by Jill Amadio
Tosca nodded and told Arlene that all she knew about him was that he tried to become as famous a novelist as his father, hoping to out-write and surpass him, but never came close to Fuller’s brilliance. She added that Norman’s writing was once described as “muddled mediocrity.”
“Anyway,” Arlene continued, “after Karma’s parents died six years ago, she stayed on in their little beach cottage and started up a landscaping business in Newport Beach. She may look a mess with that hair of hers and those weird clothes, but she’s a wonderfully creative gardener. Several of us have her work on our yards, although I hear she’s in financial difficulties. Guess her grandfather’s book sales don’t amount to much these days.”
“Maybe not, but e-books sell well, it seems.” Tosca glanced at her watch and stood up. “Sorry, I have to go. See you later, Arlene.”
She patted her friend on the shoulder and began to walk off but stopped when Arlene called out, “Oh, I forgot. Karma’s having a party Saturday to celebrate the forty-third anniversary of your idol’s death. Would you like to come?”
“That’s a strange milestone. Why not the twenty-fifth or fiftieth?”
“I have no idea, but please come to the party and meet Karma. I know you’ll like her, Tosca. She’s a sweet, gentle young woman.”
Chapter Four
Karma ripped out the dying marigolds from their planter tubs as if attacking a bear, and flung them onto the walkway. Turning to her right, she grabbed the stems of two drooping hollyhocks and pulled. When the roots resisted her firm tug, she took a knife from the canvas tool belt around her waist and with one quick jab cut through the stems cleanly at the soil line. She exchanged the knife for her trowel and, thrusting it impatiently into the soil, dragged out the roots.
A short, stoutly built twenty-eight-year old with wavy red hair that hung around her oval face in untidy wisps, Karma Sanderson could have passed for one of Rossetti’s Pre-Raphaelite women or Titian’s medieval well-endowed flame-haired models, were it not for her sour expression and down-turned mouth. Muscular shoulders and a deep bosom strained at the plaid shirt she wore, her jeans caked in dirt at the knees.
After stuffing the dead flowers into a plastic sack, Karma tied its corners and hefted it onto her shoulder. She walked over to her twelve-year-old truck, parked at the curb, dumped the load into the truck bed that was already half full and returned to the garden. She stacked the empty tubs near the gate, tucked the shovel under her arm and knocked on the front door.
“All done, Mrs. Wingold,” Karma told the woman who peered out. “I’ve planted some more geraniums and added alyssum and a giant milkweed shrub for you.”
“Giant milkweed? That’s a new one to me. Was there room for it?”
“Of course.” Karma’s expression deepened into irritation. “That’s just its name. It’s really quite small and blooms most of the year, but keep away from the sap it produces. It can cause a rash or something. Might be harmful.”
Karma enjoyed seeing the look of alarm on the woman’s face.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wingold, you won’t be drinking it, will you? On the upside is that its tiny white and purple flowers attract Monarch butterflies. Take a look for yourself. See you next month.”
Karma didn’t wait for a reply. She picked up the empty tubs and placed them alongside the sacks. By lunchtime she had repeated the routine five more times, planting the same mix of plants and telling each homeowner or leaving a note on the front door that she’d taken care of their yard. With a sigh she got in her truck and drove off Isabel Island across the single bridge that connected it to the city of Newport Beach.
I don’t care if all those yards look the same, she thought. Makes the streets look neat and orderly. Anyway, those rich people barely notice them on the way to the yachts berthed at their private docks. I hope they’ll appreciate those milkweeds after I had them shipped in free from India. I’m glad I discovered them, not that anyone ever complains about my prices. They can well afford them.
Karma headed for the twelve acres of land on the western edge of the city that her father had passed down to her after he died. Fuller Sanderson’s great-grandfather had bought the fields for one dollar an acre in the early 1800s after settlers arrived in the Native American Indian territory. His will specified his land was never to be sold nor built upon, but Karma had disobeyed the directive. She had a small rustic shed erected that served as an office for the garden center she had established five years earlier. She devoted most of the acreage to plants, but large areas were neglected and left to grow wild. Dotted around were two ramshackle potting sheds, a small greenhouse, a pergola and a tiny gazebo.
