Digging Up the Dead

by Jill Amadio

  Blair stared straight ahead, then turned and pointed to the right, toward the shore.

  “Oh, look, Tosca, here we are almost at the Wedge. There’s the peninsula. My God, look at the height of those giant waves! Must be thirty feet. Never seen them that big.”

  “Should you get this close to that jetty?” Her words came out with a hiss and she struggled to stay conscious. “Aren’t you afraid of the rocks?”

  “Too close? Oh, no. I know exactly how close I can get before turning away. I’ve done it a few times. No, Tosca, I thought you might like to see the Wedge close up and at its most furious.”

  He turned from the wheel, grabbed her arm and shoulder, lifted her bodily from the chair and shoved her off the flybridge and into the broiling water. “I don’t have a body board to loan you, but it would get torn apart against the rocks anyway,” he called as she sank below the waves. “Watch out for the riptide, it’s an awesome, terrifying experience. It will kill you!”

  He turned the boat around as if on a dime, despite lurching violently from side to side in the heavy seas, and sped away.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The shock of the cold water brought Tosca’s senses alive. She suddenly felt free of the effects of her drugged drink. Sputtering and spitting out seawater, she kicked her legs and rose to the surface. In an instant she was sucked back down again as the Wedge’s infamous undertow tried to claim its latest victim. Her head hit the sandy, stony ocean floor, snapping her neck back.

  The roar of the roiling surf as she was rolled over and over like a doll in a cement mixer told her she was in a deep underwater shore break where the land dropped steeply off, forming a strong backwash that dragged her down again and again. The noise was terrifying, as if a freight train was bearing down on her.

  “Think, Tosca,” she told herself. “Think. What did my father tell me when he was teaching me to swim in Cornwall? What was it he said when he made me swim into those terrible waves crashing against the rocks in St. Ives? Yes, yes, that’s it. Swim parallel to the coast!”

  The next time she came up from the riptide she twisted her body to the right, away from the rock jetty where the swells were the highest. She struck out as strongly as she could using the butterfly stroke, one of the most difficult to master but one of the most powerful and effective that her father had taught her. She focused on kicking her legs and using every bit of strength to swim parallel with the coastline instead of toward the beach. It was the natural instinct of every swimmer trying to escape the sea to head for shore, but her only way to beat the monstrous waves was to go against that instinct and fight her way through the troughs.

  Trying to get into a rhythm, but having to crest some of the waves as they became smaller the farther north she swam away from the jetty, she managed to keep going. Every time her head broke free of the surface, her arm muscles burning with the effort of every stroke, she glanced toward the beach to ensure she kept it on her right.

  She saw a small line of people watching the waves. She tried to signal them but the high waves blocked the view, and high winds were sending the sand swirling in every direction. Their faces were turned away, toward the jetty she had just escaped.

  Tosca’s sandals had been lost, and her shorts had been torn off by the riptide, but her halter top clung to her body. Deciding she had moved far enough away from danger, leaving the undertow behind, she realized she could now turn and swim toward the shore. The waves were still high, though, and she struggled to stay afloat.

  Moments later Tosca believed she was close enough to the beach to feel firm sand beneath her feet. She let her feet touch the ocean floor. The water reached only up to her waist. Struggling, groggy and exhausted, her legs almost buckling beneath her, she managed to keep her balance long enough to step onto the beach.

  Tosca lay down on the sand, gasping, trying to slow her breathing down to normal. She was grateful that her stretch bikini underwear had survived the trauma. In fact, she realized, anyone looking at her would figure she was wearing a two-piece swimsuit and had just finished a swim.

  After a while she was able to stand and slowly looked around, believing she must have swum at least ten miles although, when she saw the Isabel Island pier jutting out on the Newport Beach Peninsula, it must have been only a mile or so. Satisfied and relieved she was now safe, she looked around. The beach was empty, the heavy, low dark clouds moving slowly.

  “So I guess I have not landed in Fiji or Bali, then. Just almost back where I started.”

