After pouring himself another cup of coffee he sat down at his desk. The matter would require serious thought. He went over the two meetings he’d had with Whittaker, the first when the coin collection had been left with him and the second when the professor had shown up unexpectedly at his home.
During each of the visits the professor hadn’t indicated he’d told anyone about the transaction he wanted Vernays to handle. Will the police check my phone bill and come up with my name and number, he wondered? Definitely. Then there was that earlier visit from Detective Parnell, when he brought the Greek coin for me to evaluate. Oh, yes, the cop would be back.
But what could he prove? There was no written agreement with the professor to sell the collection, and no one knew that Whittaker had left it with him, taking home only the five envelopes. The security videotape that showed Whittaker’s two visits, the first holding an attaché case, had been replaced. Vernays instinctively rubbed his thin hands together. The police and Interpol knew he was a coin dealer, he reflected, but could the police prove the professor had given the collection to Gustave to sell? If not, this could be a fantastic windfall unless the man was acquitted. Not likely. What a shame the professor had taken those five envelopes back.
As he faced Detective Parnell Vernays found that the questions turned out to be easily handled.
“There has to be some tie-in with the Greek coin found near the boy’s body and Professor Whittaker’s collection,” Parnell began. “Any idea what it might be?”
Vernays spread his hands and shrugged. “None at all.”
“We know he spoke to you at least twice.”
“Oh, yes. We talked, detective, because he’d been referred to me. He wanted to start a coin collection. I knew of Professor Whittaker, of course, as an Orange County celebrity, a composer and teacher at UC Irvine. Since I pride myself on being an expert in my profession, I promised to contact him when I had some pieces I thought he could begin with.”
“When did you make that particular contact?”
“I didn’t,” said Vernays. “There was nothing I’d have felt comfortable recommending to a first-time collector. My items are for serious collectors. But I suppose his eagerness overcame his patience, and he called me again, asking if he could visit. He wanted to view some of my coins.”
“When was that? What date?”
“Sometime last month. I didn’t note the date since it was just an appointment to give him some advice. I recommended a couple of books for him to read.”
How easily these lies slip off my tongue
,
thought Vernays. Then he remembered the five other envelopes Whittaker had taken away with him. He quickly added, “Of course, Detective, he could have bought some coins elsewhere. Probably did, in fact. He was tremendously keen on becoming a collector.”
“And the second time he came to see you?” said Parnell.
“A few days later. He was really anxious to buy something, but as I said, I had nothing that a neophyte like the professor should consider starting a collection with.”
“I notice you have a security camera outside your front door. Can we see the tape, sir?”
“Alas, it’s a small camera with a short tape. It’s been taped over several times since the professor came here. The camera is mainly to let me know who’s standing outside. I only need a moment to see that person to decide whether to admit them or not.”
He watched the detective get to his feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Vernays. We may have more questions at a later date.”
The evening after Whittaker’s arrest Tosca waited for Thatch to arrive to take her out for dinner. With J.J. away at another NASCAR race, she’d be glad to get off Isabel Island for a while, but she was still irked at not solving what she had convinced herself was the music student’s murder. Natural causes, indeed. Well, she could console herself, knowing she’d helped to bring a killer to justice. If it hadn’t been for her snooping, Professor Haiden Whittaker would have got away with his crimes. She was ready to celebrate, too, the impending suspension of the royal lawsuit. Her editor had emailed her to say he’d pointed out to the palace that the offending writer had safely been reassigned to America, “where she can do no damage.”
Thatch arrived at her apartment at seven o’clock and helped Tosca climb into his pickup.
“Where are we going?” asked Tosca.
“To my favorite restaurant in Laguna Beach.”
Neither spoke as they drove along Pacific Coast Highway and into South Laguna. Their table was ready, and the maitre d’ appeared to take their order. After admiring the view of the ocean, Tosca told Thatch she’d decided it was time to try a Stiegl beer, if they served it. But before he could order the drinks, his phone rang.
