details. He called it particularity.

  Sunida moved over to Swenson and gracefully lowered herself onto the floor next to him. He put his arm around her, pulling her close

  “We going to be married,” he announced, a slight blush on his large face.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  This announcement was another bombshell for Tosca and Thatch. Both sprang to their feet to congratulate the couple, who got up to stand shyly before them.

  Of the two, Sunida appeared the most embarrassed. Swenson’s head was held high, a triumphant smile reaching from cheek to cheek. He was obviously thrilled to have won the hand of the beauty at his side.

  “I never thought I’d fall in love,” he said, “and here I am with the most incredible fiancée I could ever have imagined.”

  Tosca realized that Swenson was comfortable sharing his deepest emotion with the visitors and had no qualms about telling the world.

  “When will you finish Sunida’s memoir?” said Thatch after they took their seats again.

  “I’d say in three more months or so. Sally was really excited about it, and we’ve been working very closely with her all along. Now that she’s dead I don’t think I’ll have any problem finding another publisher. It’s been our secret; no one else knows, and I think it’ll be a bestseller because of the Fuller Sanderson connection.”

  Tosca asked Swenson if he planned to ask Graydon Blair to be his literary agent for the project. Swenson scowled in reply, shaking his head.

  “No way. I hope to sever all ties with him very soon.”

  As soon as she and Thatch were in the truck, Tosca demanded to know how he’d tracked Sunida down.

  “I still have a few connections around the various federal agencies, but this time I didn’t have to ask any favors. Jeff Stanger gave us the address that was on the receipt, remember?”

  “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? My powers of observation are being seriously compromised, living here in California. Everyone’s too laid-back, and I have fallen into the same trap.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tosca. Relax. Enjoy the sun.”

  Tosca nudged the closed parasol at her feet. “It’s the lack of rain, you know. It can addle one’s brains.” She fiddled with the strip of silk that kept the parasol closed. “Even so, you had to find out her phone number because you’d already talked to her before we went to her house. Google?”

  “Yep. Real easy”

  As they drove north he answered all her questions about his time in Bangkok. No, he hadn’t been tempted by any of the delicate and beautiful Thai women, nor had he been tempted in Saigon, where the Vietnamese ladies were as graceful as butterflies.

  Tosca finally lapsed into a skeptical silence for several miles, the Pacific Ocean on their left as they returned to Newport Beach. Every time she saw its sparkling blue expanse, Tosca liked to imagine the vast sea stretching silently up to the Arctic and west to Asia and Australia, then rushing noisily ashore.

  “Not like you to be so quiet,” said Thatch as they neared the bridge to Isabel Island.

  “I’m starving. We never had lunch, and it’s almost four o’clock.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. How about we find a fast food drive-through?”

  “Okay. I think a fish sandwich would fit the bill.”

  In Newport Beach they found a McDonald’s, and while munching on their food, they continued to discuss meeting Sunida, trying to absorb the surprises she disclosed.

  “It’s amazing. There’s the son she had with Norman Sanderson, the fact that she’s writing a revealing memoir, her lovely Thai house, and most surprising of all, Oliver Swenson is her ghostwriter and fiancé. I can’t believe how it all fits so perfectly together. The only questions are, why was Sally poisoned, and who did it? Did Karma find out about the tell-all? Would she have killed Sally to prevent its publication? Who else would have a reason to get rid of the poor woman? Ah, Graydon Blair, of course.”

  “Hey, you’re at it again. Slow down, Tosca. Didn’t mean to open the floodgates and get you going with throwing a bunch of questions at me all at once.”

  He steered the truck with his left hand and reached out with his right to envelop Tosca’s hand in his large one.

  “Don’t go all dramatic on me,” he said. “The cops are getting it all figured out. No need for you to get involved.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I am keeping my nose clean this time, but I dea
rly need some kind of dark, criminal activity for my next article. I’d better pay that nice Constable Parnell a visit. I know he needs my help.”

  They pulled up in front of Tosca’s house. By now the sun was on its way to its inexorable evening rendezvous with the horizon before disappearing to the other side of the globe. She invited Thatch in, but he declined.

  “I promised to take Christine out for an early dinner,” he said. “I’m sure she’s been sitting on the front steps for an hour already.”