Despite her efforts, success was hard to come by as there were two well-established competitors in town. Karma had not only spent Fuller’s inheritance but also had gone into debt to keep afloat, buying and importing exotic plants only she, it seemed, appreciated. She considered herself a child of nature, as her mother had been, and filled the acreage with strange shrubs, flowering bushes, oddly-shaped small trees and hanging baskets of wildflowers, all plants that were proving far less popular with customers than she’d hoped.
After pulling up to the office, she slid off the vehicle’s high seat and slammed the rusty door shut. I need a new truck, too, she decided. I’ve just got to get some money somehow. That publisher of Grandfather’s books is cheating me out of royalties, I’m damned sure of it. Sally probably owes me thousands. Well, I’ll call her tonight. She’d better give me some straight answers about Fuller’s sales figures and bring me a statement as well as a check when she comes to my party.
“Sam?” she called, looking around for her odd-job man. Karma saw him limping toward her, his right leg dragging more than usual in the unexpectedly cool day.
“Seven more returns,” he said, a cigarette butt dangling from a corner of his mouth. “Them hangin’ baskets are all dyin’. You need to fill them with real flowers, not that stuff you find for free in the desert. They look pretty at first, but they’re wild, Karma. You should know by now wildflowers don’t last long. They start to wilt almost as soon as you dig ‘em up. I see you got rid of those giant milkweeds, though. Sure are ugly. Did you decide to toss ‘em?”
“Of course not. They’re in some of the Isabel Island clients’ front yards, except for the two I kept for myself.”
“Guess you can sell anythin’ that’s in full bloom. The flowers are kind of pretty. Anyway, how much longer do you think you can keep this place goin’? And if you have to close, what’s gonna happen to those six cats you took in? You already owe the vet a ton of money.”
Karma ignored him and went into the office. On the desk were sixteen phone message slips piled onto a spike next to a large glass-topped case of mounted butterflies that were arranged by color.
Sam followed her inside. “There’s all them messages about the party. Looks like everyone’s comin’,” he said, his wrinkled old face breaking into a smile. “Maybe this library fundraiser will help you out after all. Good idea to tie an anniversary in at the same time, though how you came up with that year, the forty-third, is beyond me. What the heck is it the anniversary of?”
“That’s how old my dad and mom were when they died. Don’t scratch your head like that, Sam. Anyway, I don’t need any excuse, and I certainly don’t need to justify myself to you.”
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on, but shouldn’t it be something to do with Fuller instead of his son?”
“It’s personal, and anyway, the fundraiser is for Fuller’s library, so it makes sense.”
“Ya know, I thought I was the only one who remembers your granddaddy. He sure was kind to me when I was a kid. Hey, I forgot to write it down, but that Arlene lady wants to know if she can bring a friend, some writer type with a weird name. Tessie, Tossa or something.”
“Sam, stop gabbing and unload the truck. There are bags of brush and weeds from the island gardens to put on the compost and some empty tubs that need to be cleaned and stack
ed.”
He turned to leave, then said, “Oh, here, I caught you a couple more Western Tiger Swallowtails. They were on that patch of thistles.” He pointed to a jelly jar on top of the file cabinet. Two butterflies lay motionless on the bottom. “That black one there,” he tapped the side, “that’s a female. Said to be deadly. Ain’t that somethin’?”
Chapter Five
After Sam left the office Karma took the phone message slips off the spike and flipped through them but didn’t see the message she expected. She picked up the land-line phone and dialed.
“Graydon, have you heard from Sally? Do you know if she’s coming to my party? Hope she’s not still mad after that argument we had. She hasn’t left me a message saying she’s accepted my invitation.”
“I have no idea. Oh, I was thinking of stopping by your house to drop off my theremin that Bill Weinstein will be playing before I get there. He might come by tomorrow or Friday to check it out.”
