Digging Too Deep (20 page)

Convinced she now held all the pieces to the puzzle after spending the afternoon and early evening sorting it out and writing down her findings, Tosca was eager to confront the professor. Can I get him to confess
?
she wondered. Her knack for dealing with palace staff, reputedly the most closed-mouthed citizens in the United Kingdom, had always proved invaluable in coaxing confidences. Her informants usually responded to her empathy, especially many of the twelve hundred or so permanent members of the various royal households, such as the caterers, housekeepers, media consultants, art curators and strategic planners. The opportunity to gather gossip was endless.

Tosca was expert at sympathizing with harried footmen and maids, offering condolences to trainee butlers and praising sous chef
s
on their cooking. She tut-tutted when the Lord Chamberlain’s Office complained of being overwhelmed with ceremonial events and shared a few belly laughs over beers with off-duty palace guards.

“How amusing,” she murmured to herself, reading a clipping from the front page of a newspaper that carried a story on one of the royal chauffeurs being bribed by two undercover British reporters to be admitted clandestinely into the Palace. Goodness, she thought, I’ve been doing that for years.

Summer months in particular were rewarding for the “Tiara Tittle-tattle” column when extra personnel were recruited to handle the half-million tourists thronging the monarch’s massive home. Every August and September, Buckingham Palace’s State Rooms were open to the public, and temporary jobs opened up for ticket-takers, supervisors, assistants, wardens and guides. All grist for her gossip mill.

Now, after checking her tape recorder and replacing the batteries with new ones, she was ready to face Haiden. As she was heading to the kitchen, her iPhone rang.

“Hello, Thatch,” she said, reading his name onscreen. “Nice of you to call.”

“Tosca, just thought I’d let you know that Andy says Vernays has been cleared of the ferry boat kid’s murder. Seems he has an airtight alibi. He was at an estate auction in Ohio. The authorities checked his cell phone records. Vernays made a few calls from that location, and his credit card reflects expenses for the hotel bill and other items, too, so he’s off the hook.”

“Would he have had time to fly back here, then return to Ohio?” said Tosca.

“He was with three other people most of the time, and they corroborate his statement. So that means the killer is still out there, and it could be someone on Isabel Island. I advise you to stay at home tonight because the police are going to hold a press conference at five o’clock to announce they are closing in on a possible suspect.

“Why would they announce that? Won’t it warn the murderer to flee?” said Tosca.

“I think they expect to flush him out.”

“So who is it?”

“Andy can’t tell me who it is, of course, but as you were the one to find the ferry worker’s body, you could be in danger.

“But that’s all I did, find the body.”

“And the coin, don’t forget.”

Tosca sighed. “Look, there’s no reason for the killer to come after me. Besides I’m working on the professor’s case, not the ferry killing. Although solving two cases at once would be quite a coup.” She paused, then said, “I’d better wrap up the music student’s murder first. It has all come together rather nicely. I’m off to Haiden’s house now. See you later.”

“Tosca! His house? No! Don’t…”

Despite Thatch’s urgent protest, Tosca broke the connection, eager to be on her way. What cheek that man has, telling me what to do. I’ll beat him to the punch, she thought, and I bet I could solve the ferry killing, too, if I weren’t so busy with the murder of Paul Holloway.

Mentally hugging herself with delight at the notion and imagining the reaction of her editor in London when she solved the crime, she picked up her last jug of mead. The box she’d sent to J.J. was now empty. She’d hoped the wine would last until she could brew more, but at the rate she’d been doling it out, she was now bereft of her favorite potion. Still, it was worth it if it resulted in an early end to her exile, a triumphant return to England and a well-earned promotion, assuming the lawsuit had been sorted out. She’d miss the glorious weather in California, of course, and the kindness and generosity of Americans, but home beckoned.

She admitted to herself she’d quite changed her attitude toward those she initially thought of as warmongering heathens. Now she could see herself enjoying a whole year on Isabel Island, but it wasn’t quite the same. J.J., she knew, felt entirely differently about England and planned to spend the rest of her life in America, but Tosca needed her Cornwall. It was important to her to visit St. Ives, her hometown, even though she disliked the monstrosity called the New Tate Gallery branch recently built there. Fortunately, it was offset by sculptor Barbara Hepworth’s magnificent works. Maybe I’ll come back here for a vacation. Soon. To see Thatch. If he keeps out of my way until I’ve solved these crimes.

