Digging Too Deep
A Tosca Trevant Mystery
by
Jill Amadio
Mainly Murder Press, LLC
PO Box 290586
Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586
Mainly Murder Press
Copy Editor: Paula Knudson
Executive Editor: Judith K. Ivie
Cover Designer: Karen A. Phillips
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 2013 by Jill Amadio
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9887816-9-6
Ebook ISBN 978-0-9895804-2-7
Published in the United States of America
Mainly Murder Press
PO Box 290586
Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586
www.MainlyMurderPress.com
Dedicated to
Victoria Melita Hicks Philp
Acknowledgment
Deep appreciation to poet Pol Hodge, General Secretary of the Cornish Language Fellowship, kernewek teacher, fierce language bard of Gorsedh Kernow, and a native of Redruth, Cornwall, for his infinite supply of wild and succinct Cornish swear words. I hope I have not mangled the language too badly.
“Sorry I’m late, Mother. Have you been standing out here long? We had a death on the island, and the memorial service ran on forever,” said J.J. Trevant. She picked up the two suitcases and loaded them into the Porsche parked curbside at Los Angeles International Airport.
“A murder?
Re’m fay!
Right on my new American doorstep.” Tosca Trevant pursed her lips.
“No, of course not a murder. Where did you get that idea? A neighbor drowned. And what on earth do you mean, right on your doorstep?”
“I’ve put in for a promotion from gossip columnist to crime reporter, so I need a murder to solve. Don’t be dense, dear.”
J.J. slammed down the trunk lid and stared at Tosca. “That’s ridiculous. You know nothing about crime writing. Besides, this wasn’t a murder. The poor woman died on vacation in Mexico. Surely the royal scandal you discovered wasn’t a crime, was it?”
“Let’s not get into that right now, love.”
J.J. opened the passenger door for her mother, who stepped in and buckled her seat belt.
“How was the flight?” asked J.J. as they drove out of the terminal. “That eleven-hour trip from London is no picnic. Did you sleep? It must have been horribly uncomfortable for you in that unbelievably short outfit.”
“This?” Tosca tugged at the hem of her black leather miniskirt. “You’ve been out of England too long. Covers my knickers all right, doesn’t it? The toddler I held on my lap part of the flight didn’t mind. What a joy it was to cuddle him. You’ll learn that when you have children of your own.”
“Not on my radar, as you know.”
Tosca sighed. “You can’t race cars forever.”
J.J. glanced at her mother. “And look at your hair! It’s down to your waist now.” She frowned. “Bit old for that, too, aren’t you?”
“Old? I haven’t said hello to fifty yet, although it’s fast approaching.
Re’m fay.”
“I wish you wouldn’t swear in Cornish, Mother. It makes you sound more eccentric than you are. No offense, of course.”
“None taken, love. I will try my best to behave myself. Apologies for descending upon you with hardly any warning. I was so rudely hustled out of England, I barely had time to send you those jugs of mead. I hope they didn’t get too jostled en route. I can’t wait to have a glass.”
J.J. shrugged. “I haven’t opened the box. You know I hate that awful plonk you insist on brewing yourself. Anyway, now that you’re here you can relax.”
Tosca raised her eyebrows. “Relax? With a royal lawsuit hanging over my head? Fat chance. I’m in exile.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been reassigned, that’s all. Don’t exaggerate.”
“I still can’t believe I caused such an uproar.” At J.J.’s snort, Tosca grimaced. “Honestly, I had no idea Queen Elizabeth would be so rattled. She should know my ‘Tiara Tittle-Tattle’ column is harmless.”
“Harmless? Like a python. The royals never know where you’ll strike next. That piece you wrote last week about the Earl of Dunene’s false teeth falling into the queen’s lap at dinner was a bit mean spirited, don’t you think?
“But it was true! The footman told me he saw the earl try to catch them, but it was too late.”
“All right, but you still haven’t told me what your scoop was. Sex again, I suppose. Your last email said that you’d blundered through the wrong door at Buckingham Palace, and you’d be arriving here today. Sounds really bad, so tell me.”