“I’m going home now,” said Karma, “so you can come over and leave it with me.”
She went out to the truck and thanked Sam for unloading the tubs, telling him to lock up when he left. As she drove off she noticed her hands on the steering wheel were covered in red blotches. Annoyed that she hadn’t taken more care with the milkweeds, and figuring she’d nicked one while planting it, she hoped her hands would be clear by the time the party rolled around.
Blair was waiting at her gate with a small folding card table and the theremin. Invented by a Russian physicist researching proximity sensors, the electronic musical instrument consisted of a small black box the size of a DVR tuner that people usually hooked up to a television set. It was equipped with two metal antennas whose ether wave frequencies were programmed to catch hand movements made near them to control pitch and volume, producing eerie musical sounds often heard in sci-fi movies.
Karma led the way into her cottage and Blair set up the table and placed the theremin on it, telling Karma to move it to wherever she’d be locating the group and their instruments for the party.
“Wait a minute. What’s wrong with your hands?” he said. “You’ll be able to play Saturday night, won’t you?”
“Of course, don’t worry. I was dumb enough to get plant sap on my hands when I was working on my customers’ yards. I nicked one or two of the stems by mistake and all this milky white sap oozed out. I read that it’s poisonous if you drink it, imagine that, but I know better than to let it anywhere near my mouth. My hands should be okay by party time.”
“All right. Let’s get down to business. Where’s the flash drive?” Blair’s frown deepened.
“Sally has it.”
“You were supposed to ask her for an extra one.”
“I’ve been too busy,” said Karma. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a copy.”
“Damn. We need to get it from her. I’m not sure I trust the woman, her being so broke. She claims the flash drive was all she got from Oliver. He refused to give her a print-out or email her the document file. Right now she has the only copy of the file, and we need it.”
“No problem. I’ll call and remind her to bring it Saturday. Everything will be on the drive, right?”
“It better be.”
Chapter Six
“J.J., what should I wear? A dress, jeans, shorts? Arlene told me that Karma wears hippie clothes. My leather skirt? Maybe I’ll wear a cloche hat. That would be just right for Fuller’s 1920s era, no?”
Tosca paused on the second step of the spiral staircase and faced her daughter. J.J. looked up from the NASCAR team racing helmet she was cleaning at the sink.
“I’ve never met or seen Karma, so I don’t know, Mother. Some of those Newport Beach ladies like to dress up. Don’t wear a hat, and definitely not that tiny skirt or hot pants you claim are shorts. I’d suggest a sundress.”
“Perfect. Thank you, keresik.”
Tosca climbed the rest of the stairs that led to the attic of her daughter’s loft-like apartment in the duplex. Designed with an open-concept plan, its one large room downstairs had space for a compact kitchen and living and dining areas. Two bedrooms upstairs book-ended a bathroom. A small landing and a French door led to the roof deck with a view of the large harbor.
Tosca took a shower and spent the better part of an hour drying and styling her waist-length, dark hair. Careful not to break into any of the operatic arias she so loved to sing but didn’t to avoid disturbing their island neighbors, whose houses barely had twelve inches between their walls, she came downstairs in a pink halter sundress. She carried a pair of red high-heeled shoes. Tucked under her arm was a red and white parasol.
“Very nice,” said J.J. “Wait. Is that a new parasol? What happened to the old one?”
“The handle came off. Parasols with handles are almost impossible to find. I had to settle for this.”
“Mother, you’re not going to need it. Please leave it here. It’ll look silly because the sun’s almost down.”
Tosca shrugged, propped the parasol next to the front door and muttered, “Bram an gath.”
“Mother! I’m shocked.”
“Now don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’re giving the cuss phrase its worst meaning instead of the one I prefer, which is ‘fiddlesticks’.”
J.J. changed the subject. “It was very nice of Karma to invite you. Did she say you could bring Thatch along?”
“The invitation came through Arlene, and I’m sure I could have brought him if he weren’t off at some godforsaken fishing hole in somewhere called Idaho. He said he was going to a nearby volcano after that, so we won’t see him for at least another week.”
