Digging Too Deep (14 page)

The reference collection Tosca needed was in the Jack Langson Library, she was told, where the arts, humanities and other disciplines were housed. Given directions, Tosca approached the information desk and produced her copy of Professor Whittaker’s Schoenberg music.

“May I speak to someone familiar with the music of Arnold Schoenberg, please?”

The young, blond librarian asked her to wait a moment. He went into the back office and returned with a woman who said she hoped she could help.

“Can you tell me which composition of Schoenberg’s this is?” said Tosca.

The woman studied the sheet of paper for several moments. “I don’t know all his orchestral scores. What are these numbers underneath the notes?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. Have you seen any of his original manuscripts like this? Did he ever write numbers on his pages? He was a numerologist, but I don’t know if he simply doodled numbers on his scores or they really meant something.” She asked if she could look at any Schoenberg archives that were available.

“We do have some,” said the woman, “on the top floor. You’ll need to show identification and a pass. Just a moment, please.” She returned with a small cardboard ticket, told Tosca where the elevator was and instructed her to get out on the fourth floor.

Here the atmosphere was hushed. Showing her pass at yet another information desk, Tosca repeated her quest. She was shown to a small table and chair. A young man brought several large sheets of music and laid them before her. After he left she looked through them carefully. No numbers. She went back to the young man.

“Are there more archives?”

“Sorry, we have very few Schoenberg scores. You could try the University of California, Los Angeles. Schoenberg taught there for several years and has a hall named after him.”

“Many thanks,” said Tosca.

Back home, she set up her laptop, clicked on the Internet icon and typed UCLA in the Google search box. Navigating her way through the website, she studied several links before finding the UCLA university archives pages. She clicked on its list of collections and finally found a page with a phone number to call for reference. This is worse than following a string of clues in a murder, she thought as she dialed the number.

In answer to her questions a cheery voice told her to get back on the Internet and find the music library’s special collections page. There’d be a phone number she could call to set up an appointment to view the Schoenberg scores. Tosca found the number, called and left a message. After an hour had passed and no return call came, Tosca decided she could bear to wait no longer. She retrieved the folder marked UCLA and studied the Mapquest driving directions to the university. She never used the GPS while behind the wheel, finding it too distracting. Instead, she always wrote the directions down in large black marker letters that could easily be read with a quick glance.

Her research meant a trek to Los Angeles of at least an hour and possibly double that time to drive back to Orange County during the late afternoon rush hour if her investigation of Schoenberg’s archives was lengthy. Well, nothing for it but to get on the road.

As she drove she listened to a CD of Schoenberg’s opera,
Moses und Aron.
She recalled a critic’s harsh opinion of the composer, calling him “the scary twelve-tone inventor who killed harmony and nearly all else that the conventional concert-goer expects.” How unjust, she thought as the frenzied music soared through the car’s six speakers.

Tosca repeated the number twelve aloud. Her research showed that some scholars believed Schoenberg cared more about numbers than sound, mixing them up to create a new row of notes that could be played backwards. Weird, she thought, but understandable for the musician who was said to have found that all existing music of the time was boring.

She also discovered that composer Charles Ives hung melodies he composed on the wall for two months to see if he liked them and marked the notes with numbers for future reference. Was that what Schoenberg did? But why did the professor pick out those two particular bars of music and hang them up? She was probably chasing the wrong rainbow.

The route took her north on the 405 freeway, which she exited at Sunset Boulevard, a magical landmark to Tosca because it was featured in the classic Gloria Swanson movie of the same name. The street fascinated every Brit who longed to drive along the curvy, tree-lined historic road, hoping for a peek at the homes of famous stars.

The entrance to UCLA was unexpected and almost hidden. Only a small wooden sign indicated the presence of one of the largest university complexes on the West Coast. Among the residences, halls, museums, institutes, gardens, libraries, a stadium, a theater and dozens of other structures, Tosca soon found Schoenberg Hall but discovered that its only connection to the composer was his name on the building. His archives, she was told, were housed several miles away at the University of Southern California. So much for diligent Internet research. I should have waited for the return phone call, she thought, and saved time.

