Digging Too Deep (5 page)

But halfway through the project he became weary of trying to figure out how to place the various materials. He hired a gardener to set everything up. When it was finished, Whittaker waited until the man had been paid and driven off before installing the two treasures at the rock garden’s highest point.

After its completion he enjoyed seeing it every time he left and returned to the house. He never observed Monica, of course, looking that way or mentioning it. Surely, she must have known and wondered. But after a few years, when he’d stopped caring for the shrine, and it was covered in crabgrass and other weeds, he’d almost forgotten it existed or, indeed, what it symbolized. Success and burgeoning celebrity meant more travel. During the summer months on hiatus from the university, he often spent weeks away, and he knew it never occurred to his wife to do any gardening.

Everything was going so well, “or it was until Mrs. Busybody Trevant came along,” he muttered between clenched teeth, sweating with exertion under the noonday sun as he attacked the heavy growth of weeds he’d ignored for so long. He pulled back the alyssum that obscured the focus of the shrine and saw that one of the rocks was missing. With a curse he grabbed the remaining rock, scattering dirt as he pulled it free, and took it into the kitchen.

As Haiden stood at the stainless steel sink, gently washing off the soil and worrying about the other rock, the sound of grinding gears brought his glance up to window. He watched Tosca fling open the driver’s side door of her daughter’s Austin-Healey, jump out and stalk, red-faced, into their cottage. J.J., with a grim expression on her face, slid from the passenger seat, got behind the steering wheel and drove off, tires smoking. Here end-eth driving lesson number one, Whittaker thought as he recalled Tosca telling him she’d never learned to drive a manual transmission, but her daughter would teach her during her visit here.

The professor dried the rock, wrapped it in a kitchen towel and placed it in the bottom of the hall closet. Where was the other one in which Tosca had taken such an interest? Had she turned it over to the police? If so, what should he do? He forced himself to calm down. He’d told her the rock garden had been there when he moved in. Who could prove otherwise? The former elderly owners had moved to North Dakota. Probably dead by now.

Newport Beach Police Officer Andy MacAulay sat bolt upright in J.J.’s living room. “And where did you find this rock, ma’am?” he asked, still annoyed that the woman had practically pulled him off his bicycle ten minutes earlier and insisted he and his partner Bob come home with her to discuss a murder.

Assigned to patrol the island in pairs, on two wheels instead of four, the young cops enjoyed their bicycle duty. They even grinned at the friendly wolf whistles prompted by their uniforms of navy blue shorts and golf shirts. But occasionally, like today, Andy and his partner were presented with some weird situations.

“Where did I find it? Oh, at Professor Whittaker’s house.” Tosca waved her arm vaguely toward the street. “It was in his garden.”

Taking the lead as his partner remained silent, Andy said, “I see. Did your neighbor give the rock to you?”

“Of course not,” said Tosca.

“You mean, you went in and took it? That’s trespassing, ma’am.”

“Young man, do I look the type of person who would trespass?”

“Look, it’s just a stone with a piece broken off one side,” he said, anxious to leave.

He picked up the heavy, pinkish-gray lump Tosca had deposited in his lap and passed it over to Bob, who weighed it in his hand and gave it back to Andy. “It’s very nice, ma’am. Should make a fine paperweight.” He placed the rock on the table, wondering what she found interesting about the piece of rubble.

“But what about those fingertip bones?” said Tosca. “You must have this thing, whatever it is, X-rayed straight away. I’ve read all about America’s advanced technology that can see inside anything. Failing that, just hit it with a hammer, but don’t break those bones.”

Andy decided to humor her. He’d ask the usual questions to show his willingness to help and then get out of there. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to file a formal report.

“You said you are here visiting with your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“I need your full name.”

“Tosca Trevant.”

“How old are you, Mrs. Trevant?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jeez, just like my dad, he reflected, never wants to give away his age. “Ma’am, if you want me to fill out the report ...” Andy held his pen poised over his notebook.

“Just write, ‘unknown.’”

“Mrs. Trevant, maybe I could see your driver’s license?”

“I haven’t applied for a U.S. one yet.”