  She saw blood on her arms and legs where the skin had been scraped, but she determined it was mostly surface scratches from the gravel on the ocean floor. The worst damage was to her feet where the skin on the tops of her toes was badly lacerated. She sat back down again to rest some more and muttered. “Right, Mr. Blair. Be warned. I am coming for you.”

  When she felt strong enough to walk and seek help to get to a telephone or even a ride home, Tosca walked barefoot, shivering with cold and exhaustion, toward the nearest house. She was glad that the stormy weather was keeping people away from the beach. Despite her condition and the situation, she felt she looked an awful fright with bloody limbs and dripping wet hair plastered with sand.

  Normally, beachgoers wore as little as possible and being shoeless and practically naked were common sights. The left side of her face was painful, and she touched the area carefully, deciding the long scratches on it, as if raked by fingernails, had been caused by the riptide’s sharp undersea pebbles as she was dragged across the bottom.

  She looked back across the beach to the Wedge, only several hundred yards away, where the huge waves were still pounding the shore. No surfers were brave enough to challenge its danger, and only a few people stood well back on the beach to observe for a few minutes before leaving.

  Tosca realized she was on the Peninsula, a three-mile stretch of land shaped like a fat snake with the Wedge jetty jutting out like a striking tongue. The area was an eclectic mix of expensive homes and low-priced student and surfer rentals. The closer to the ocean, the pricier the mansion, despite being spaced close to its neighbors like those on Isabel Island.

  At its west end the Peninsula fed into the mainland of Newport Beach and was surrounded by Newport Bay on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. This section of the Peninsula, Lido Isle, was crammed with restaurants, bookstores and galleries and was crowded year-round. Tosca and J.J. occasionally dined there at the Crab Shack, and Thatch took her to his favorite surfer bar near the beach. The other end of the Peninsula, where the Wedge was located, was almost palatial, judging by its homes.

  Walking carefully down the side streets she wondered whether it was smart to knock on one of the magnificent wrought iron or carved wood doors to ask to use their phone considering the fact she must look like something the cat dragged in.

  Instead, she turned and went back to the beach where the sole occupants, a group of young people, were huddled together, beach towels and blankets wrapped around their shoulders. The temperature was mild, but the sun was still blocked by the dark, low clouds.

  “Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I might possibly borrow a cell phone to make a rather urgent call?”

  The five teens, all holding beer cans, looked up. “You mean 911?” the girl in the blue bikini said.

  “Um, no, not exactly.”

  “Wow! What happened to you?” The tallest of the boys stood up. “Were you in an accident?”

  “Yes. No. Sort of. I got caught in the Wedge, back there,” Tosca pointed to her left. The other teens got to their feet and crowded around, concern on their faces.

  “Man, that’s a dangerous place, we heard. It’s a riptide. Nothing like that back in Omaha.” He picked up a backpack, removed an iPhone and handed it to her.

  Tosca thanked him and dialed J.J’s number. No answer. Re’m fay. At the track, I suppose. She tried Arlene’s number. The answering machine came on. Not home either. She knew Arlene’s husband had
a cell phone, but he was at work, and Arlene didn’t use one.

  Resigned, she called Thatch.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “Are you busy?” she said, trying to keep her voice light and cheerful.

  “Filling up the truck at the gas station. What’s happened? I can hear your voice quavering.”

  “I’m on the Peninsula, and don’t have my car here. Would it be too much of an imposition for you to come and pick me up?”

  “Sure, honey. Where exactly?”

  “Right at the end of the road where it dead-ends at the Wedge.”

  “Be there as soon as I can. Don’t go near the Wedge, though, the radio’s been issuing warnings that the waves are terrible today. Might set a record.”

  Tosca handed the phone back to its owner, thanked the group again and walked the half-mile that took her back to where the jetty began. Heavy spray was hitting the warning sign like bullets, and huge waves continued to pound the rocks. She considered rinsing off the blood from her arms and legs but couldn’t face entering the water again. She sat on the curb, dejected, and waited for the dressing-down she knew Thatch would give her.