Given directions, she retraced part of her trip and arrived at the USC campus. Unlike UCLA, it was located far from the glamour of Hollywood, although the setting was park-like with grassy areas, tree-lined walkways, fountains, courtyards and a sculpture garden. Some of the buildings were in the Italian Romanesque style, while the Schoenberg archives were housed in a modern, two-story institute named for the composer. She was directed to the music building, where she asked at the information desk to talk to someone about Arnold Schoenberg. A forty-something woman appeared from a rear office, and introduced herself to Tosca.

“How can I help you?”

From her purse Tosca once more brought out her copy of the music fragment on Whittaker’s wall.

“Do you know what these numbers mean? This is part of a score composed by Arnold Schoenberg.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not a specialist on him, and there’s no one here to help you right now. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“I’ve driven up from Orange County, but, yes, I could come back. Can you tell me anything personal about Schoenberg?”

“It’s common knowledge among his followers that he loved numbers. He says he dreamed in numbers, though we don’t know exactly what he meant.”

“Isn’t there any explanation?”

“Well, mathematics and music are interrelated, of course, but how this particular composer connected the numbers and notes, I can’t say.” She studied the bar of music more closely. “You know, Schoenberg didn’t use the twelve-tone scale until late in his career, and I’ve never come across his scores with numbers added. I’m sorry. I’m not the person who can help you. Call tomorrow any time after ten a.m. and ask for Carol Dane.” She wrote the extension number on a sheet of paper and handed it to Tosca.

In the car once more, Tosca reviewed the directions back to Newport Beach, checked the map she kept open on the passenger seat and found her way onto the 405 South. Irritated at the time wasted, she failed to notice the flashing lights in her rearview mirror until she’d driven a mile down the freeway with the California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop close behind. She pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped. When approached, she put down her window.

“Superintendent, or is it Detective Sergeant? I am so, so glad you are here! Talk about serendipity. I am totally lost. Imagine your showing up just when I need your help. The problem is, your wonderful freeways are much more complicated than England’s. Of course, your entire country is probably better, especially your history, which is so much more vigorous than ours.” She picked up the map from the passenger seat and showed it to the officer. “Can you point out exactly where I am? I’d be extremely appreciative. I’ve read all about how helpful the California highway patrol is to visitors from abroad like me. Of course, I’ve watched the television program
CHiPs.
Did you have a part? You look like you’d fit perfectly. Now, can you help me?”

Appearing flummoxed, the officer explained where she was. He told her to please slow down and she was lucky not to get a ticket, only a warning this time. She thanked him profusely, promised to send some mead to the highway patrol headquarters and went on her way.

In Newport Beach she stopped in at the public library and checked out two more books on Arnold Schoenberg. Perhaps she’d find the answer she sought within their pages.

The next morning, after waiting impatiently for ten o’clock , Tosca called USC to make an appointment to view the Schoenberg archives. Four minutes later she was pacing around the cottage’s small living room, waving her arms.

“
Kawgh ki!
Damn! Transferred to Vienna! Double
kawgh ki!
I can’t go to Vienna!” She let out a stream of piercing high-C notes.

J.J. came dashing down from her rooftop sunbathing session. “What on earth’s the matter? Were you swearing in Cornish again?”

“My best clue. Swiped. Hijacked to Austria.”

“Calm down, Mother. Tell me in whole sentences what you mean.”

Tosca related the conversation she’d had with the librarian at USC. “The Schoenberg family successfully sued USC for his archives to be taken back to his birthplace, Vienna. They’ve gone! Gone!”

“Well, that makes sense to me,” said J.J. “Obviously the court agreed with the family. They should indeed be given custody of them.”

“Oh, you’re no help. How can I complete my research? USC even renamed the Schoenberg building. It’s now the Bing Theater. Bing! That pipsqueak Crosby, I suppose. Well, time for tea.”

