“Well, then, maybe a soft drink?” he asked, watching her hips sway slightly as she walked toward the refrigerator. Talks a bit formal, but a beautiful woman. Son Andy needed a lecture or two.
“Here’s something with tea in it that isn’t hot, although it’s said to warm the cockles of your heart,” said Tosca. Instead of opening the refrigerator door, Tosca bent down beside it and picked up a small earthenware jug from the floor. “I think some mead would be far healthier than soda,” she said, pouring an opaque, rust-colored liquid into a glass.
“Mead?” MacAulay chuckled. “That’s some kind of English moonshine, right?”
“It’s a natural honey wine. Some mead can taste more like beer. It’s the beverage of the Vikings, the national drink of Ethiopia and of Mr. Pickwick, of course.”
“Ethiopia?”
At his surprised expression she said, “Indeed. They call it
tej.
I brew my medieval Cornish mead using clover, heather or apple blossom honey plus sultanas, which are dried white grapes, malt extract and other ingredients. The rich color comes from adding half a cup of strong Darjeeling tea. I brought this batch with me. It’s three years old. I think you’ll find it most bracing.”
Handing him the glass, she joined him on the sofa. He sipped the warm, cloying, sweet mixture. Man, must be thirty proof.
“Sure packs a punch,” he admitted, feeling his taste buds instantly dive for cover. “Are you sure it’s not moonshine, or is this more like dandelion wine?”
“Oh, no. Dandelion is one of the country wines, like parsnip, elderberry and nettle, but they all include pounds of refined sugar. Very bad for your teeth, although coltsfoot wine is wonderful for a cough. My
medh
is made with pure honey,” she said, giving it its Gaelic pronunciation.
“Uh, maybe a few ice cubes?”
“One must drink
medh
at room temperature to appreciate its full body.”
Thatch nodded his head in resignation.
“Now please tell me about this gruesome rock,” said Tosca as Thatch took another small sip of the mead and replaced the glass on the coffee table.
“You could be right to be suspicious.” He ran his fingers over the four small bony pieces that protruded. “I’m an amateur geologist. Really amateur, I’ll admit, but I spend a lot of time on my hobby. Even so, this one has me beat. It sure looks like some of the round concretions I’ve studied in a couple of places in the California desert, but of course, I know darned well it isn’t.”
“Concretions? That’s a new one to me. I assume they are some kind of rock. Is it common for them to have fossils embedded in them like these, if that’s what they are?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, it is. Some are probably prehistoric. They form around a nucleus which can be a sea shell, a whale’s tooth or most any other fossil like those right here. I’ve even seen a leaf in a limestone concretion.”
“But why would these things be lined up like this as if they were four fingers?”
“Well, I have to agree with you,” said Thatch. “It does look a little strange.”
He frowned in concentration. Then he snapped his fingers. “Now I remember where I saw the rocks, in the desert near Ocotillo Wells, an off-road area south of here that’s filled with sandstone concretions. It’s called the Pumpkin Patch, but the globes are much larger than this one.”
“I suppose they grow in your Pumpkin Patch,” said Tosca, laughing.
“As a matter of fact they do. That’s exactly what they do. They grow.”
His serious demeanor cut short Tosca’s merriment.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t quite understand. I thought you meant they form over several centuries. When you mentioned pumpkins, however, I envisioned a short growing season.”
“Geologists would have your head for that.”
“Well, I’m sure you know your rock lore, but since you’ve never seen one with this exact formation, how can you be sure they aren’t human fingertips or maybe someone’s toes?”
It was Thatch’s turn to laugh. “That is so unlikely, it’s funny. Are you thinking of a caveman?”
He went on to describe concretions in greater detail, and she listened intently. “They’re compacted, accumulated mineral matter that grows inside sedimentary rocks like shale and sandstone and even in volcanic rocks. They come in all shapes and sizes, round, square, long like a pipe, and can resemble a foot or a rib, though I must admit I’ve never come across a concretion like this.”
When he stopped talking she told him of a criminal case in England involving fake rocks. A young man planned to kidnap a child and keep him as a sex slave. When he grew tired of the boy, she explained, the criminal planned to dismember him and chop the body into small pieces to create artificial rocks. Then he’d encase them in chicken wire before dipping them in cement. When they were dry the criminal was going to throw them into the sea off the coast of Scotland.”
