Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  “Yes, yes,” Swenson stammered, “but that’s the thing, you see. I’m not going to participate. I’m out. I never did like the idea to begin with.”

  He pulled a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on his brow.

  “What? You can’t quit. There’s no possibility of your quitting. The third book is only half finished.”

  Blair got up and went out to the deck, shaking his head.

  Swenson followed him, saying, “Gray, my mind’s made up. I’m getting married, and I am going to start with a clean slate. In fact, I am writing another book for my fiancée, a tell-all about the Sanderson dynasty. Your plan has bothered me ever since you came up with it two years ago. It’s a sleazy way to honor Fuller. Honor! Ha! That’s a laugh.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Blair. “The two and a half books you have ghostwritten are exactly the way he would have written them. In fact, they are even more dramatic than anything he’s written. You’ve given the characters more depth and turned Johnny DiLeo into a much more complex and interesting guy. Come on, Oliver, tell me you’re going to finish the third manuscript.”

  “I won’t. I’m quitting.”

  “Now look, Karma and I have it all scheduled to be announced over the next two weeks. We’re going to bring the media in and tell them we’ve found not only Sanderson’s lost manuscript but a couple of others he left and that you’ve already edited them. So you see, we need you. No one will ever suspect you ghostwrote all three. What do you think of the titles? Very Sanderson, don’t you think?”

  Blair flicked the stub of his cigar into the bay as the two men stood in the stern of the boat. He continued, “We haven’t quite come up with a story on how we found them. Karma joked we could say they were buried on the land Fuller left her, but then we decided to keep it a mystery for now. We’ll string it out as long as we can. The media will eat it up. Two unpublished books we knew nothing about and the lost partial manuscript. This will go international, no doubt about it. Imagine the sales!” He turned to Swenson. “Come on, man, you’re going to make a ton of money, too, plus what we’ve already given you. Let’s go in the cabin and have a drink.” He grabbed Swenson’s arm, but he pulled away.

  “You don’t understand, Graydon. When I said I’m going to make a clean slate of it, that means I’m going public. My fiancée already knows what I did.”

  Blair stood still, as if turned to stone.

  Swenson walked over to the rail and leaned against it, his thick arms dangling loosely, his head hanging down. He turned toward Blair.

  “Sorry, I hate to disappoint you, but my mind’s made up,” he mumbled.

  “All right, all right. Come on inside and have a drink. We need to talk this out some more.”

  “Nothing you say can change anything, but okay, I could use a brandy. I was so nervous about telling you.”

  The two went inside. Blair opened a door to one of the cabinets in the small galley kitchen where he kept several bottles of liquor. He came back to the table with two half-full glasses.

  “Let’s toast,” he said, holding up his glass. “Skol!”

  Swenson took a large gulp and set down the glass. “Wow, great stuff. What is it?”

  “A Borderies 1914 Cognac Hermitage.”

  “Vintage, then. Must be pretty rare.” Swenson took another large swallow, draining the glass.

  “Yes, it is,” said Blair. “I came across it in France three years ago. Notice the roast walnut and toffee aroma and taste? No, I guess not. The way you’re wolfing it down, you’re missing the entire experience of this marvelous old brandy.”

  “Sorry, Gray, guess I was unsure of your reaction when I told you my decision. You don’t seem upset, for which I am grateful. Maybe we should all come clean, the four of us—well, three since Sally’s dead and …” His hand dropped the glass onto the table, his eyelids closed, and his head slumped sideways onto his shoulder.

  Blair checked the man’s pulse. The Ecstasy he’d added to the glass was a small amount but should have been enough to render Swenson unconscious.

  Suddenly, the writer’s head snapped up. “Geez, Gray, I must have dozed off,” he said, slurring the words. His head fell sideways again.

