“I don’t suppose one of those coins is an aegina, is it?” asked Tosca.
“No, I gave …” he hesitated, then continued. “Well, what does it matter now? I might as well admit it. The kid on the ferry was trying to blackmail me. Tell me, Tosca, what would you have done? Self-preservation is as powerful a motive for murder as jealousy, anger and other passions. But as I said, it doesn’t matter now. You can’t prove any of what I’m telling you.”
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“Vanity, perhaps, or to set you straight because you think you’re so clever? Maybe to stop your snooping. Or perhaps because you are a highly intelligent woman who appreciates Schoenberg and loves opera. You think I’m some boring, simple-minded old fuddy-duddy who happens to play well, am I correct? Perhaps what I’ve told you will change your mind.”
In the silence that followed as Tosca sought to come up with an appropriate response, the loud click that signaled the end of the cassette tape in her tote bag sounded like a thunderclap. Whittaker’s face turned bright red. He jumped up, knocking over the coffee table and sending the wine glasses to the floor.
“Give me that tape recorder!”
Tosca grabbed her tote bag, rushed to the front door, threw it open and ran down the path. She found the gate handle, hastened through and slammed the gate behind her. To her dismay, Whittaker was almost at her heels.
She headed for home, running. The professor attempted to keep up. What to do? she thought. Call 911, of course. Fumbling in her purse, she found the iPhone. She looked down to dial, but that brief moment took her attention, and she tripped on the sidewalk. The phone went flying out of her hand.
Kawgh ki!
Maybe I should bang on a neighbor’s door, she thought. No, it’ll be quicker to drive to the police station up the road. Oh, fiddle, J.J.’s returned my rental car
.
That leaves the Austin-Healey. Tosca jerked her head around to see the professor abandon his pursuit and hurry back to his house. Damn, he’s figured out I’m headed for the garage.
She entered, turned on the light, found the car keys J.J. left in her tote bag and slid onto the driver’s seat of the small sports car. She pressed the garage door opener. In the night air she could hear the professor’s Jaguar growl. Where’s the ignition? Did J.J. say something about a choke? And where the heck is it?
She located it, pulled on the knob, pushed in the starter button, stomped on the clutch and jammed the stick shift to the right. She carefully eased up on the clutch and down on the gas pedal, just as J.J. had directed her, waiting for the moment when the two were synchronized so she could back out.
Feeling the correct tension, Tosca pressed down hard on the accelerator. The Healey leapt forward, crashing into the rear wall of the garage and stalling.
Kawgh ki!
Wasn’t that the reverse gear? What did I do wrong? Squeezing her eyes closed to think, she remembered J.J. telling her the shift pattern on the 1953 BN1 model was unusual. She stared at the controls and quickly re-started the engine, put her feet on the clutch and gas pedal again, eased the shifter to the left and up, and cautiously backed the car into the alley.
After she straightened the car she checked the rearview mirror. Damn. The professor’s Range Rover was bearing down on her. Tosca panicked, grabbed the stick shift to slot it into any gear and hit third. The result was a roar loud enough to wake the dead as the car shot forward like a winning horse in the Derby. It was midnight, and the streets were deserted, but she was sure she’d hear about the noise from the neighbors in the morning, assuming she was still alive and not killed either by Whittaker or the Austin-Healey. The little car bucked and almost stalled out again as Tosca tried to cope with the unfamiliar gear, but she managed to keep going.
Gripping the steering wheel hard, right foot on the throttle and now too unnerved to try any more shifting maneuvers, she headed for the bridge. Once over it she’d be safe. The local police station was a straight shot up the hill, a mile inland. She didn’t want to think about how she’d stop the car and hoped she wouldn’t have to ram the police station itself to come to a halt.
Suddenly the blinding headlights from Whittaker’s SUV once more filled the sports car’s mirror. She was halfway over the bridge, but the professor was inches from her rear bumper. More speed! Cursing in Cornish, she lifted her left foot, stamped hard on the clutch, forgot to ease off the gas pedal and came to an abrupt, screeching halt as the car once again stalled. The Range Rover rear-ended her with a jolt. Feeling horribly exposed in the little open-top Healey, she leapt out as Whittaker, also out of his car, came toward her with a tire iron in his hand.