  “Give my love to your daughter. Ask about her visit to the Alzheimer patients.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  At his kitchen table at home, Blair plucked at the strings of his Kinnor harp, cradling its small frame on his lap and appreciating the medieval shape and set of two bridges over which the strings were stretched. His callused fingertips and hands were a little too dry from the harsh scrubbing he’d given them after varnishing the front deck of his boat, but he knew that if he used oil or hand cream to soften the skin, it would deaden the tone of the chords he was testing.

  After playing a few melodies he put the instrument down and picked up the chitarra battente. Strumming it gently, he heard a discordant note in its five double strings. Blair stopped playing and tried out the low D string to see if it was the culprit. Yes, time to replace it. It was a nuisance, because instead of the nylon strings commonly used on the instrument, he preferred to order custom gut from Denmark, and the waiting period was often as long as two weeks. This time he’d be wise to order a full set.

  From the outside pocket of the harp’s carrying case, he removed the tapered tuning key and unlocked the pin for the D string. Before he could unthread the offending string, his iPhone sounded.

  “Karma, what is it?”

  “You sound really testy, Graydon. I just wanted to let you know that Oliver has asked for a meeting with you and me. Sounds kind of serious. As far as I’m concerned, our arrangement with him shouldn’t change now that you’re going to find us a new publisher. We’ll just go on as usual, right?”

  Graydon took his time answering before he spoke.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why anything should be otherwise, but let’s hear what he has to say. He’s agreed with our plan all along except for that one argument the other day with Sally. I doubt Swenson will want to do anything different just because we’re taking those manuscripts to a much bigger publisher. It’ll be to his advantage. He knows we’ll insist he be hired as the editor.”

  “Have you decided yet when the best time is to announce we’ve found them? My bills are piling up.”

  He hated hearing Karma’s heavy breathing through the phone. “No. Don’t do anything until I say so. That would ruin everything. When does he want to meet?”

  “Tomorrow, if we can both make it. I sure can.”

  “Fine. Have him come to the boat at 10:00 a.m. We’ll take a short trip down the coast. I have some brandy that’ll soften him up.”

  Blair jabbed his finger at the phone’s red circle to close the call. He finished removing the harp’s D string and went online to place his order for the new set.

  His thoughts returned to Oliver Swenson. Damn writers, always angling for more money or recognition, even one like Oliver, who knows very well that he must stay behind the scenes about books he has ghostwritten. The contract drawn up between him and the publisher was specific about non-disclosure. What could the man want? First Sally, now Swenson.

  A knock at the door caused him to call out, “It’s open.”

  He heard a voice say, “Oh, thank you. Terribly sorry to disturb you on such a wonderfully sunny morning. It’s raining curtain rods in London at the moment.”

  That Brit!

  “Mrs. Trevant, am I correct?”

  He came forward and invited her in.

  “Please do call me Tosca. We met at Karma’s party. I was so interested to meet you. I know you were Fuller Sanderson’s literary agent after your father died. How exciting to be privileged to carry on selling the works of such a legendary crime novelist. I’m writing an article about Karma’s anniversary celebration and the fundraiser for a library. The evening ended in such sadness with Sally dying. A mystery in itself, don’t you think, Mr. Blair?”

  “A mystery? Oh, yes, the police were here. I suppose they interviewed everyone who was at the party, looking for whoever slipped Sally the poisonous sap they said she succumbed to.”

  “Oh, how alliterative you are. I’ll use the phrase in my article, if it’s all right with you?”

  Blair’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Do not attribute any quotes to me,” he said.

  Without expanding further and deciding he needed to be a little more hospitable to this gossipy woman who could be a threat, he asked if she’d like a cup of coffee. Shiny copper pots and skillets hung from a circular metal ceiling rack, and three glass-fronted cabinets held dishes and glasses. The bare white marble countertops and floor, meticulously clean, sparkled. Only the kitchen table showed signs of activity, and he watched Tosca immediately pounce upon it.

  “Your Kinnor harp,” she said, wonder sending her voice high as she regarded the instrument and reached out to touch it. “I hadn’t seen one of these close up in years until I heard you play it at Karma’s party. Where did you get it? What a beautiful instrument. How old is this one?”