  Damn guy’s like a sponge, Blair thought. He sprang into action, grabbed the strings he’d been using to repair the Kinnor harp and slipped them around Swenson’s neck. Twisting as hard as he could, he watched them bite into Swenson’s neck and disappear into the folds. An arm flapped in feeble protest as Blair continued to pull. He finally put his foot up onto the table edge to gain more traction, straining as hard as he could for several minutes. At last he let go and sank onto the floor, breathing hard.

  “You know very well that I hate being called Gray,” said Blair to the inert body. He went topside, started the engine, and pulled out to the open sea.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  One day later the news was all over the island. A man’s body was found wrapped around one of the pilings under the pier. Two surfers had discovered it early the previous morning and called police. Tosca was irritated that she had already completed her morning walk and was back home when Arlene called her with the report.

  “Tosca, did you see it?”

  “See what, dear? Is there something up in the air or down on the beach I should be aware of? Really, Arlene, you are being somewhat vague.”

  “The body over at the pier. Don’t tell me you don’t know?”

  Tosca sensed her neighbor smirking and enjoying one-upmanship.

  “Are you having me on, Arlene? I know your nose was out of joint when I found someone’s corpse that time and didn’t tell you right away. Is this payback?”

  “No, it’s true. My friend called me. She watched the police arrive and take the body away.”

  “Well, dear, don’t just sit there. Come over and tell me all the details. Is it still at the pier? Who found it? Who is it? Someone drowned?”

  “I’ll come over.”

  “Start at the beginning,” said Tosca when she and Arlene were seated in the window nook at the small table. Arlene had brought her own mug of coffee, and Tosca had made herself a pot of tea.

  “The body at the pier I told you about?” said Arlene. “It’s Oliver Swenson! He’s dead. Someone recognized him right away.”

  “Good heavens. How strange. Another one who was at Kama’s party.”

  Before her neighbor could respond they heard sirens. Both rushed outside to see two police cruisers barrel down the street, screech around the corner and disappear.

  “Where are they going?” said Tosca. “Come on, Arlene. As Sherlock would say, the game’s afoot.”

  She urged her neighbor to hurry down the steps and into the street, following the route the cop cars had taken. They saw the cars parked outside Karma’s cottage. The front door was open.

  Tosca marched up to the officer standing in the doorway.

  “What’s happening? Did someone die in this house? We’ve had a death here already. You don’t mean to tell me there’s been another? Is this a crime scene?”

  Parnell came out of the house, carrying a guitar sealed in a large plastic evidence bag. Seeing Tosca, he made a half-turn to go back inside.

  “Inspector, I can sense your annoyance from here,” she called. “Now what’s happening? Karma is a friend of ours. Is she all right? I don’t see any yellow tape to indicate a crime has been committed. Not another poisoning surely? Why do you have her guitar? May we know her fate?”

  “Her fate, as you call it, Mrs. Trevant, is that she isn’t here.”

  “Well, you can hardly blame me. I haven’t seen her in over a week.”’

  Parnell strode over to a cop car, placed the guitar in the trunk and got in the passenger seat. The officer at the house closed Karma’s front door, and both cruisers sped off.

  “How exciting!” said Arlene. “What do you make of it, Tosca?”

  “Such drama. They’re obviously looking for her. Pr
obably have some more questions about Sally, although I am truly annoyed that the cops didn’t ask Karma to come into the police station instead of frightening the ducks with all those sirens. Your customs often confuse me. John down the street has his cat on an antidepressant prescribed by the vet. How can anyone know the difference between a cat that’s depressed and a cat that might be lovesick?”

  They decided to drive over to Karma’s garden center to see if Sam knew where she was. Arlene insisted that she drive. As they arrived they saw Kama getting into the back seat of a police car, which quickly drove away, the handyman watching from the shed.

  Arlene and Tosca hurried over to him. “What’s happening, Sam? Has Karma been arrested?”

  ”Nah, they just wanna question her, they said. She’ll be back.” He held out his forearm. Swollen to almost twice its size, it was bandaged from wrist to elbow. ““Look at this. She told me not to go weedin’ in the milkweed patch. Doctor said I could’ve died. It’s poison, that stuff. Killed that woman at Karma’s party.”

