Digging Up the Dead (13 page)

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 Sol 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 tenants. 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.

“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.”

Tosca wanted more details about the program. J.J. showed her a brochure that explained how musical memory is linked to emotions and that memories are stored deep within the brain. While Alzheimer’s damages the ability to recall facts and details, it does not destroy the lasting connections between a favorite song and memory of an important life event that was associated with it, no matter how long ago.

Tosca wondered aloud which musical memories would reawaken her if she suffered from Alzheimer’s.

“Any and all operas for you,” said J.J. “Mine would be the whine of an Indy car engine.”

As if on cue, both were distracted by a deep rapping noise that caused them to watch a speedboat race by, setting the calm waters splashing over the sides of the low sea wall.

“Hear that rod knock from the boat’s engine?” said J.J. “Those bearings won’t last long.”

“Yes, dear, I‘m sure you’re right. But look how the water came up over the wall. Does it ever flood here?”

“It did once many years ago, I was told. I’ve never seen water come onto the walkway except when boats like that one ignore the rules. If they keep it up, the harbormaster will be after them. I should take you over to the Wedge if you want to see crashing waves. It’s a famous surfing spot with huge breaks that slam into the beach after bouncing off the jetty there. Only the most daredevil of bodysurfers and foolish tourists swim the Wedge when the waves are gigantic. They’re like a wall of water, a tsunami. Every year someone breaks his neck or gets seriously injured and ends up paraplegic after they get slammed in the riptide.”

“Why aren’t people warned off?”

“They are. There’s a large red sign cautioning against diving or jumping off the jetty and warning people about the submerged, slippery rocks and strong currents. High surf advisories are announced over the radio, too, when the waves are considered dangerous.”

Tosca shuddered. “Sounds like a death trap.”

“It can be. There’s a strong undertow that drags people back into the surf when they’re trying to get out of the water and onto the beach.”

“Is it like that year round?”

J.J. said, “No, but this is the time of the year for a tropical depression or a storm, and the effect on the Wedge can bring waves thirty feet or higher. It’s a favorite pastime of the locals to stand and watch, and if they come too close to the surf, they can be dragged in by the riptide.”

“I’ll stick with being a landlubber, thank you, even though your grandfather was a champion water polo player. He taught me to swim in the Celtic Sea area of the Atlantic Ocean. It was pretty rough with huge waves. I never really enjoyed it.”

Tosca took their breakfast dishes to the sink, rinsed them off and loaded them into the dishwasher.

“Guess that’s a hint for me to finish clearing the table so you can set up your laptop,” said J.J., putting the condiments on the kitchen counter and sliding the red placemats into a drawer. “I have practice today at the Long Beach track, followed by a birthday party for one of the crew, so I won’t see you till tonight.”

She went off to get showered and dressed, returned within twenty minutes and grabbed her NASCAR racing helmet on her way out the door.

That helmet looks like it weighs a ton, reflected Tosca. It’s a wonder it doesn’t break her neck.
Rem’ fey
, I wish she’d chosen a different career than auto racing. Too much like her Dad, rest his soul.

On his boat Blair closed the lid of the sixteenth century ottovino spinet he’d been playing, snapped its rusty clasp closed and slid the instrument into a black canvas carrying case. It was his favorite of the several rare instruments he’d collected over his lifetime, probably because the two-foot-long triangle-shaped mahogany spinet with its Swiss pine soundboard had been the most difficult to acquire. It was built by craftsmen in Toledo, Spain, and although Blair had no idea how it came to be in America, he considered it a lucky find. On the inside of the lid was a faded, hand-painted seascape of a three-masted tall ship etched in gold, its rigging almost devoid of color.