“On the contrary, professor. I am positive of my opinion. My father was a ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy during World War II. His clinic at home was jammed with specimen jars and bone fragments. Believe me, those things look very much like the skeletal tips of someone’s fingers, though how they got stuck inside this small boulder, whatever it is, I can’t imagine. In addition, your hardscape is out of proportion for a rock garden that height. Now don’t you think we should notify the police?”
“The police?” Whittaker’s voice shot up an octave. He stroked his whiskers as a flush spread over his face.
“It’s the sensible thing to do,” said Tosca.
“But I’ve already told you I know nothing about them. Perhaps they’re American Indian remains. Don’t worry, Tosca. There’s nothing sinister going on here, believe me. Fingers embedded in rocks? Ridiculous. As for the hollyhocks and poppies, I’ll take a look, as you suggest.”
“I hope you do, professor. Hollyhocks are pretty tough plants, but they do need some pampering, a little
cara.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, sorry. It’s a Cornish word. It means love,” said Tosca.
“Cornish? That’s a language? I had no idea.”
“Perfectly understandable, Haiden. Too many Brits don’t know it either. In fact, the United Nations has declared our language dead, but we are going to fight against that. I am proud to declare we are the second smallest of the six Celtic nationalities. Cornwall is a duchy, but we’re going to change that, too. We are preparing a legal challenge to the UK government. We want a return to self-rule, you see.”
“Self-rule?”
“Indeed, yes. We were self-governed in 1508 as a separate Celtic nation. We’ve already established a fund and have our own flag, a white cross on a black background. Not terribly elegant, of course. I’d much prefer a pastel background and a more creative symbol, but the cross is traditional, you see.”
She felt herself bristle when she saw the professor trying to hide a smile as he said, “Tosca, isn’t 1508 rather a long time ago? I suppose your new champion is Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall?”
Tosca drew her lips together in disapproval. “Not at all. Rather unfortunate, that alliance to the British monarchy. We pay seven million pounds a year toward Prince Charles’ and Camilla’s keep, you know. The money comes from Cornwall’s surplus assets. Our attitude might have been different if Camilla wasn’t just a token Cornishwoman.” Tosca stood up, reaching for her purse and parasol. “I must be off. Thank you for your hospitality. Oh, one more thing. That purple lobelia plant in your yard? Not for salads. It can cause seizures. Good day, professor.”
Letter From a Lonely Outpost.
My dear, dear Reader. The most extraordinary situation has occurred. I have found a skeleton, or rather, one of its hands…Now you know I love this gossip column and all of you, dear Readers, but for the moment I must say farewell…I am hot on the trail of a murder, absolutely no doubt about it…but you are always in my thoughts…I hope you will follow my newspaper stories as soon as the murderer is under lock and key and I have solved the mystery. Toodle-oo for a while, dear Reader.
As Whittaker recalled his conversation with Tosca after she left, he could still hear himself protesting, his heart pounding. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Early on, his married life with Monica had settled into a monastic mode. For many years they barely had even conversational contact, moving about the house intent on their different schedules and only occasionally meeting up for dinner, with hardly a word passing between them. Their final meal together had been the most animated they’d had in a long time, he remembered with pleasure.
Damn that Tosca woman. Why was she snooping around? She said at first it was the hollyhocks that needed to be staked, but she sure as hell nailed the small shrine. Well, maybe he’d laid her suspicions to rest. She seemed to accept his explanation that he knew nothing about the construction of the corner area. It was there when he moved in, he told her.
Whittaker thought over their conversation once more. Had she bought his explanation about the garden? Maybe he should just cement over the entire thing and fill it with potted plants.
Besides, as he’d told Monica before she died, it was getting close to the time to cash it all in now that he was almost sixty-five years old. He’d risen as high as he knew he could at the University of California, Irvine, becoming one of the most respected composers of classical music in the region. Yeah, well, that wasn’t exactly the truth, he admitted to himself. In fact, it was a far cry from the truth. His latest compositions had been pure crap.