His admonition to stay home rankled
.
I know just what he’s up to, she told herself. He’s looking for some hero-worship from his son and whoever Christine is. So what if he’s a former Secret Service agent? I have the very best nose for ferreting out facts and fishing for information. Let’s just see who solves these crimes first.

Carrying the mead, the tote bag hanging from her shoulder, Tosca left the cottage and headed to the professor’s house. As she approached the residence she paused to listen to the music filling the night air. Through the window she saw him seated at the piano, rapt in his playing, his heavy head dipped toward his chest, his eyes closed. Tosca again was reluctant to disturb him as the strains of Debussy’s haunting “Claire de Lune” took her instantly back to a scene from the movie,
Frenchman’s Creek,
filmed in Cornwall. As the last notes died away Tosca knocked gently on the door. It took Whittaker a few moments before he opened it. His expression was not welcoming.

“Oh, Haiden, I am so sorry to interrupt your evening, and I did wait until you’d finished playing the Debussy piece. I wonder if I could possibly have a word?”

“I’m sorry, Tosca. I am much too busy.”

The abrupt tone and dismissal were nothing new to Tosca. She was a past master at overcoming such resistance. Sensing that nothing short of a shock would gain her entry into his house this time she gave her best rendition of her Cheshire cat smile.

“I’m sorry you are so busy. I thought you, of all people, would want to know that I have figured out who murdered your student, Paul Holloway.”

She followed Whittaker inside. A candle glowed in the large brass bowl on the piano, the same bowl she’d seen several times before. This time the candle was plain white, its vanilla fragrance permeating the room. Where did he buy them? Did he collect candles? Each time she visited, the candle burning on his piano was a different color and always lit. Tosca glanced quickly around the walls. The framed composition with its notes and numbers was still missing.

“Where’s the Schoenberg piece, professor?” she asked boldly, pointing to the empty spot. “It was hanging right there.”

She hummed its first few notes. Whittaker’s head whipped around, yet he met her eyes calmly.

“Packed up. I have a buyer for the house, and I’m leaving for Europe.”

“Really? Perhaps you’ll come and see me in London, or better yet, Cornwall. It’s the most wild and romantic part of England. You might meet a pisky there.”

Distracted, he said, “Pisky?”

“A Cornish pixie. They can be very inspiring. You’ve heard of Inglis Gundry, of course?”

“No, Tosca, I have not.”

Concealing her irritation at his ignorance because she wanted to distract him further and get him talking about music, and specifically Schoenberg, she said, “I must say, professor, I am most surprised. Gundry is one of Cornwall’s most distinguished composers. They say he was inspired by a pisky and wrote fifteen operas. He wasn’t born in Cornwall, but his roots were there, and he spoke fluent Cornish. So you’ve never heard of him?”

Tosca looked around the room for a place to put down the jug of mead. Still littered with books, librettos and CDs, it was as untidy as before. She cleared a space on the low, black lacquered coffee table next to some cellophane envelopes containing gold and silver coins, set down the jug and removed its stopper.

“Let’s have a drink,” she said, indicating the jug of mead, “and I’ll tell you what I have discovered.”

Whittaker’s dark brown eyes narrowed. God, he’s so transparent, she thought. He’s acting just like the sociopathic killer he is. Very calm, verging on arrogant, not the flustered man I met on a previous visit. Is this another side of him? Does he have a fetish for fingers, or is he simply a ruthless criminal? He’s certainly cold-blooded, cutting off the student’s hands; but according to his cousin Betty, Haiden already practiced the morbid act as a child, sawing off animal paws.

“It was the most grisly thing I’d ever seen,” Betty had told her on the phone when Tosca had called ostensibly to offer condolences on Monica’s death but in reality to dig for details. “Just hacking and chopping at those poor creatures’ legs. I don’t know if they were already dead or not, because I ran away to tell my dad. Haiden must have hidden them in the barn. We never found out what he did with them.”

