by Jill Amadio
“I don’t even know where she lives,” said Karma, “but I’m sure we can find out. Perhaps you can pay a visit.”
Blair allowed a small smile then said, “Oh, I forgot. Nancy wants to know about Sally’s funeral. Are you arranging it?”
“Why should I”
“But surely you’ll provide all the flowers from your garden center, won’t you?” His silky tone annoyed Karma, but she refused to rise to the bait.
“Of course I will, Graydon,” she said. “I’ll be accepting donations, too. How much would you like to contribute?” Satisfied to see him taken aback, she added, “You can give me a check later when the final arrangements have been made.”
Karma got up from the sofa and stood in front of him, arms akimbo. “So where do we stand?”
“No need to get hostile. Everything’s fine. We just need to figure out where Sally hid the damn thing.”
“Well, so what?” Karma sat down again and stretched out her legs. It doesn’t matter much now, does it?”
“It’ll matter plenty if anyone finds it. Did you search her car?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“What do you mean?” Blair was visibly upset at the news. “You have the keys, don’t you? Maybe the flash drive is in her car.”
“It’s too late to look in it now. The car’s gone. The Public Administrator’s office sent someone down to take possession. I gave them the keys, and they drove it away. Seems that’s standard procedure under the circumstances. Then, if no relatives show up to claim their property, it’s sold at auction. You could go and bid on it,” she said with a sly expression on her face. “No, I’m sure Sally would have kept the drive with her in this bag, but it isn’t here.”
“How well did you search?” He got up and began looking under the sofa, the desk and the two wingback chairs.
“When I got back from going with Sally to the hospital, there was a note from Arlene and that Brit woman, saying they’d cleaned up. I’m sure they left everything they found on the desk here, but maybe they didn’t. I have no idea exactly what Sally had in her purse.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tosca practically rubbed her hands together in anticipation as she changed from shorts and a T-shirt into jeans and a cropped blue top that skimmed her waist, prepared to have lunch with Thatch and find out what he had learned about the mysterious Sunida. He’d better have as much interesting news about that person as I have about Sanderson’s unpublished manuscripts, she mused.
Aside from having found out what the flash drive revealed, she was convinced that the Chandelier that had rolled out of the publisher’s purse was part of the mystery, although she could see no connection between the Sanderson manuscripts and the silver plaque on the gemstone. Certainly Thatch was astonished when he saw it. Was it Sally’s? But then, who or what is Sunida?
“Maybe it belongs to one of her other authors,” surmised Thatch in answer to her question when he called her earlier in the morning.
“Not according to that literary agent,” Tosca said. “At the party he indicated that Hirsch House was on its uppers, almost bankrupt, in fact, and that the Sanderson books were all they had left. We can hash it out at lunch. Oops, didn’t mean to make a pun, but corned beef hash sounds good.”
“We’ll go to The Brig in Dana Point harbor, then. See you at noon. Bring the Chandelier.”
Tosca was adding a bright pink lipstick to her lips when her cell phone sounded.
“Hi, Arlene,” she said. “Nice to hear your voice. I’m just about to meet Thatch for lunch. Anything important?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Remember we all thought Sally would be cremated after the police got through their investigation of her murder and released the body, even though her killer hasn’t been identified? Well, they are releasing it today, and she’s going to be cremated later this week.”
“Did someone claim her?”
“Karma set up a web site for donations, and several people who were guests at the party stepped forward to cover the cost.”
“That’s very generous. Such a shame she had no family. You do know that when bodies are cremated, their ashes are, more often than not, mixed in with ashes left over in the oven from the previous cremation.”
“Tosca, you are getting ghoulish again.”
“On the contrary. Now at least she’ll have a friend—or part of one. I’ve never understood why people sprinkle a few ashes here, a few over there. What is that, an arm here, an ear there? Gosh, look at the time. Sorry, Arlene, I’ve got to run. Ta-ta.”
After Thatch picked Tosca up for lunch, during which she indulged in crisply fried corned beef hash and poached eggs, they drove up Jamboree Boulevard and turned right onto Pacific Coast Highway. Passing the Fashion Island complex, Tosca declared, “I find it the poshest shopping available in Newport Beach, but it’s not quite London’s New Bond Street, is it?”
She waited for Thatch to reply. When he didn’t, she asked where they were going.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
They drove south toward Laguna Beach, past the luxury estates and gated communities built on the hills with magnificent views of the ocean. One famous author lived in a palatial estate there, as did one of America’s best-loved late-night comedians and a few pro athletes, but most of their neighboring multimillionaires kept a low profile,
“You said you’d tell me how you found that Sunida person,” said Tosca, “or are we going back to the mine to talk to your friend? I guess we won’t be digging there again, because I don’t see any equipment.”
She readjusted the seatbelt and smoothed down her cotton top. “I never know how to dress when you are so mysterious.”
“You look perfect, honey.”