  Sam shuffled off despite their pleas to talk some more. They looked at each other in consternation.

  “This has really put me up a gum tree,” said Tosca. “How am I going to pull my toe out of this hole?”

  “What tree? What hole?”

  “I’m talking about this complication. Don’t you see? Now I’ve got to start solving Sally’s case all over again. I was certain that Graydon Blair killed her somehow, probably by slipping her a mickey at the party, and I think I’ve figured out how he did it; but maybe it was Karma who poisoned her drink with that milkweed stuff.”

  “Oh, my,” Arlene. “That’s a hard one to swallow. Oops, I made a pun. Sorry. You know, she wanted to put one of those plants in my yard, and I told her I thought it was too ugly. But why would Karma want to kill Sally?”

  “I happen to know that Fuller Sanderson’s book sales are terrible. Maybe she wanted to get rid of Sally so she could get the publishing rights back from her and go to another publisher.”

  “That’s pretty drastic. I can’t believe Karma would murder anyone,” said Arlene.

  “You should read more books, dear. There are killers all around us.”

  “Is that an Edgar Allen Poe quote?” said Arlene.

  “No, it’s from a book written by a clinical psychologist who’s a consultant at a prison.”

  The two left the garden center, drove back to Isabel Island and agreed to meet later on. Upstairs, and after fortifying herself with a good strong pot of Yorkshire Gold tea, Tosca decided to read the British newspapers on the Internet. It was a regular morning habit after she returned from her walk around the island. She liked to keep up with happenings at home, but this day she’d missed her reading session because she had a feeling the police would be on the island questioning residents, an event Tosca was determined not to miss. Instead, they left Karma’s cottage without talking to her or to neighbors and party-goers.

  Tosca logged on to her favorite online newspapers. What she read posted by The Guardian astounded her. Tosca switched over to the Daily Telegraph’s web site. Same shocking news! She heard footsteps on the stairs and recognized them as her daughter’s. Tosca rushed out to greet her.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “I’m going home!”

  “What?”

  “Yes! The queen has decided to abdicate in favor of Wills.”

  At her daughter’s blank look Tosca said, “Oh, come on, dear. Prince William. His dad and Camilla are being passed over as our next king and queen, and darling Wills will be crowned instead.”

  “Mother, calm down. That rumor has been around for months. Everyone knows it’s not true. And take that maddening smile off your face, because it’s never going to happen.”

  Tosca continued to smile broadly. “So you say, but the most revered newspaper in the UK says the rumor is probably true. Poetic justice, sort of, isn’t it? This will be the second abdication of a monarch since Prince Edward gave up the throne to marry Mrs. Simpson. ”

  “Even if the rumor is true,” said J.J., “how does it affect you and the lawsuit?”

  “The palace can hardly engage in a sordid scandal when the world is going to be paying Her Majesty homage for her sixty years of public service. They won’t want anything to tarnish her image. No, the lawsuit, even the threat of one against me and the editor, is dead.”

  She twirled around between the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets as J.J. continued to stand motionless in the doorway, racing helmet in one hand.

  “Don’t you see what this means?” said Tosca “I can carry a brolly again! I won’t need that anymore.”

  She pointed to the parasol against the front doorframe.

  “So you’re happy to write the “Tiara Tittle-Tattle” column again? You were trying to get a promotion, remember?”

  “Oh, everything’s going to change for me at the newspaper. By the time I leave I’ll have solved Sally’s murder. The editor can hardly deny me a promotion to crime reporter.”

  J.J. harrumphed and went upstairs to her bedroom. In a few moments Tosca heard the bathroom door close and the sound of the shower running. J.J. opened the door, stuck her head around it and called down, “What about Thatch?”

  Before she could answer, and her daughter was obviously not expecting her to, J.J. disappeared back into the bathroom. Ah, yes, Thatch. Well, I’ll do a Scarlett O’Hara and deal with that situation tomorrow. Today I have a killer to catch.