He stopped abruptly when flashing blue and red lights appeared on the bridge in front of them, a police siren wailing. The cavalry has arrived, Tosca realized. Within seconds two official cars blocked both traffic lanes at the mainland entrance to the narrow bridge. Tosca ran toward the vehicles. Four cops emerged, joined by Thatch. He swept her up in his arms then quickly released her, glancing around, Tosca guessed, to see if anyone had noticed.
“Don’t be embarrassed,
skiansekigyon,”
she whispered in his ear as she clung to him, “although it would have been much more fun if you’d brought a posse.”
“This is serious, Tosca. Andy called me, said the cops were on their way to arrest Whittaker for murder. Thank God we got here in time. Took a while to wake up a judge, but they have the warrant.”
As he spoke, they saw the Range Rover squeal into reverse, the professor’s frantic three-point turn taking him back toward his street.
“He’s getting away!” Tosca yelled.
One of the cops said, “No chance. He can’t get off the island now. We’ve got the bridge covered, and it’s past midnight, which means the ferry has stopped running. I don’t believe that fat fella is up to stealing a boat and rowing across to the peninsula.” Turning to his partner he said, “Okay, Bernie, let’s go get him. Looks like he’s headed home. Thatch, why don’t you see if you can move that toy out of our way?” He pointed to the Austin-Healey “We’ll follow you.”
Tosca smiled to herself. Thank goodness J.J. wasn’t here. She’d have his ears for that remark. The police returned to their squad cars as Thatch guided Tosca to the passenger seat of the Austin-Healey. He started up the engine and ran it till it purred. Smoothly shifting gears, he backed the car off the bridge, turned, waited until the squad cars were behind him and made his way to the island.
“Why was he chasing you?” asked Thatch.
“Oh,” she said, waving her hand airily, “I was just chatting with him when …”
“You told him everything we found out, didn’t you? You went to see him when I told you not to.” Thatch’s interruption made her squirm. “You could have been killed!”
“It was just a neighborly visit, and I have his confession to the two murders on tape.” She smiled at Thatch’s stunned expression. “I always carry the recorder in my purse. Force of habit.”
“Two murders?” said Thatch, driving down Isabel Island’s dark streets to Tosca’s house. “It’s just one, Tosca. He killed the student, Paul Holloway.”
“Oh, no, you’ve got it all wrong,
skianekigyon.
Paul died a natural death.”
“What? But he was mutilated. We have his skeleton, the hands.”
“Yes, but Haiden took them only after Paul suffered a fatal asthma attack. Just before he buried him the professor reverted to his childhood penchant for keeping a souvenir. That’s a common practice for sociopaths. They like to keep a memento of their victims, although in this case it was quite different. Haiden took Paul’s hands because of his brilliance. In Haiden’s opinion Paul wasn’t his victim. He was Monica’s victim, so Haiden killed her in revenge, and he killed Todd in anger for trying to blackmail him.”
“So you’re telling me that the professor admitted to killing his wife and the ferry boat kid?”
“Yes, indeed. I told you, I have it all on tape. Haiden took great delight in describing both murders to me. He was very proud of himself. He’s the ultimate narcissist.”
Thatch parked in J.J.’s garage and, with Tosca in tow, walked over to Whittaker’s house, where three police cars were at the curb. In the living room they found the professor seated at the piano, playing softly, looking out at the night, ignoring everyone. Four Newport Beach police surrounded him. One was Detective Wally Parnell.
“You might as well hear this,” said Parnell. He turned toward Thatch and Tosca. “Haiden Whittaker has agreed to tell us what he’s been doing, including tonight’s little escapade when he tried to run you down, Mrs. Trevant. He knows you recorded his conversation.”
“What’s the actual charge?” said Thatch.
“We figure one count of murder for Paul Holloway. We’ve told him the evidence against him is overwhelming.”
Haiden, playing softly, cocked his head to one side, smiled at Tosca and shrugged.
“One!” said Tosca, turning to Detective Parnell. “No, no. I’ve just told Thatch. You’re all barking up the wrong tree. It’s two murders, and neither one of them is Paul Holloway’s. Haiden didn’t kill that student. He died of natural causes. He had a fatal asthma attack. I have Haiden’s confession. Here,” she said, handing the tape recorder to Parnell.
