“Stand back, Tosca. Don’t look.”
“What is it? What have you found? A good clue?”
“More than we bargained for. Bones.” He walked a distance away from the hole he’d dug. “We need to call the sheriff.”
For the second time since her arrival in America, Tosca watched a forensics team process the scene of a crime. After Thatch’s 911 call notifying the dispatcher of the situation and providing directions, they had waited only twenty minutes before two sheriff’s SUVs, an ambulance and the medical examiner’s station wagon showed up at the site.
The team got to work quickly, the photographer taking photos, a video cameraman taping the removal of the skeleton, and technicians bagging dirt from the grave and the surrounding area.
Tosca and Thatch stood off to one side with one of the sheriff’s deputies, giving their statements.
“See anyone else out here?”
“Not a soul,” said Tosca.
“No, officer, said Thatch. “We haven’t seen anyone since we left Ramona this morning and turned off onto this trail here.”
“You dug this up. How did you happen to do that, sir?”
Thatch explained that the Newport Beach police were investigating a murder on Isabel Island, and one of Tosca’s neighbors could have been involved.
“Yes, he’s right,” Tosca broke in. “We were following a clue to this place. Purely on a whim, officer.”
“A clue, ma’am?”
“Yes, indeed. You see, Arnold Schoenberg and Professor Haiden Whittaker have a lot in common. They both love numbers. So we just followed the numbers, and here we are.”
Having delivered what she considered a sufficient summary of events that led to the discovery of the grave, she closed her parasol and walked over to the ambulance. The deputy turned his attention back to Thatch.
“Mr. MacAulay, we need you both to come down to our office. The lady’s explanation is a little lacking, don’t you agree?”
“Yes. I’ll be happy to clarify things. It’s kind of complicated.”
As Thatch continued to talk with the officer, Tosca decided to get as close as possible to the coroner, who appeared to be completing his supervision of the scene. A balding man of middle age, he watched the medical technicians place the skeleton inside a small body bag and onto a gurney. That’s all we are at the end, she thought, a bundle of bones. Sure puts things into perspective.
“What a beautiful, interesting desert this is,” she said, addressing the coroner. “How fortunate you are to have such a glorious place. I’d be out here every weekend if I could.”
“Thank you.” He held out his hand. “I am Doctor Daniel Leight, at your service. You are from England, I assume?”
“Yes, Tosca Trevant, here temporarily,” said Tosca. “I must say, your Anza-Borrego is nothing like anything we have in England,” she said, adding a silent, thank God.
“It’s certainly a wild, wonderful area. Too many people feel it’s desolate and unfriendly, but I’m glad to hear you appreciate it.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Tosca, opening her parasol and twirling it flirtatiously, “and I am fascinated with your crime procedures, although there’s probably nothing much for you to do here, doctor,” said Tosca.
“As a matter of fact, you’re right to a certain extent. It will be up to the forensic anthropologist to determine the age, sex, size and race of this person.”
“I wonder if you happened to notice anything odd about the arms?”
“Well, yes, although nothing will be confirmed until we’re back in the morgue, and I make my formal autopsy report. We have our rules, you know.”
“Oh, of course,” said Tosca. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to tell me anything you shouldn’t, but I was surprised to see when your technician was rewrapping the skeleton that the bones weren’t arranged as I’d imagine they’d be. They were almost in a pile.”
“That’s a common misconception.” Leight smiled. “Bodies do not decompose uniformly. That is, parts may not decompose at the same time, so they may not be connected together like a skeleton in a science class. Once the tissues, ligaments and tendons have decayed, you’ll often find the bones in completely different places from where they belong.”
“Doctor, how interesting. As I said, I was struck by what I imagine are the forearm bones. Would it be possible to take just a peek at them before they go to the morgue?”
Dr. Leight began to shake his head.
“I promise not to touch anything,” said Tosca. “My father was a ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy, so I have an interest, you understand.”
The coroner told the technicians to roll the gurney back out and unzip the body bag. He pointed to a bone.