“It wasn’t sex, for a change, and the palace hushed it up, of course. No, J.J., I’ve promised not to discuss it, even though it was the best scoop of my career. That wimpy editor Stuart assured the Queen’s Counsel and their vast team of barristers and solicitors the column would never see the light of day. In exchange for my silence over what I saw, as I said, I asked Stuart to switch me to crime reporting, but he refused.”
“Sorry, Mother, but I can’t see you interviewing murderers and families of victims unless they’re wearing crowns.”
“I’ve always wanted to cover criminal cases for the newspaper, but I got stuck with the gossip column. Oh, well, at least I still have a job.”
J.J. guided the car expertly onto the southbound 405 freeway, weaving in and out of six lanes of giant tanker trucks, semis and bumper-to-bumper traffic until the carpool lane appeared. She entered it and gunned the engine past eighty miles an hour.
“Goodness, dear!” Tosca clutched the armrests. “Don’t you think you should slow down? We’re not on one of your speedway tracks. I can’t imagine why you chose such a dangerous career as racing. Too much like your father, God rest his soul.”
“We’ll be home soon. Please, just close your eyes.”
Ignoring her daughter’s advice, Tosca swiveled her head rapidly from side to side as she took in their surroundings on the drive south and kept up a running commentary.
“Look at that! Perfectly proportioned palm trees. Poor things. Not really their natural state, is it? And there’s yet another McDonald’s right near the ramp. Still, it’s very convenient for drivers and, I hear, much better than our miserable motorway cafes and the greasy atomic depth-charges they claim are burgers. Oh, will we be passing that mangled spaceship they call Disney Hall? Looked a bit tortured in the photos I saw.”
“No, it’s downtown Los Angeles. Mother, you really should rest your eyes.”
Arriving on Isabel Island after crossing the short bridge that connected it to the coastal town of Newport Beach, J.J. took Center Street, which cut through the island for three blocks. Lined with shaggy eucalyptus trees, it was the island’s hub and heart with cafes, boutiques, small art galleries, craft stores and a tiny post office. During the summer Center Street teemed with tourists before they headed for the ferries, two fifty-seven-foot barges, to take them across to the four-mile-long peninsula on the other side of the harbor. Built in 1906, the ferries were a year-round fixture that carried passengers and three vehicles across the main channel every three minutes.
“Oh, this is delightful.” Tosca sat up straighter. “It has a village atmosphere, almost like Cornwall. I think I’m going to like it here.”
J.J. turned left onto Felton Drive, passing two policemen on bicycles.
“I feel at home already. Bobbies on bikes,” said Tosca, waving and smiling at them.
“The island is mostly narrow, one-way streets, Mother. Believe me, it’s much easier for the cops to ride their bicycles than maneuver cars around here.”
She drove to the end of Felton, turned left, left again into a narrow alley and stopped in front of a garage beneath a two-story house. She pressed the door opener on the car’s sun visor, drove in and parked.
“Here we are. My apartment is upstairs. We’ll get you a rental car tomorrow. You’ll only need it for a few days, then you can drive the Austin-Healey. Oh, don’t groan like that. It’s a really great car. A classic.”
“Sixty years ago that old bucket may have been great, but the last time I sat in it, with your father behind the wheel, the seat bit my bum.” At J.J.’s laugh Tosca added, “It’s true. The gap between the seatback and the seat itself had widened. When I sat down, I got nipped.”
They exited the Porsche and unloaded the suitcases. J.J. led the way up two flights of wooden steps that hugged the outside wall of the house and opened the Dutch door to the living room of her apartment.
“The bedrooms are up there.” She pointed to a spiral staircase. “We can take the luggage up later. Cup of tea? I have all your favorites.”
Tosca shook her head. “No thanks, love. I’m anxious to have a glass of mead. I made one of the recipes from sweet briar. It should have come out perfectly. Oh, roses!” Tosca turned toward the large floral display on the coffee table.