Amateur geologist Thatcher MacAulay was a retired U.S. Secret Service agent who’d met Tosca when she first arrived on Isabel Island. The two shared an interest in mysteries, Thatch as an amateur geologist who enjoyed seeking out clues to the past through his hobby, while Tosca’s natural curiosity had led her to discover and solve two crimes several months earlier.
The couple also shared a mutual, if opposite, attraction. Thatch’s background trained him to be necessarily reticent as a result of his service protecting American presidents, while Tosca’s career was at the other extreme as a garrulous gossip columnist. Nevertheless, they managed to complement each other.
J.J. finished wiping the racing helmet, set it on the small table near the door and turned to her mother.
“Is this the fundraiser party for the Fuller Sanderson library?” she said. “A few wealthy people should be there, and certainly some of Karma’s clients. I imagine she hopes they’ll be donors. Maybe some of the guests will be crime writers or in the publishing industry, so you’ll feel right at home.”
“Not sure if my kind of reporting qualifies,” said Tosca, grimacing. “Everyone here knows me as that Brit gossip columnist who’s always snooping around and cussing in the Cornish language.”
“Mother, if you hadn’t been digging around in the professor’s garden, we’d never have known he was a murderer. Everyone read about the island killings you solved. Don’t be so modest.” She came closer to Tosca and scrutinized her face. “Thank goodness you’ve left off that awful blue eye shadow. You look a lot younger without it. You could pass for, oh, maybe forty.”
Tosca grinned, her blue eyes sparkling. “Meur ras! Thank you. I’ll take that, since my fiftieth rolls around next month, as you keep reminding me. And I’ll return the compliment. You look about eighteen, not twenty-eight. ” She walked into the kitchen. “Where’s that mead I’m bringing to the party? It’s the last jug of gooseberry I made with Acacia blossom honey, but I suppose this anniversary of Fuller Sanderson’s death merits it. I hope Karma will realize its significance. I read that her grandfather devoured gooseberry pie every chance he got when he visited England.”
“Quite a difference between the pie and your mead,” said J.J., “but do you think you should you even be taking any, considering what happened to the last lot you gave to our neighbor?”
“No
t my fault that murderous excuse for a musician deliberately laced the mead with poison and died in his cell. Must have ruined the taste. Oh, gollywobbles, look at the time.” Tosca picked up the heavy jug. “See you later.”
Chapter Seven
Holding her high-heeled pumps, Tosca stepped carefully down the wooden staircase that led from J.J.’s Dutch door to the front gate of the house, glancing again at the windows of the ground-floor apartment as she passed. She wondered when it would be rented. J.J. had said the owners were very fussy about tenants, and so far no one had qualified.
Tosca put on her shoes and walked to Karma’s cottage. Arlene had told her that the address was two blocks south and to look for a bright green bungalow with purple window frames. It was, thought Tosca as she reached it, only too easy to spot, despite being almost hidden between the two-story homes that towered over it on each side. Isabel Island was famous for its eclectic architecture styles that ranged from modest bungalows to several marble mansions totally out of place at the beach.
The main street was filled with restaurants, boutiques, ice cream parlors, cafes, a post office and the firehouse, and it ended at the seawall and Newport Harbor. Those who wanted to cross the bay to the peninsula took the old ferry, which held three cars and several dozen passengers.
Karma’s front yard was strung with red and yellow Chinese lanterns, their flickering candles mere pinpoints in the darkening sky but managing to cast shadows on the miniature palm trees leading to the open front door. Tosca tried to place the guitar music she heard from inside and determined it was the final chords from Rodrigo’s haunting “Concierto de Aranjuez” composed as a tribute to his young daughter after she died.
Almost immediately Tosca heard the mournful opening chords of the Berceuse from Stravinsky’s “Firebird Suite.” She couldn’t figure out which instruments the musicians were playing. Definitely a guitar, and not an electric one, but what on earth was that other weird sound? She hurried through the rickety garden gate to satisfy her curiosity.