“Good God! How? When? Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. You won’t believe this,” he said, shutting down his phone and turning to Tosca, who was staring at him with eyebrows raised in query. “Andy said that the professor …”
“Has popped his clogs,” she cut in. “Oh, sorry,” she said at Thatch’s expression. “It means he died.”
It was Thatch’s turn to stare.
“Aside from that weird slang, whatever it is, how did you come to that conclusion? Yep, he’s dead all right. They’re doing the autopsy now. Are you psychic as well as beautiful?”
Tosca acknowledged the compliment with a nod of the head and a smile.
“No need for an autopsy,” she said, “though I know it’s required. I’ve been brewing mead for many years. I know exactly what color it is. Yesterday, when Whittaker was drinking a glass of it, certainly from the jug I had brought him, I noticed the mead had a strange hue. I’d never seen it so dark. I decided something had been added, and I guessed it was the remains of the poison he gave Monica. Although morphine is colorless, it must have reacted somehow with the ingredients in the mead. He told me he hadn’t used all of it to kill her.”
“We could have stopped him, but you never said a word. Why not?”
“He was playing so beautifully, God rest his soul. You know, Thatch, Schoenberg referred to music as a language in which a musician unconsciously gives himself away. In Haiden’s case, that was absolutely true. We caught on to him because of the Schoenberg score on his wall. To me, that clue was a prime example of the professor’s hubris, hanging it in plain sight. Or perhaps he unconsciously wanted to be found out. In any event,
re’en jeffo mewl.”
“That’s not a term of endearment, right?”
Tosca laughed. “No. It means bad luck for him.”
“I agree with you there, but how do you feel about providing the professor the means with which to kill himself, your mead?”
“
Ass yw henna goky!
”
“Hey! That doesn’t sound too friendly.”
“Sorry, love. No, I’m calling your question ridiculous. I have no reason to blame myself for the man’s suicide. I supplied my superb mead, which he absolutely ruined by adding the morphine. Only a man with no conscience would do a thing like that. So no, I have no regrets.”
After dinner the couple drove south on Pacific Coast Highway to Isabel Island, parked and took the ferry to the peninsula. They strolled hand in hand past Whittaker’s favorite Thai restaurant and reached the pier, where they leaned against the railing, watching a few lone fishermen with their lines out.
“You know,” said Tosca, “I could get to like this place. The people are wonderful, and the climate is the best in the world. Stuart told me I could come home now, but I asked if I can stay for a while. He agreed. Oh! By the way, I want you to know I threw away my wellies.”
“Wellies? I missed that part.”
“Rain boots.”
“Ah. Yes, that’s real progress.”
“
Skiansekigyon,
may I ask you a very, very personal question?”
“I guess, sure, if it’s in English.”
Tosca hesitated, then said, “Do you have a wife or an ex-wife named Christine? I heard you mention her when you had to rush off to an emergency.”
“She’s my daughter. She’s in a special home for paranoid schizophrenics.” Tosca saw the pain in his eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Why ever not? Why would you hide something like that? I know that fathers hate to think of their children as anything but perfect, but it’s not your fault. Surely you realize it can be genetic?”
“To a certain extent, yes. At my wife’s funeral one of her distant relatives, who met Christine for the first time and was told of her illness, said that two other members of the family had been schizophrenics, too. So I guess part of it is in the genes. I’ll tell you more about her some day. Maybe when you tell me what you discovered in Buckingham Palace that sent you here. I tried to find out from my friends at Scotland Yard, but no dice.”
“I’m not surprised. All right, here’s what happened. One of the footmen, who has never steered me wrong before, told me the Duchess of Devonshire’s new ball gown had just been delivered from Paris. He said it was dazzling and was hanging up in one of the guest bedrooms. The footman asked if I’d like a peek at it. Of course, I jumped at the chance. It wasn’t even close to deadline for my column, so I knew I’d have plenty of time to add a detailed description of the dress. The footman took me upstairs, but just as he was pointing out the door a maid came along, and he rushed away. As soon as the maid passed by and was out of sight, I opened the door I thought the footman had indicated.”