When had the music stopped playing in his mind? It had been subtle, the motifs and phrases fading away so gradually he’d barely missed them. He’d always assumed his gift was like Mozart’s, who said he simply wrote down what he heard in his head. Whittaker thought he’d always hear the music, too, or rather, the idea of the music. Now the ideas were nonexistent, and the notes were a jumble.
Whittaker feared he was burned out. In his heart of hearts he knew that his latest arrangements were mechanical. He remembered reading a letter Tchaikovsky had written, lamenting that when inspiration deserted him he would fill in the blanks later. Blanks are all I have now, he thought, and maybe there is no later, but is that so bad? The sheet music royalties continue to swell the bank balance, and the pension is ample.
He sensed, though, that Tosca Trevant wasn’t as satisfied as she claimed. There was a canny quality in those penetrating blue eyes that disturbed him. She also had a haughty air that was irritating. Hard to believe she was that girl’s mother. They’d look more like sisters, if their clothes were similar. Nice to see a woman in a pretty dress for a change, and that quaint parasol! Monica would have hooted her off the island. Most of all, Tosca reminded Whittaker of the three fast and furious opening
tutta forza
chords of the opera she was named after: full force. The woman came on strong, all right.
Whittaker patted his belly. No chance she’d be interested in me, not that I care. I’m off women forever. Pretty little hands, though. Very feminine.
Haiden tightened the sash of his silk bathrobe as the moon-dial grandfather clock struck noon. Monica used to make him get dressed first thing every morning, even on a Sunday. Now he wondered how he had ever let her control him like that.
He carried the rock outside and replaced it on top of the rock garden, turning its crumbled side toward the wall. Damned woman, he fumed. How dare she come into my yard and criticize? On the other hand, why hadn’t I noticed the deterioration and taken better care of the shrine? I’d better do something with these two rocks before she returns.
Back in the house he sat down at the piano. He struck a match to light the black candle that stood in the center of a large brass bowl. As he pounded out the opening bars of Liszt’s chilling “Danse Macabre,” the flame flickered slightly with the vibration.
“Are you enjoying the candlelight you disliked so much?” he whispered, looking at the bowl. He suddenly stopped playing to give the candle a vicious twist, spilling a shower of ashes and tiny white pellets onto the piano keys.
“Did Haiden throw you out? What do you think of him?” asked J.J. when Tosca arrived home.
“He’s odious. Said he had no idea about that rock, and there were no expressions of sorrow when I offered condolences about his poor wife. Another thing. When he smiles you never see his teeth.”
“So what?”
“There are eighteen different kinds of smiles. The professor’s smile meant he didn’t wish to get acquainted.”
“Beats baring his teeth in a snarl, I suppose,” said J.J., laughing.
“Tell me. What’s your impression of him since you’ve been living here?”
J.J. paused to reflect. “I guess, not too friendly. Monica, on the other hand, was pretty outgoing, but no one really likes her husband. Besides, he always buys the wrong car.”
“The wrong car?”
“When Cadillac came out with the Seville,” J.J. said, “Haiden bought the model without the Northstar V-8 engine. Then he bought a Jaguar XJS instead of waiting four months for the XK8, though how he squeezes into it, I can’t imagine. Can’t trust anyone who does something like that.”
“Oh, come on, love. Get your mind off cars and driving for five minutes. We’re talking about a possible killer on the loose.”
“Mother! That’s a huge leap from fossils in a rock to a killer on Isabel Island. This is the safest place on the West Coast. A bicycle stolen from a garage. Some fraud cases, too. After all, Newport Beach has been called the white collar scam capital of the country, but it’s good, clean crime. Nothing messy.”
Tosca filled the electric kettle at the faucet, plugged it in and turned back to her daughter.
“The professor suggests that those weird things in the rock that I’m convinced are human bones might be from some ancient American Indian burial site. Tea, dear?”
“Thanks, but no time. I’m rallying, for a change. Then tomorrow it’s practice at the track.” J.J., in jeans and a T-shirt, her short dark hair covered by a baseball cap, picked up the red and white racing helmet from the coffee table, blew her mother a kiss and left. A few seconds later she re-entered the house. “Hey!” she called out. “Will you stop calling those things bones?”