“And?” prompted Thatch.
“He was caught the day he kidnapped the boy, so fortunately he couldn’t carry out his plan. He made a full confession, quite proud of his idea, so you can see my point about rocks.”
“Yep, I do. Sure sounds like a sociopath.”
“So what we shall we do next?” said Tosca.
Thatch was silent for a few moments, then said, “You know, I have a local FBI friend. I’ll ask him if he can get this thing tested at the FBI lab at Quantico. They’re usually really jammed up, but maybe there’s a forensic anthropologist who’ll be interested enough to do me a favor.”
“Really? Excellent. How long will it take?”
“Couple of weeks, if I lean on him.”
“Two weeks! The killer could be out there murdering more people!”
“Now don’t jump the gun here. We don’t know anything about a possible murder.” Before she could voice a protest he added, “I’ll see what I can do to hasten the result. Good day, ma’am, umm, Tosca.”
Thatch stood up to leave. Wanting to kick himself for calling her ma’am, he retrieved his hat, put the rock back in the paper bag and left, promising to keep her informed of any developments. He got into his pickup, realizing he faced a dilemma. How am I going to convince my FBI buddies to give the test priority? As he considered the problem he also realized guiltily that in his absorption with Tosca he’d forgotten to check in with Christine. She’d be waiting impatiently for his call.
As soon as he finished talking to Christine, Thatch’s cell phone rang again. Straining to hear, he pressed it tightly against his ear. Aging sucks, he thought, remembering his annual eye checkup when the doctor told him that it was normal for “our eyesight to degenerate as we age.” He’d had to up the strength of his reading glasses to 250 from 175. Damn, is my hearing going, too?
“Andy, speak up, son. Repeat what you just said.”
“Sorry, there’s background noise here. Okay, I just wanted to check in with you about the weird rock and that eccentric woman on Isabel Island. I’m interested in what you think of her and her theory about a murder. Sounded like a real kook to me. My partner agrees.”
“She’s not a kook. I think there could be something to her story, and I’m going to help her check it out. Unofficially, of course.”
“Really, Dad? Why? There wasn’t much about her that caught my interest, unofficially or not.” Andy’s laugh sounded dismissive to Thatch, and he was quick to respond.
“You might be just as bad jumping to that conclusion, son, as Mrs. Trevant might be to hers. What’s happened to your police training? If there is the possibility that a crime has been committed, if someone has been killed, there needs to be an investigation. There could be victims involved.”
At Andy’s silence Thatch continued, “There needs to be a passion from decent human beings to catch the perpetrator, to bring justice to bear. I know I sound like I’m lecturing you, but I thought you had that same sense of outrage as I do when I hear about teens shooting their parents, of little kids being kidnapped, raped and murdered. That’s why you joined the police force, Andy, right? To respect law and order?”
“Dad, I thought you’d left all those emotions behind when you retired, and yeah, I did become a cop because of what you just said. But still, let’s keep this in perspective. That woman’s story sounds too far-fetched. It’s Isabel Island, for God’s sake. A music professor? Give me a break.”
Thatch sighed audibly. “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ll get back to that subject in ten years after you’ve got more experience under your belt and understand death and how the loss affects those left behind.”
“Okay, okay, but there’s no death here. What got me was the way she sounded so eager about the possibility of there being real fingers inside that rock. That’s pretty heartless, isn’t it?”
Thatch thought back to the most serious of the presidential assassination attempts he’d been involved in as a Secret Service officer and having to shoot to kill and how he’d felt about it afterward. Was he, too, heartless? There was never time to evaluate emotions when various incidents occurred, but the stress had built up through the years. When circumstances in his personal life changed, and retirement wasn’t far off, he was more than ready to quit the Service. Besides, now he had more time for Christine.
He spoke into the phone again. “Andy, maybe that’s Mrs. Trevant’s way of dealing with something that’s too horrible for her to think about. On the other hand, don’t forget that she’s a journalist. She knows all about grim realities.”
“Sure, Dad. Covering Buckingham Palace?” Andy’s chuckle echoed in Thatch’s ear.
“Look, son,” he said, “right now I want you to treat this thing seriously. Did you open a case file like I asked? You probably don’t have a lot of currently active cases, do you?”