“As you can see, Mrs. Trevant, the hand is missing, as it is from the other arm, too. We’ll be able to hazard a guess as to how that happened later.” The doctor reclosed the bag, and the technician rolled the gurney back into the vehicle. “What’s your interest? You obviously have one, and there’s a reason for it. Care to tell me?”
Tosca told the coroner, in general terms, of her suspicions, including that the hands had been chopped off after the murder.
“They may have belonged to a music student, but I don’t know the motive yet,” she said.
“That a disturbing tale. As for a motive, sometimes there’s a desire to retain a souvenir,” said Dr. Leight, “or no motive except anger or some other strong emotion.”
“True,” agreed Tosca, “although Henry VIII needed no motive. Whenever he got tired of his wife, he yelled out, ‘Next!’”
Dr. Leight laughed. “The police will probably solve the case. Is this your husband?”
He turned toward Thatch as the former agent approached.
“Good heavens, no. Just a friend.”
“We can leave now, Tosca. Ready?” said Thatch.
She said goodbye to the doctor. Thatch took her elbow and steered her toward his pickup.
“We need to stop at the police station and sign formal statements,” he said. “Then we can go home.”
“Fine. I’m ready to get out of this strange place. I can’t believe people come to this desert for pleasure.”
“Didn’t I overhear you saying to the coroner that it was beautiful here?”
At his amused grin Tosca turned away to hide her own smile, then turned back to Thatch.
“I wonder what Haiden will do when he learns we’ve found Paul Holloway or Monica.”
Thatch shook his head. “No confirmation of who it is yet. Could take weeks, and maybe it’s someone else entirely.”
“Oh! Why didn’t I think of that? You mean, the professor may have murdered more than one person?”
“It’s obvious the gravesite is connected to him, since we have the coordinates that he wrote on that piece of music. Now leave it up to the police. We’re done with it.”
Professor Whittaker punched in the code on the keypad at the entrance to Gustave Vernays’ parking garage and waited for the coin dealer to buzz the gate open. When he reached the penthouse floor, the professor turned to the camera and waved his hand in greeting. The door opened quickly.
“Good evening, Haiden,” said Vernays. He was dressed in one of his customary embroidered silk smoking jackets that never failed to annoy the professor as being overly European. “What a nice surprise. Come in. And what a fine evening it is. What can I get you? I have a new red from Chile, just arrived.”
Whittaker settled himself as best he could onto what he knew was an uncomfortable sofa, rather than sit on the chair at Vernays’ desk as he usually did when he had coins to display or was considering buying. This was to be a simple discussion about the progress of the sale of his collection, which he assumed was safely tucked away in the fence’s vault.
“Yes, thanks. That sounds excellent.”
Vernays poured them each a glass of wine from a Waterford decanter and sat opposite his client.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? Ah,” he said, raising a palm toward Whittaker. “I know. The collection, right? Or have you changed your mind? I have two Celtic currency rings, Bronze Age, that will interest you if you’re thinking of adding to your inventory. Or how about an extremely rare Brasher Doubloon? Only seven in the world, you know.”
“No, thank you. I told you, I want to sell, not buy, the entire collection. What’s happening? Any luck?”
“A few inquiries.” Vernays shrugged and fell silent.
“And?” Whittaker prompted.
“There’s a… ah… a slight complication.” The Swiss took a sip of wine.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Surely you heard about the death on Isabel Island?”
Whittaker felt his blood pounding. “Of course, but I don’t gossip.” Not like that Tosca woman, he thought. “So what’s that got to do with me and selling my collection?”
“Someone on the island found the body, and near it, almost buried in the sand, was an aegina
.
I was really excited when the police brought it to me to evaluate. They know my, ah, reputation. Naturally, I recognized it immediately, although I didn’t tell them so. Anyway, they got a search warrant and went through the contents of my safe. Don’t panic,” he told Whittaker, who had risen to his feet. “The police have no idea that the coin was part of your collection. How could they? Your name isn’t on it, and you know I don’t keep clients’ names in my catalogs, not even on a database on my computer.”
Whittaker waited.