J.J. closed the door after her and clattered down the wooden steps to the garage. Barely a minute later Tosca heard the rumble she’d learned to recognize as the Porsche 911 Targa. The growl from its turbo engine filled the air, rose to a wail, then faded as the car headed across the island’s only bridge.
Tosca carried her tea tray up to the roof deck and sat on one of the white patio chairs, looking around at the nearby homes. A seagull swooped down and settled on top of a telephone pole to her right. “This place is too perfect,” Tosca complained to the bird. “Hasn’t rained since I got here.”
At twilight Tosca decided to take along her tote bag on her usual walk, which was more of a stroll than the brisk march she enjoyed at dawn. The slower pace gave her the chance to appreciate the scent of the small white flowers of the night-blooming jasmine in the several gardens she passed. On her approach to Haiden’s house she noted that no lights showed from his windows. It appeared deserted. She looked up and down the street. No one. Should I chance it and see if he’s replaced that spooky rock? she wondered. The houses on either side and across the way were also dark. Was everyone off at a rock concert? Hardly the taste of Isabel Island’s elderly residents, but who knew what went on in Americans’ minds after dark. She’d noticed a few tottering hippies, leftovers from 1960s Woodstock, she assumed, who were regulars at the local corner pub.
Taking a chance on the professor being out for the evening, Tosca pushed the gate open and walked to the back wall to see if the broken rock was still on top of the rock garden, though obviously he still hadn’t weeded. Yes, there it was. Guess he’s not too concerned about anyone taking more than a passing interest in it, she thought, even after I told him about the possibility of fingers inside it. Tosca bent down and hefted the heavy stone into her tote bag. She looked around again. Had anyone seen her? Apparently not. She hurried home.
The top half of the Dutch door was open. As she climbed to the top of the stairs she heard music and laughter. A gleaming silver trophy sat on the glass table, surrounded by racing helmets.
“We’re celebrating, Mother. We won the Targa Triple Crown today. Stephen, Sandy and Mike, meet my mother.”
“Delighted to meet you,” said Tosca, shaking hands with all three of J.J.’s friends after leaving the tote bag on the kitchen counter. “Congratulations. Well done. One more to add to the collection.”
“Thanks. J.J.’s trophy case is almost full already,” said Mike, indicating the five-shelved cabinet in the corner of the room.
Tosca looked around at the lively faces. She decided they were an intelligent bunch of young people. She picked up her tote bag.
“May I show you all something and get your opinion?” She removed the heavy stone from the bag. Pointing to the thin sticks, she asked what they thought they were. The three crowded around, peering closely at the objects.
“Animal claws,” said Sandy.
“Petrified wood chips,” said Stephen.
“I’ve seen human skeletons. Their fingers look something like those things. They could be just the tips,” said Mike
“Aha!” exclaimed Tosca. “That’s what I think, too. Fingertips! But whose?”
“Mother, you see conspiracies everywhere.” J.J. turned to her friends. “Mike, I’m sure you’re wrong, and so is my mother. Come on, everyone, there’s still some champagne left. “
“But,” said Tosca, “don’t you think these belong to someone? Perhaps there was a murder. Imagine, right here! If those really are fingers, then the rest of the body must be around somewhere.”
Tosca heard a snort from J.J. and turned to see the warning in her daughter’s eyes: Don’t meddle, Mother. Remember why your curiosity forced you to leave England.
Professor Whittaker stood in front of his rock garden, surveying its condition. When he first came up with the idea, he was keen to build one that was classic in appearance and plantings. He bought books on the subject, talked to colleagues at UC Irvine and visited garden centers.
“What kind of rocks and plants do I need for a garden on Isabel Island? Does being surrounded by water make a difference?” he asked a salesman at the local nursery.
Whittaker was eager to create exactly the right setting for the two precious trophies with which he planned to crown the rock garden’s summit. He learned that the traditional elements included the construction of vertical ledges with small, low-lying, hardy plants such as white alyssum, pink phlox, Persian candytuft and purple lobelia. He bought gravel and special soil mixes that the salesman recommended.