“At least he didn’t eat them, like that cannibalistic Jeffrey Dahmer did when he killed those young men and had their livers for lunch.”

Betty hadn’t responded. All Tosca heard was a slight gasp. Shocking, indeed, but one must face facts, she had told the woman, who soon made an excuse to say goodbye and hung up.

Now Tosca sat on the sofa as the professor picked up the small but heavy earthenware jug, swung it back and forth as if estimating its weight and said, “I’ll get some glasses.”

He took the jug with him into the kitchen and returned with two half-filled wineglasses. Tosca peered at the drink he’d set in front of her. Its color was a little lighter than the previous mead she’d brewed. Perhaps she hadn’t fermented it long enough. Was that sediment in the bottom of the glass? Next time, she would adjust the recipe.

“So,” said Whittaker, sitting down again, “it seems you wish to unburden yourself of some discovery you’ve made?”

His silky tone and choice of words gave Tosca pause. Why was he so confident? Understandable, perhaps. She’d read that a sociopath has no conscience, that he’ll do whatever suits him, as if he is the only one that matters. Calculating and self-centered, yet often extremely talented in the arts. Some, in fact, are geniuses. She really should have studied the criminal mind a lot more than she had, she reflected, instead of reading a few parts of the book she’d bought.

“Well?” demanded the professor, breaking in to her thoughts. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Naturally, she thought, I’m not going to reveal exactly how far along the law enforcement investigation into Holloway’s murder has progressed. I’m not that foolish. Still, I’m eager to gauge Whittaker’s reaction to my theory. She decided to dangle a few tantalizing morsels.

“Haiden,” she said. “I told you already. The finger bones in that huge round stone in your garden belonged to your student, Paul Holloway.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

Tosca noted the arrogance and disdain in the professor’s voice as he contested her statement.

“It wasn’t difficult to figure it out,” she said. “I gave the rock to the authorities, and the FBI lab compared them to the other bones.”

“Other bones? What other bones?”

“Oh.”
A-barth an Jowl!
Damn! That was a slip.

“Umm,” she continued, “some other bones were found in the desert, and I guess they matched them up.” She fluttered her hands as if shooing away mosquitoes.

“Found where?” said Whittaker, his voice rising.

“You’ll have to ask the police that, Haiden. They were a bit vague about it all.”

“But you seem to be very well-informed yourself, Tosca. Please elaborate.”

“Well, there was DNA, of course.” She thought for a moment and fluttered her hands again. “From his bones and teeth. And hair strands. Hair can keep growing after a person is dead, professor.”

“How did they match the DNA to Paul? He disappeared five years ago. No one knows where he went. His grandfather is dead, and he had no other relatives.”

Tosca avoided an answer to his question, launching instead into a detailed description of how DNA is tested, hoping to cover up her revelation that the grave had been discovered.

“It’s not always accurate, of course, but if there’s pulp tissue still inside the teeth, it can be extracted and tested.”

Whittaker stood up, his bulk looming over her. “It’s a simple question to which you appear to know the answer. How was the DNA in the skeleton matched to Paul?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided. I’m going for it.

“The police tracked down the doctor who was treating him for asthma,” she said. “He has samples from testing Paul’s allergies. Actually, the samples themselves weren’t kept, but the report was, and it included his DNA.”

Tosca waited for a response. When none came she said, “Those rocks in your garden aren’t rocks at all. You know that perfectly well. They are man-made. And those things inside the one that’s broken apart you claimed were fossils? They’re part of the skeleton we found in the Anza-Borrego desert.”

Whittaker stared at her, silent.

Fearing he still didn’t understand what she was saying, Tosca went on, “It seems that the police had a warrant to search your garage. Guess what? They found a bag of cement. Tests show it is the same batch as that in your fake rocks.”

Did her blush tell him she was making that bit up?

At the professor’s continued silence Tosca kept talking, hoping that by telling him more details she’d shock him into a confession. She took a small sip of mead.

“Do sit down, professor. You’re giving me a crick in the neck.”