“Yes, Professor Whittaker gave them to me after the funeral service. It was his wife Monica who died.”
Letter from a Lonely Outpost
.
Hello, dear Reader. I have settled onto this lovely little island and will be ferreting out some delicious tidbits for you from this side of the Big Pond. I miss the Savoy and the Ritz bar terribly but have just discovered there is a Ritz right here, thank heavens, even though it is in the middle of a shopping mall where fashionistas are buying a new perfume called Gossip! An omen, perhaps? Someone here has written a 147-page poem. Took him forty years, and he says he doesn’t completely understand it. Not surprising. Toodle-oo sweet Reader, till next time
.
Tosca thought about the neighbor’s wife as she left J.J.’s apartment for her usual early morning walk. She found it difficult to reconcile the darkness of death when every day now was filled with sunshine.
After a week on Isabel Island, Tosca was in love with the balmy Southern California climate but still missed the frequent cloudbursts that freshened her English homeland.
As she strode briskly around the three-mile seafront, a folded parasol at the ready in her hand, she examined everything in sight with a suspicious eye. She’d given up counting the dozens of powerboats docked in the bay, the small boats bobbing on moorings and the expensive yachts berthed alongside private docks, matching the opulence of the chic beach houses crammed together like dominos in a box. Snow-clad mountains towered in the distance, dwarfing the gleaming white skyscrapers of Newport Beach’s luxury hotels and office buildings.
But every day brought a new dilemma.
“What? No proper teashop nearby?” she’d protested to J.J.
Tosca glanced skyward as she walked.
A-barth am Jowl!
Not a drop of rain, either. As the sun lazily nudged itself over the hills and took its first look of the day at the wide Newport Beach harbor and the bay big enough to embrace seven small islands, Tosca opened the parasol to shade herself. She called out a cheerful “Good morning!” to a jogger as he passed. Foremost in her mind, though, was where to find the kind of gossip for her column from America that her editor, Stuart Prebble, demanded while she sought a crime to solve.
“Stuart, I don’t think there’s much royal gossip where I’m going, and certainly no authentic royalty. Can’t I be an investigative reporter instead?” she’d asked for the fourth time before she left London.
Not that Tosca felt that the “Tiara Tittle-Tattle” column was beneath her, especially since she inevitably managed to ferret out private tidbits before anyone realized they’d revealed them. For eleven years she’d held her readers enthralled or appalled, depending on their sympathies toward the throne. That is, until she was rather swiftly banished, she complained, just like the exiled Duke of Windsor, who was booted to the Bahamas for marrying an American divorcee. Exalted company, indeed, but humiliating. She was grateful that
London Daily Post
readers knew nothing of the real reason for her reassignment. Tosca’s farewell column was headlined, “Goodbye London, Hello Los Angeles.” The new title was, “Tête-a-Tête with America.”
When the editor called her into his office to tell her, she’d said, “Oh, for goodness sake, Stuart. That sounds fatuous, and what am I supposed to be writing about? How America takes tea? The Tea Partyers? Tête-a-Tête indeed. I think my reassignment is the perfect opportunity for a splendid new start. How about it?”
“No way, Tosca. We want readers to follow you across the pond for your impressions. What’s it like living there? Tell me about some of those bizarre happenings that Americans take for granted, not the usual Hollywood celebrity trash. I want gossipy stories about real people. That makes you almost a news reporter, right?”
“Well, I’ll give it a try. But promise me you’ll work on our legal problem with the royals.”
At first she’d told herself the threatened lawsuit was due to her description of the queen’s latest appearance in that dreadful blue frock as “gravity having claimed her ample bosom.” But of course she knew it was for the discovery she’d made, and the matter was far more serious than a mere criticism of the monarch’s elderly figure.
Maybe now that J.J. is now a proud U.S. citizen I should become one, too, she reflected, and report on crimes on the West Coast. There seem to be plenty of shootings, judging by the media. I might never go back to England. Let the Brits solve their own murders.