  Thatch drove up, parked, stuck his head out the window and waved. Tosca walked slowly over to the truck. The closer she got, the more his smile disappeared. He jumped out.

  “You’re soaking wet. Is that underwear? You’re bleeding. How did you get here without your car?”

  Thatch reached into the truck and brought out his jacket, placing it around Tosca’s shoulders. He lifted her up in his arms, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and set her on the seat.

  “Right,” he said, his forehead creased with worry. “What’s the story this time?”

  Tosca looked at him, bit her lip and began to cry, releasing the tension of the last several hours.

  “Come here, honey.” He pulled her into his arms. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I never know what to do when a woman cries. Here, I’ll take you home. You just snuggle down. I’ll turn on the heat.”

  Thatch drove with extra care as if an invalid was in the next seat until Tosca said, “Come on, I won’t break in half. I need to get home quickly and change. I have to talk to Detective Parnell, it’s urgent.”

  She related the boat ride with Blair, his confession and his attempt to drown her at the Wedge.

  Thatch said nothing, but his expression told her of his anger. He sped up, and they arrived on Isabel Island. Tosca brushed aside Thatch’s offer to carry her up the spiral staircase, pointing out it narrowness, and took a shower as hot as she could bear. She didn’t bother to blow dry her hair, figuring he’d already seen her in a sorrier state, and changed into a clean sweatshirt and grey knit workout pants. She half-hobbled downstairs.

  “Honey, you should be in bed,” Thatch said. “You’ve had a terrible experience. You must be exhausted.”

  “Aside from these bruises and a sore back, I feel a lot better after the shower. I might see a chiropractor tomorrow, but I’m anxious to talk to that Parnell as soon as possible.” Tosca stretched out on the sofa and rested her head on a pillow.

  “I’ll see if he can come to the house.” Thatch dialed and asked for the cop. “Not in? This is extremely urgent. Please try to contact him, and ask him to call me.”

  Two minutes later Thatch’s phone rang.

  “Detective,” he said. “Can you come right over? We’ve got some urgent news about the Isabel Island murders. Okay, thanks.”

  “He’ll be here in half an hour,” Thatch told Tosca.

  “Half an hour? Blair could have taken his boat down to Mexico by now.”

  “I’m going to see if the Riviera is docked, and then I’ll check his house, but we need to wait for Parnell. Please, Tosca, stay here.”

  When Thatch returned he told Tosca that the boat was tied up, although the mooring lines looked as if they’d been hastily thrown around the cleats. The salon door was closed, and no one appeared at his knock. He walked past Blair’s house and saw a car in the driveway.

  “Looks like he’s home,” Thatch said. “Of course, he must think you drowned at the Wedge, so there’s no reason for him not to come home. He’s probably waiting to hear of a death at the Wedge on the news.”

  Before Tosca could reply Detective Parnell arrived, his face as dour as ever, and they all sat in the living room while Tosca related the day’s events.

  “He told me he’d poisoned Sally,” she said in conclusion, “and taken Swenson out to sea and thrown him overboard, just as I said.”

  Parnell listened, his lips pressed together, then said, “Hmm. Pity you have no proof of all this talk.”

  “How about these cuts and bruises? And you could find the young surfers from Nebraska who were on the beach when I got out of the water. Come on, why would I make it all up?”

  “Reporters have a reputation for exaggeration, especially the British tabloids.” He got up to leave.

  “Just a moment, constable, I have a recording of Blair’s confession.”

  Parnell stopped in his tracks. “A recording? You mean you had your tape recorder on again, like in the previous murder case?”

  “No, no, not my tape recorder. My cell phone.”

  “So let’s hear it.” The detective sat back down and looked at her expectantly, all traces of skepticism vanished.

  “My phone’s not here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On Blair’s boat.”

  Thatch and Parnell looked at each other and then at Tosca in confusion.

  “I had to leave my tote bag on his boat when he threw me overboard,” she said. “It’s under the seat on the flybridge.”