The police exchanged glances. Whittaker continued playing for a few seconds, a wine glass close by, before hitting a sudden, jarring chord and lifting his fingers from the keys.
“Tosca is correct,” he said, sipping his drink. “She does have my confession on tape. Why not?” He shrugged. “I’m burned out. The music has fled. But keep asking your questions, detective. I am adept at playing and talking at the same time. I am a professor, after all.”
Tosca faced him and recognized the mead he was drinking. The liquid was discolored and the glass almost empty.
“Where were we?” said Whittaker. “Ah, yes. I may as well tell you what I told Tosca. After we buried poor Paul in the desert, Monica and I returned home with his hands. I brought one of those round boulders back with me and copied their contours using cement and sand. I molded them with Monica’s steel kitchen bowls, not that she ever used them.”
“But your fake rocks were pink, not gray concrete,” said Parnell.
“Yes, indeed. I’m quite proud of that. You can find anything on the Internet these days. All I had to do was Google how to color concrete. So I went to a home store and bought some pigment,” said Whittaker. “That’s how I created the shrine Mrs. Trevant discovered in my front yard.” He appeared to puff with pride as he talked. “After Paul died, life with Monica continued almost as usual for a few years. We never discussed what had happened, but she turned into a bigger drunk than ever. I finally had enough, and when she broached the issue of a divorce and tried to blackmail me, it was the last straw.”
“Not good reasons for murder, sir,” said Parnell.
“Really? She also threatened to go to the police and tell them I buried Paul in the desert. During one of her more sober moments, and there weren’t many, she’d finally figured out that the asthma attack wasn’t murder, although there might have been some punishment for concealing a body. Besides, as I keep saying, I had my reputation to consider.”
“So you decided to kill her because she threatened you?” said Parnell.
“Yes, but it wasn’t only about Paul. There was the blackmail. She found the secret safe where I kept my coin collection. She said she hired a locksmith to open it while I was away at a music convention. She took a few coins to a numismatist, and he told her one had been reported stolen. Afraid he’d call the police, Monica told me she ran out of the store. That’s what she held over my head. I had to get rid of her, didn’t I?”
Whittaker drained the glass. He appeared totally oblivious to the predicament he was in, reciting his confession once more in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
The homicide detective shifted in his seat and said, “We need to take possession of that coin collection, professor. Would you get it, please?”
“Sorry, detective. I no longer have it. It’s been sold, bought by a true collector, a private party who appreciates its value.”
“Who?”
“I doubt you’ll be able to track it down. It may have been resold or split up by now and in Japan or Brazil.”
“Who arranged the sale?”
“I may be a murderer, but I am not a snitch, and you won’t find the proceeds in my bank account, of course.” Whittaker turned back to the piano and resumed playing.
“All right. And the boy from the ferry? You admitted to Mrs. Trevant that you killed him?”
“The coins again. I gave him one from my collection by mistake when I was paying the fare. When I asked for it back, he got cute and threatened to blackmail me. The tire iron I hit him with is in my car.”
“Sir, we need to take you to the station.”
After they left with Whittaker in handcuffs, Tosca bade a quick goodbye to Thatch, went home and spent the next two hours writing the final version of her newspaper story, detailing the part she’d played in it. She emailed it to Stuart in London, warning him that if he didn’t run it, she’d offer it to the
National Enquirer
for a far greater fee. She also demanded that her byline read, “Tosca Trevant, Crime Reporter.”
Gustave Vernays, an early riser, heard of Professor Whittaker’s arrest on the local 6:00 a.m. radio newscast. According to the reporter, the UCI professor and famed composer was charged with two murders, those of his wife Monica and the youth who had worked as a fare-taker on the Isabel Island ferry.
Reports of the case were on every local and national TV channel. News helicopters hovered over UC Irvine’s sprawling campus. There were also overhead close-ups of Isabel Island and the professor’s house, plus sweeping panoramas of the bay and harbor with choppers zooming in on the biggest and most luxurious yachts.
“I knew it,” Vernays muttered. “I felt it in my bones. The aegina
,
of course. Foolish man. He should have let it go. He had hundreds of other coins in the collection. It was rare, of course, but not one of the best.”