“You’re not driving, then?” said Andy, noting her guilty expression.

“I do have an international driver’s license.”

“Oh. That’s all right then,” he said, relieved enough to forget to ask her to produce it. He told her they’d take the rock with them for examination and asked her to walk with them past the professor’s house to point out exactly where she’d found it.

“Before we’ve had tea? It’s four o’clock!”

He watched her march into the kitchen, every angle of her body trembling with indignation, he figured, at his lack of respect for a fine English tradition. She grabbed the electric kettle, filled it at the faucet and slammed it back onto its heating base. The two policemen rolled their eyes at each other and signaled they’d better stay.

Andy fidgeted as he looked around the room. He studied the exotic Gauguin prints that covered one entire wall, the tall, thin abstract sculptures that reached to the ceiling, the racing trophies, and wondered what the daughter was like. Her mother looked great, but that formal way of speaking like some grand duchess unsettled him. Guess that how some Brits speak, he told himself. Suddenly, Tosca was at his elbow, a cup of tea clattering in its saucer. “Drink this. It’s Oolong from Indonesia, much better than the Chinese. You, too,” she said, handing Bob a cup.

They dutifully drank the hot liquid down.

“More?” asked Tosca.

“No, thanks, ma’am,” said Andy. “I just need you to show us exactly where you found this thing, and then we’ll be off.”

On the street he unzipped the saddlebag at the rear of his bicycle, placed the rock inside, and reclosed the bag.

“Young man, you should put that into an evidence bag.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The three made their way to Professor Whittaker’s garden, the cops wheeling their bicycles and trying to avoid being poked in the eye by Tosca’s parasol. As they walked along the street the policemen found themselves subjected to a stream of gossip and opinions.

“See this house?” said Tosca. “It’s designed in four different architectural styles. You’d never see that in England, of course. That couple we just passed? They hate ducks. He blows them off his porch with a vacuum cleaner hose. Frightens them to death. They’ll never be able to breed, you know. What do you think about that?”

Andy, who’d tried to tune out before the conversation overwhelmed him, began to reply, but the woman at his side sailed right on.

“Mrs. Jensen on the corner there hides her valuables all around the house. She drew up a schematic so she knows where everything is, but she keeps it in plain sight, pinned to the kitchen door. Her husband made his millions transforming defective coffins into fancy sofas.”

Tosca pointed up the street. “See the little hole at ground level in the front wall of that house? Looks like a cat door, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not. The owner, Dick, loves toy trains. Every two hours his little engine pulling six carriages comes whistling out of the hole, takes a turn around the rose bush and chugs back inside.” She grabbed Andy’s arm. “Now just look at these two scrawny women jogging toward us. A man wants to feast on meat at night, not skinny things like them. Shocking, I call it. Of course, I hate to admit it but it’s worse in England.”

Andy decided that failing eyesight must be distorting her vision of the two beauties jogging past. Boy, so many gorgeous women, so little time. The parasol nicked his ear.

“My daughter won’t let me have a proper umbrella around here, you know. That’s why I carry this thing. She’s trying to talk me into one of those fold-ups that fit in your handbag. What’s your opinion?”

“I don’t have an opinion, ma’am. I never carry a handbag.”

They reached the professor’s garden. The rock was too large to have rolled under the fence, Andy noted, but it may have come through the gate if it had been open. In that case, what would have propelled it forward? Sure looks like she’d trespassed.

“Well?” demanded Tosca.

“Hmm. We’ll be in touch. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Aren’t you going to go into the house and search around?”

“Not without a warrant. Goodbye, ma’am.”

The two mounted their bicycles and rode away.

“No sense going any further with this,” Andy told Bob. “We won’t even need to file a report. She’s off her rocker. What do you think?”

“I agree. It’s just a damn big stone.”

“My Dad’s into this stuff,” said Andy. “I’ll give it to him.”

“How’s your Dad doing?”

“Gee, much better than I’d have thought. Since he retired from the Secret Service I’ve been after him to enjoy his hobby of geology more. Another good thing now that he’s home, he and Christine have gotten closer. He still resists discussing her, though.”