As she picked up the canister containing loose Darjeeling tea leaves, she wondered how that amateur geologist with The Hat was getting on with his FBI friend.

Thatch’s phone rang.

“Okay, buddy. You owe me another lunch.” Delano’s voice sounded upbeat.

“Dan! Don’t tell me you got results from that rock already?”

“I sure have. Had to pull a few strings, but it was a slam dunk, the Quantico lab tells me. Want to meet at Shaunessey’s tomorrow?”

“It’s only ten o’clock right now. How about in a couple of hours today?” The chuckle Thatch heard from the other end of the line and Delano agreeing to a noon meeting sent him running upstairs to shower, shave and change into a clean shirt and jeans.

As he drove toward the restaurant Thatch pondered Delano’s “slam dunk” comment. What did it mean? If the talon-like nodules in the rock were indeed fingertips, then the lab could determine the DNA. The Israelis, he recalled, had recently developed an improved technique for extracting genetic material from fossils, including human bones. Certainly the Quantico lab would be up to date on the process. On the other hand, DNA depended upon good quality and uncontaminated samples. The DNA chain must be intact with the strands not fragmented.

Would Thatch’s own theory about the make-up of the rock itself prove correct? He hoped Dan’s report would be able to tell him the exact composition of the rock, when it was created and the age of its contents.

Seated once more at the same table and with Stiegl beers in front of them, the two leaned toward each other.

“Right,” said Delano. “Let’s cut to the chase. The bottom line is, the forensic anthropologist in our lab confirms that your find is human. Belonged to a young person, maybe late teens, early twenties. The scan shows a skeletal hand that was severed just above the wrist. It was encased in cement.”

Thatch nodded. “Yes, that’s what I figured, too.”

“As you also figured, I’m sure,” Delano went on, “the rock began to deteriorate, not only because of the ocean environment but also because the cement mixture was pretty loose. There was too much water in the mix when it was formed, plus whoever made it forgot or didn’t know enough to add some fine gravel to the concrete. So it deteriorated faster than intended.”

“The sea air, I suppose, but isn’t concrete gray?” said Thatch.

“You can buy white cement. It’s more expensive, but that’s what your guy did, and he added a pale pink pigment to make the rock look more natural.”

“Was there any skin or flesh clinging to the bones inside the rock?”

“No. We’d thought that the part of the hand still inside the rock might be mummified, because cement is fairly porous after it dries, at least at a microscopic level. This would allow the moisture in the tissues to soak into the cement and dry out the hand. But in this case the hand has decayed, leaving only the bones.”

“Does that mean you have DNA?” said Thatch.

“Yes, we do. I’ve made a copy of the reports for you, but I’m going to have to pass this along to the Newport Beach Police Department.” Delano took a brown envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Thatch.

“Dan, you’ve made my day. I’m relieved it’s worked out. There’s a very special lady on Isabel Island who’ll want to know she can stop worrying and leave everything to the local cops.”

“Isn’t your son a police officer there?”

“Yes, Andrew’s a bicycle patrolman on the island. He’ll be interested in this, too, of course, because he’d kind of dismissed Tosca’s suspicions.”

“Tosca? Is that someone’s name or a place in Italy?” said Delano, laughing.

“I know, I know. Her mom was an opera fan, and she named her children after characters from various operas. I looked up the story of
Tosca
, and the heroine is one very fiery, passionate beauty.”

“Does the lady on the island match that description?” asked Delano.

“The beauty part, yes, and she’s sure passionate about trying to solve what she believes is a murder. Fiery? Questionable. She got pretty upset when I asked for ice in my drink.”

“Must be a Brit, right?”

MacAulay nodded. “To the core. Worse, she’s Cornish.”

“Meaning?”

“Not really sure yet, but different from your average English person.”

The two men grinned at each other and, after ordering lunch, turned their talk to Delano’s family. After filling MacAulay in on his son’s upcoming medical school graduation and his wife’s new car, Delano looked at his friend, hesitated, then asked, “How’s Christine?”