“Just the usual stuff. Our file jackets right now are mostly domestic violence, drunk driving, petty theft, a couple of hit-and-runs, missing persons and graffiti. And yes, I opened a file on the incident with Mrs. Trevant at your insistence, but I felt like an idiot about it. You know, I could have charged her with trespassing.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her that when I see her again.”
“So, Dad, did you come to some conclusion about the rock?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“Well, son, I’ve got some ideas I’m batting around. Nothing I want to share right now, though.” Changing the subject, he said, “Life still good?”
“Yeah. I met a girl.”
“And?”
“Nothing I want to share right now.”
Thatch laughed. “Point taken. ‘Bye, kid. Keep those bicycle tires pumped.”
Professor Whittaker was on Tosca’s mind all morning. What had his wife been like? Was there really a crime here she could solve? Wouldn’t hurt to nose around. She decided to pay a call on Arlene Mindel, who lived across the street. She and Tosca had become friendly after discovering they both shared an interest in gossip.
“Hello, there,” said Tosca after Arlene opened the door. “I wonder if you would like to come over to our flat for a cup of tea or a glass of mead?” At Arlene’s shudder Tosca inquired if she was coming down with a cold.
“No, I’m fine, and thanks, but, umm, I need to stay close to the phone. Come on in and have some coffee with me.”
Arlene was one of the original residents of Isabel Island, and Tosca enjoyed listening to her stories. A squirrel of a woman, she constantly darted here and there about her kitchen, refilling Tosca’s coffee cup before she’d barely taken a sip or moving like lightning to mop up a milk spill. Her short, brown, stick-straight hair and pear-shaped figure were a familiar sight on the island, and with a warm, motherly personality, she was popular among her neighbors. Arlene had told Tosca she retired from her job as an accountant ten years earlier, inheriting the beach house from her parents, who were among the first to settle there when it was barely more than a man-made sandbar, and primitive beach shacks were the order of the day.
Tosca hoisted herself up onto one of the tall barstools at Arlene’s kitchen counter, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable perch for her feet. She could barely reach the rungs with her toes. Why can’t Americans sit in proper chairs, she thought as Arlene poured more coffee. Stools and bar counters seem to be a national compulsion, and installing granite counter tops is an absolute mania. Still, Americans are much more hospitable and generous than Brits, she reflected, and their coffee is terrific.
“How’s J.J.? Still racing?”
“Yes, indeed. She won last week. Arlene, I wanted to ask you about the professor up the street. I’m kind of curious about him.”
“Ah. You know, Tosca, he’s only been a widower for a short time. Isn’t it a little soon to expect him to start dating?”
“Oh, that’s funny. Please, it’s nothing like that. I’m not the least bit interested in him romantically. Heaven forbid. No, I just admire his music. I wondered if you knew him when he and his wife first came to live here.”
“Sure, we met the day they moved in. They had to take out that huge front window to get the piano inside. It caused a real commotion, and I was outside watching. Marcia and Jerry Steiner, the previous owners, would’ve had a fit if they’d seen it. The professor is never friendly, though. Very aloof, not like Monica, God grant her peace.”
“What was she like?” asked Tosca.
“Meticulous around the house, from the few times I was there,” replied Arlene. “She loved shopping, wore wonderful clothes. ‘Course, she had a terrific figure. But she told me she always had to nag the professor for an allowance. She was kind of flighty. Not much in her head aside from tennis. But he was crazy about her, at least at first. Indulgent as all get out. She could wrap him around her little finger, but then I guess the novelty wore off.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe it was because of his marrying for the first time so late in life and she being a lot younger. They’d have arguments. You could hear it clear down to the end of the street.”
“He seems so mild. What did they argue about?”
“Sure, he’s mild, all right. She was the one that did all the screaming. She’d shout him into silence.” Arlene’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I once heard Monica call her husband impotent, but that was years ago. Their rows were mostly on account of her flirting with everyone she met. She was incorrigible. He used to have music students come to the house for lessons, but Monica got too friendly. She’d be joshing with them even before they got inside. You could see it from here. Monica laughed about it when I said something. She told me Haiden finally rented a studio. Only one of his young students came to the house after that, and he was absolutely brilliant. We’d hear that piano sing like an angel.”