Andy went on to tell Bob that his father still occasionally took him camping to Joshua Tree National Park, the Mojave National Preserve and similar California desert areas to study rock formations and the wildlife.

“He mostly goes off alone, though, and when he comes back he tells me about the six-hundred-foot sand dunes, the magnificent granite peaks, the salt playas and the lost mines. But most of all, Dad loves rocks,” Andy said, “any kind of rocks. His den at home is filled with dozens of them, all shapes, sizes and colors. So maybe this one from the loony lady will keep the old man occupied for a while. It sure is odd looking.”

Thatch MacAulay stood uncertainly outside J.J.’s bright red Dutch door at the top of the wooden steps, shifting his six-foot, three-inch frame from one foot to another. When he’d called to ask if he could meet with her, Tosca had told him, “Oh, pop by any time.”

In his left hand he held a paper bag containing the rock Andy had brought him and hoped against hope the old gal wasn’t as gabby as his son reported. Thatch knew vaguely of Tosca Trevant’s reputation as England’s top gossip columnist. He’d heard about some kind of scandal she was recently involved in, but he’d paid no attention to the details.

Geology, on the other hand, topped his list of interests. He’d progressed from being a rock hound digging for semiprecious gems on outings with a local club to the serious study of geology, preferring to follow the pastime solo. Thatch found the pursuit of his hobby easy and rewarding, thanks to the rich variety of geological finds in the deserts, mountains, canyons and cliffs in the Southern and Central California regions.

Even though he had a pretty good idea of the composition of Tosca’s rock, and his curiosity as to its origins was intense, he had a horror of loquacious little old ladies. However, he was as fascinated with the fossils themselves as with the rock that contained them, and he’d persuaded Andy, despite his reluctance, to play it by the book and open a case file at the police station. If the rock were to be tested at a state lab or at the FBI’s forensics lab, it would need a file number to justify the lab time. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the door swung open.

“Oh, dear,” said Tosca, glancing at MacAulay’s Stetson. “Are you part of a posse?”

Thatch’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. He liked the way her sapphire blue eyes looked directly into his own and her expression of amusement and intelligence. Who was this? Not young enough to be the daughter, but certainly not the ancient crone he expected. As he eyed her blue tank top and white shorts, he watched her in return study him from head to toe. He was glad he’d polished his worn cowhide boots, no fancy ostrich or snakeskin for him, and wondered if she’d secretly flinched at his broken nose, suffered in his teens as a bronco rider on the college rodeo circuit.

“Mrs. Trevant?” He removed the rock from the bag.

“I am, indeed. Oh! You’ve brought it back.”

He smiled broadly, hoping the calluses on his fingertips hadn’t been too noticeable when they shook hands while the thought of his now-chunky physique caused him to suck in his stomach. He wasn’t concerned about the deep furrows that radiated out from the edges of his eyes, nor the lines that cut across his forehead. His was a well-lived-in face midway into its fifth decade, and he made no excuses for it.

“I’m Andy’s father. My son is the policeman you met a couple of days ago.” He took off his hat. “And no, I’m not part of a posse, although our local sheriff can get one together when necessary.” Which I know has never happened in swanky Newport Beach, he thought.

“Do come in.” She led the way inside. “I’m just about to have a cup of tea. Would you join me? Please, sit down. My name is Tosca.”

“Thank you. Please call me Thatch, short for Thatcher.” At her raised eyebrows he quickly added, smiling, “No, nothing to do with your former prime minister, of course.”

He set the rock on the coffee table and sat on the sofa, watching her fill an electric kettle with water at the kitchen sink.

“Uh, iced tea for me, if you don’t mind.”

Was she nuts? It was eighty-six degrees in today’s unexpected spring heat wave.

“Iced?” said Tosca, turning to him and frowning.

No need for ice cubes, Thatch thought. Her chilly tone was enough to lower the temperature to thirty below.

“I’d be very grateful,” she said, “if you would not mention iced tea in my presence. It’s an abomination. Fancy making tea with beautifully boiled water which, by the way, must be poured over the leaves at the first puff of steam to avoid losing the oxygen, and then ruining it by adding ice.”