  At her enthusiastic barrage of questions, Blair felt disarmed. She sure knew her harps. He went to the Keurig coffee machine he kept on a side table and asked her preference.

  “Espresso Roast or Perfetto? No, you look like a Mocha Swirl lady,” he said, cocking his head and regarding her. “Or perhaps Tetley’s British Blend Tea?” He held up the small K-cup.

  “Thank you, yes, the tea will be fine. Oh, just a minute. You’re brewing it in that thing?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m sure it will taste wonderful. You Americans are so far ahead of us in many ways, but,” she seemed to be searching for the right words, “don’t you agree that tea needs to steep for a while, even when the leaves are reduced to dust and packed into those ugly teabags?”

  “Sorry,” Blair said, his tone breezy, ignoring her remark. “This is it. Did you take a good look at the Kinnor?”

  He watched her run her fingers over the harp again, this time along one of its two horizontal curved arms, and explained he’d been tuning it up when he discovered the D string needed replacing. Blair complained at the length of time it took to reorder and asked if she played any instruments.

  “No. I am a student of music, of opera most of all, and I’ve studied medieval instruments. I saw you playing this Kinnor at Karma’s party, and late one evening we heard you on your boat—I assume it was you—playing a spinet. An ottovino, I assumed. You are multi-talented, Mr. Blair, or may I call you Graydon?” At his nod she continued, “You own quite an extraordinary instrument.”

  Blair jumped eagerly to his feet, clearly flattered. “Oh, this is just part of my collection. Let me show you some of the others. It’s a small but highly significant group. I rarely let anyone see them, but I know you’ll appreciate them.”

  He left the kitchen and returned carrying two stringed instruments under his arms and a third in his hand. He set them on the table along with a bow that he placed alongside the almond-shaped rebec.

  “Do you know what they are?”

  He was sure she didn’t.

  “Umm, let’s see,” Tosca said, peering at them closely. “They are basically all fiddles.”

  At his look of horror she laughed and said, “All right, but it’s the truth. Anyway, I only know a few of them from seeing photos. This is a Welsh lyre, it’s called a crwth,” pronouncing the word as ‘kruth’ and smiling when Blair nodded in appreciation. “It’s probably from the thirteenth century,” continued Tosca, “and that one with the lovely bow looks like a Middle Eastern rebec, the kind Chaucer wrote about in his medieval work, The Miller’s Tale. Such a pity it has a scratch. But this third o
ne with a string missing has me stumped. A guitar, I’d guess, but what kind?”

  “Well done, but I knew you wouldn’t be able to name my Italian chitarra battente. Very few people can. It’s a chordophone, belongs to the lute family. It’s one of the rare smaller models. Medium and large sizes are much more common. Okay, I grant it’s similar to a Spanish guitar, but I’m surprised that, with all the supposed knowledge of these musical instruments you’ve shown so far, you don’t know this one.”

  He saw at once he’d hit a soft spot. Tosca launched into what she knew about the crwth and rebec, which was precious little, but she managed to make it sound comprehensive.

  Blair let her ramble on, his mind distracted by the annoyance of having to order new strings for the Kinnor. Besides, anything she said was of no interest, because he knew the background of his collection inside out, of course. Hadn’t he studied their origin before figuring out where and how to obtain them?

  Chapter Forty

  After he served Tosca the tea, making sure to provide milk and sugar, and brought his coffee cup to the table, Blair sat down, but his mind drifted off again as Tosca kept talking. Her comments about musical instruments became a buzz to his ears, and his thoughts turned once more to what he thought of as the rescue of each instrument, a small smile hovering at the edges of his mouth.

  He re-lived having to pull the rebec forcibly out of its owner’s arms. The man wasn’t supposed to be home, and Blair had expected a quick in-and-out mission with gloves the only necessary accessory. It was pure luck that the guy, a Jordanian diplomat, happened to be a collector of other items in addition to musical instruments. He also loved Arabian daggers, which were conveniently displayed on a nearby wall shelf. How easy it had been to grab one when the man refused to let go of the rebec.

  Blair took the weapon away with him when he left, along with the musical instrument, and for a while he considered keeping the dagger instead of getting rid of it. He was intrigued by the fine hilt decorated with two silver rosettes and the gold adorning the handle. It was obviously valuable, but having the rebec was reward enough.