  She explained that when Blair suddenly started the boat engines and sped away from the dock on his way to the Wedge, the momentum caused her feet to knock against the bag under the seat. She pushed it farther back in case the contents spilled out. Later, when Blair began telling her about Sally and Swenson she had reached down into the bag as unobtrusively as possible, found the phone with her fingers and pressed the record icon.

  “How could you do that without looking at the phone?” said Thatch.

  “I know that the symbol for recording is on the left side at the top of the screen. I located it by feeling where the tiny on-off vibrating button is and then sliding my finger slightly over to the right and down. Really,” she said, looking at both of them in turn, “it’s not rocket science. So let’s go to his boat and get my bag,” she added brightly.

  Parnell sat, pondered and looked at Thatch, who nodded and said, “Yep, need a search warrant. Otherwise, whatever’s on her phone may not be admissible.” He turned to Tosca. “It can be thrown out of court if the Constitutional rights of the accused are not honored.”

  “Oh, piffle. You two are such gormless wimps. Haven’t I told you enough for a search warrant?”

  “It appears so, but I need to make more inquiries,” said the detective. “You’ve told me an interesting tale, and I’d like you to come over to the station tomorrow and make a statement.”

  Parnell thanked Tosca, shook hands with Thatch and left.

  Tosca said she thought she’d better rest some more, and if Thatch would pick her up tomorrow to take her to the police station, she’d be very grateful.

  “I can’t stand the thought of dropping down into the Healey’s low seat with this pain in my back.”

  Saying good night, Thatch made sure she was resting on the sofa, pillows behind her head, and tucked her up with the light red throw J.J. kept there.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Tosca waited twenty minutes after the sound of his truck faded away before leaving the house. She went upstairs and changed into a black hooded jacket, black workout leggings and sneakers. Her dark hair, she knew, in the land of blondes was a decided advantage. She walked on tiptoe down the steps and along the sidewalk until she realized she must look ridiculous to anyone passing. She adjusted her stride to no
rmal.

  It was eleven-thirty, and many residents were sleeping. The only noise was coming from the bar across the small bridge that connected the Little Island to the larger Isabel Island. Tosca liked the idea of living on the completely residential and much smaller adjunct island, away from Isabel Island’s busy, noisy commercial street. On nights like this, calm and windless, the sound of merriment carried over both islands.

  Finding Blair’s dock, Tosca approached cautiously and looked around. Good. No one taking a late night stroll, and no lights showing from his boat. She studied the steps up to the flybridge and shuddered when she remembered how suddenly and roughly Blair had grabbed her and pushed her overboard. She guessed Swenson had met his Maker the same way, imagining the heavy man hauling himself up the ladder with difficulty. Or perhaps Blair had killed him in the cabin downstairs. Yes, a far more likely scenario considering Swenson’s weight. It would have been much easier for Blair to shove the writer’s body over the deck rail and into the sea.

  Tosca raised her eyes to the skies and sent up a silent thank you to her father for insisting she learn how to swim in rough seas when he knew how much she disliked it.

  Looking around once more to make sure no one was in sight, she slipped aboard the boat. Grabbing the handrails, she mounted the ladder to the flybridge. At the captain’s chair she’d occupied, she knelt down, reached under the seat and found her tote bag. She pulled it out and felt around inside. The phone was still there. She turned it on, careful to keep its bright screen shielded, and checked the battery. She’d been afraid the power would have run out, but all was well. I’d have looked a right pillock if Blair’s confession wasn’t recorded on the phone as I claimed, she thought. How Parnell would have crowed!

  To Tosca’s relief the phone had automatically switched over to the twelve-hour extra battery case she’d bought to supplement the built-in energy supply. After she returned the phone to her bag, she stuffed it back under the seat for Parnell to find when he had the search warrant. She looked around at the controls, the weather radio once more perfectly aligned on the side table. She grimaced at Blair’s manic meticulousness and scrupulous attention to neatness.