  She looked at the clock, decided that Thatch was either enjoying the afternoon sun on his patio or was out and about and called his phone.

  “Yes,” he said before she could speak. “I heard about the man found at the pier. I suppose you know it’s Oliver Swenson?”

  “I do, and I was thinking about Sunida. I’m sure she saw it on the news. How terrible for her. Should we pay her a visit?”

  Thatch suggested they call first and ask if she’d like them to come over. An hour later he told Tosca that Sunida would welcome seeing them and added that he’d pick up a flower arrangement. He also advised Tosca that it was customary in Thailand to wear black, white or a combination of both, as it was in America, although he had no idea if Sunida followed her Thai funeral tradition or American.

  Wearing a white blouse and black silk pants, Tosca joined Thatch in his truck, assuming that the box in the truck bed held a bouquet.

  After Thatch parked at Sunida’s house, he and Tosca went to the back of the truck. He opened the box and removed a silver bowl with several stemless white lotus flowers floating in water.

  “It’s the custom,” he said when Tosca expressed surprise. “There’s an Asian florist in Cerritos, and I made a quick trip over there. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely,” Tosca agreed. “Certainly different and a charming change to the wreaths we give.”

  Sunida’s front door and windows were draped with black ribbons. She answered their knock with a tear-drenched face.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I am devastated, as you can see.”

  She led them into the living room, which had been stripped of the colorful cushions although the floor bolsters remained. The base of the Buddha head was swathed in a black cotton fabric and the exotic paintings were draped in ribbons like the outside windows.

  Thatch presented the bowl of flowers, which Sunida placed in front of the Buddha.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” said Tosca as the three of them sat. “Did Oliver have any relatives, and has a funeral been arranged?”

  “He was closest to a niece, Terry Swenson, his brother’s child. She’s in college in Portland, Oregon, and her family lives in Roseville. When I called the Newport Beach police about when they planned to release dear Oliver’s body, they said the investigation into his death is ongoing. I understood, of course. Then I called Terry. She had no idea who I was, as her uncle had only just proposed to me. He was going to visit them next week to tell them the news. I didn’t plan to go with him at th
is stage.”

  A fresh paroxysm of weeping kept Sunida from talking further until she dried her eyes and went into the kitchen to prepare tea for her guests.

  Thatch and Tosca sat silently until Sunida returned with the tray of cups and teapot, apologizing for having no pastries, and served the tea. Tosca again admired the Thai woman’s delicate hands as she filled the cups, remembering how she was able to curve her fingers back so far, and pictured her dancing for her lover, perhaps in the study where Norman Sanderson wrote his doomed books.

  “Are there any other relatives?” said Tosca.

  “No,” said Sunida. “Oliver had only one brother, and his parents are dead.”

  “Have they made funeral arrangements?” said Thatch.

  “Yes, it’s up to his brother in Roseville, Oliver’s home. I don’t think I’ll go. I am mourning Oliver in my own way,” Sunida said, attempting a smile.

  Thatch got up, saying it was time to go. As Sunida accompanied them through the front yard, she drew their attention to a far corner of the yard that had been cleared of weeds and plants since their last visit.

  “’I’m going to have a Thai spirit house over there,” she said. “When I came to America I vowed to be as American as possible, and Norman supported me, but now I feel I’ll get comfort from a spirit house.” She shook hands then wai’d them both with a deep bow and went back inside.

  “I know I can Google Thai spirit houses, but you may as well tell me now, what did Sunida mean?” said Tosca when they were driving back to Isabel Island.

  Thatch explained that Thai spirit houses are miniature temples, very colorful and complete with steep tiled gold and red roofs. They are attached to a wooden or concrete pole and placed in a corner of the yard. They are said to contain the spirits of the residence. Their duty, he told Tosca, is to look after the family’s well-being and assure blessings. Most spirit house owners light candles and place flowers on their small platforms when they wish for a special favor or outcome.