“After the detective left I checked your collection again. Something interesting has occurred. Your aegina, the one I obtained for you
,
is not among the coins you left with me, and I know it wasn’t in the five envelopes you decided to take with you. Now it appears that the coin is missing.”
Whittaker sat down. The silence between the two men stretched out before the professor said, “Impossible. It’s so small, I didn’t even realize it was gone. Must have been stolen from me long ago. Maybe one of my music students took it. I probably left the tray out by mistake.”
“Quite a coincidence, though, don’t you agree? Your coin is missing, and it turns up next to a corpse.”
“So what? Nothing to do with me.”
“Come now, Haiden, it’s an aegina. Your aegina. Have you forgotten where you got it?”
“It’s not mine, I tell you.” Whittaker felt the sweat running down his neck. “It’s not the only one in the world, Gustave.”
“True, but it’s the only one that came from that museum in Australia.” The Swiss waved a hand. “Well, let’s not quibble. It’s no business of mine.”
“No, it isn’t,” said the professor, recovering his equilibrium. “Your business is to sell my collection, and you don’t seem to be having much success.”
“I’m going to be blunt with you. I’ve had your collection taken out of the country. I don’t plan to put it on the market again until things have quieted down.”
“What things? I told you, the murder of that kid has nothing to do with me.”
“Nevertheless, I’m not taking any chances. The Greek coin worries me. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.” Vernays stood up. “Thank you for coming. I believe we understand each other, yes?”
Whittaker realized there was no point in arguing. He knew his collection was safe with the dealer, and eventually it would fetch a good price.
He left and drove back to Isabel Island.
Tosca walked quickly up and down the length of the street twice before running back into the house, urgently calling out to J.J.
“
A-barth an!
Dammit! My car’s been stolen! I parked half a block away yesterday, and it’s gone. Gone! You told me this was a very safe neighborhood. I’d better call the police.”
Before Tosca could reach the kitchen phone her daughter beat her to it, placing her hand over the receiver.
“What are you doing?” said Tosca. “Would you prefer to call the police yourself? What’s the matter, afraid they won’t understand me? I don’t plan to speak in Cornish, you know.”
“Calm down, Mother. I was going to tell you after breakfast. I returned your rental car to the agency after you came home last night. John picked me up and drove me back here. Don’t worry, I paid the bill. Here’s the receipt.” She fished the papers out of her purse.
“Returned it, but why? I need that car. How am I supposed to get around?” Her face turned red at her daughter’s smile. “Oh, no you don’t. You think you’re forcing me to learn that stick shift, aren’t you? Well, it won’t work. I’ll just go and get another rental, that’s all.”
J.J. shrugged, picked up her purse, took out the keys to the Austin-Healey and jangled them noisily. “I’m leaving these on the table for you. Better yet, I’ll put them in here.” Opening Tosca’s black leather tote bag, she dropped the keys inside and closed the zipper. “I’ll drive the Porsche,” she added. “Now don’t forget, Mother, the reverse gear is to the left and up, and only pull out the choke if it’s cold. Gotta run. See you later.”
After J.J. left Tosca sat at the dining table, where the file folders on the Whittaker case were spread out. As she pieced together her theory, she went over it several times in her mind. Hell of a feature story. Maybe the
London Daily Post
will run it as a series, she thought, over a period of weeks. Or how about a book? No, that would take too long. The story must appear quickly so she could go home sooner. She could see her new business card: “Tosca Trevant. Investigative Reporter.”
As she wrote, the article took on more shape. Monica seduced Paul Holloway. The professor killed him in a jealous rage and chopped off his hands before burying him in the desert. He encased them in fake rocks and placed them in his front garden. Whittaker probably regretted murdering Paul, hence the shrine; but time eroded the cement around one of the skeletal hands, and Paul’s fingertips were revealed. Haiden, as Paul’s teacher, had access to the boy, which in turn meant he murdered him. But why didn’t he kill Monica? The professor’s darned lucky she drowned in the hotel swimming pool in Mexico. Otherwise, I’d suspect him of murdering her, too. That leaves the ferry murder to be solved. No, I’ll get to that later, she decided.