“Thought? How could you mistake it?”
“Thatch, Buckingham Palace is immense. It has seven hundred seventy-five rooms. There are hundreds of doors along those mile-long corridors. It’s easy to pick the wrong one. Anyway, I went in, expecting to see a sumptuous ball gown and instead,” she paused, “I found myself in a small kitchen. There are pantries all over the palace to provide snacks and drinks, and this was probably one of those closest to the Queen’s suite. Several bottles of Malvern mineral water, the Queen’s favorite, were on a table with their caps off. The prince was using a funnel to add some white powder to each of the bottles. It was obvious that what he was doing was clandestine, his movements were so suspicious.”
“Which prince?”
“Sorry, that is one detail I won’t reveal. I immediately slammed the door and ran off to call security. What was he adding to the water? A sedative? Poison? I never did find out, of course, but the damage was done for me. The royals didn’t want me anywhere near the palace or even in the country, so I was hustled out of town, and here I am.”
“Hard to believe they’d send you away. You may have saved the queen’s life. “
“Possibly. Maybe I’ll ask her to return the favor one day, but they were all in such a state they just wanted to eliminate any suggestion of foul play, and that included getting rid of me as a witness.”
“It could also mean they were concerned about your safety. What did you do after you left the palace?” said Thatch.
“Told the editor and wrote the story up, but of course pressure was brought to bear, and the column was suppressed. I’ll show you my copy of it so you have something to look forward to.”
“I think I have a lot more to look forward to than that,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
They looked across the peninsula at Isabel Island’s lights, the twin ferry boats plying back and forth in the peaceful bay, the Harbor Patrol boat coming into view, and a few late-night revelers huddled around lighted fire pits on the sand.
“One more question,” said Tosca “What about Whittaker’s coin collection?”
“The police can’t find it. All they have is the aegina
and those five envelopes in his house. They remain in the evidence box until someone, or a museum, can prove a rightful claim to any that were stolen.”
“So who gets the rest of it, if it’s found? Could be worth millions.”
“I doubt it will be found, Tosca, but if it is, and the coins come onto the market, Interpol will check for any stolen goods. I guess Whittaker’s cousin could put in a claim. The police suspect Gustave Vernays has the collection or sold it, so it could be anywhere by now. In the end, if Vernays does have it, he’s the one who’s coming out of this smelling like roses.”
“Please,
skiansekigyon,
don’t mention flowers. I’m done with gardens.”
Letter from a Lonely Outpost:
My dear, dear Reader. Yes, it really is me, here to enthrall you once again with a few tidbits that I can’t resist sharing with you… first, I’ve been mining for gemstones on an Indian reservation, great fun and certainly not anything one can possibly do in England…second, there’s a new American craze for describing everything they admire as “sick!” I do hope this bizarre trend did not originate in London...did you all read my article about how I solved two of America’s darkest murders?…of course I couldn’t take too much credit, but your intrepid reporter also managed to pip the police at the post by letting them know, in the politest English manner possible, that what they thought was yet a third murder was simply a natural death... sad to say I was forced to bring the renowned musician, with whom I had shared many delightful chats about opera, to the gallows…well, not exactly…he had the temerity to add poison to my mead …as you can imagine, dear Reader, I was absolutely horrified…I almost fainted when I realized that he had committed such a heinous crime using my mead…in fact, I must have been so distraught I was unable to let the authorities know in time of his dastardly deed, and the next day he succumbed…destiny, I suppose…I may have to visit the UK soon but can’t say why, at the moment…I still enjoy Isabel Island, but I am anxiously awaiting rain, wellies at the ready…
Dyr genes
or, as I usually say, Toodle-oo for now...
Jill Amadio has worked as a reporter in England, Spain and Thailand and a crime reporter in the U.S. She is the author and co-author of several biographies, as well as a ghostwriter of fiction, non-fiction, and true crime.