Thatch turned left off Route 1 in Laguna Beach and drove slowly down a narrow side street. An artist’s colony originally attracting plein air painters because of its scenic beauty, the town was now a bustling tourist destination for its beaches and coves. With an international reputation, it was home to several arts festivals in which artists from all over the world exhibited. Celebrities, including Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, had discovered its charm in the 1930s, as had writer John Steinbeck.
“What’s the Pageant of the Masters I just saw advertised on a banner?” said Tosca as they came into the small town.
“It an annual show, a huge attraction. More than ninety minutes of tableaux vivants, faithful recreations of art masterpieces and contemporary works with real people posing to look exactly like their counterparts in the original pieces. They pose without moving, like statues, for several minutes. I don’t know how they do it, and it’s mostly volunteer residents. I’ll take you one evening. It’s on till the end of August this year.”
”I think that’s the most you have ever said to me at any one time.”
Thatch grinned and turned left again onto a small back street. He asked Tosca to look for house number 261. When she said it was the pale tan bungalow on the right, he stopped and angled his truck between two motorcycles, improvising a parking spot. “Who lives here?” she asked.
“Sunida.”
The tiny front yard was unkempt, and the walkway to the front door was missing a few paving stones. The faded, stained stucco and roof tiles presented a general air of neglect, prompting Tosca to whisper, “If that Chandelier’s worth what you say it is, why on earth would Sunida, and you haven’t said whether it’s male or female, live in this old place?”
Before Thatch had a chance to answer, the door swung open. An Asian woman stood in the doorway, holding out her hand.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Hello, I’m Sunida. You must be Thatch,” she said, her soft voice lilting with an accent.
Thatch put his hands together as if in prayer and bowed his head slightly. “Sawadeekrab, khun Sunida. Thank you for seeing us, and this is Tosca, a great admirer of Fuller Sanderson.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Tosca,” the woman said, smiling and shaking
hands. “Please come in.”
They followed Sunida as she led the way into the house. Tosca copied Thatch’s gesture and raised her eyebrows at him in question.
“It’s a wai,” he whispered, “the way Thais greet each other.” He kissed her ear on the last word.
They entered a living room. Tosca gasped at the contrast from the outside of the house. The room was decorated sumptuously with dazzling Thai silk wall hangings, colorful paintings of Thai dancers in exotic costumes, a teak sofa and three chairs with cushions covered in yellow and red striped Thai cotton. On the large bamboo mat were placed two knee-high, triangle-shaped standing bolsters, which offered back support in traditional Thai homes for those sitting on the floor.
A bronze Buddha head was on a corner pedestal, and incense burned in brass holders hung near the fireplace. A richly carved teak chest served as a coffee table, and a small hammered bronze gong occupied the east wall. At the rear of the room was a tall bookcase containing Sanderson’s books, including those translated into foreign languages, Tosca noted.
No less surprising than the interior of the house was Sunida herself. A stunningly beautiful, petite woman with almond eyes, high cheekbones and waist-length ebony hair, she wore a crimson and gold sarong in the traditional Thai fashion. No telling how old she is, thought Tosca, searching the woman’s face for wrinkles and seeing none. So typical of Asian women who never show their age until they’re in their eighties and really irritating to us Westerners.
Thatch spoke a few words to Sunida in Thai, then turned to Tosca. “I told her how much we appreciated her willingness to talk to us. Don’t worry, she speaks excellent English.”
Sunida indicated they should all sit down. Thatch and Tosca took seats on the sofa, and Sunida sat on the other side of the coffee table. But she rose almost immediately.
“Oh, excuse me. I am forgetting my manners. I’ll be right back with tea.”
After she left the room Tosca turned to Thatch. “You speak Thai?”
“I told you, I spent time in Bangkok with a president or two on state visits,” he said.
“I forgot, but you’d better tell me more later. I hate these enigmatic remarks you make and then forget to explain, and it’s even worse when you smile like that Buddha head over there.”
Sunida entered bearing a silver tray loaded with three lotus-shaped Celadon china cups, a matching teapot and a plate of flower-shaped cookies. She set the tray on the coffee table.
“Kanom dok jok!” exclaimed Thatch. “My favorite pastries.”
Tosca kicked his shin, restraining herself from hissing, “Showoff!”
“I hope you like green tea,” said Sunida, filling the sea-foam colored tea cups. “If I’d known you were English, I would have made sure I had black tea for you.”
Sorely tempted to correct Sunida by saying she was not English, Tosca said, “I am a great fan of tea of any color, although I can’t see the point of white tea. It looks so anemic. Nothing like a robust cuppa you can practically stand a spoon up in.”
Sunida bowed her head politely, and after more small talk she asked Thatch, “What do you wish to know? On the phone you said you knew I owned a tourmaline called the Chandelier, but I am sorry to tell you that it is not here at the moment.”
“We know,” he said. “We have it.”
Tosca took the box from her purse and handed it to Sunida. Thatch went on to explain about Karma’s party to celebrate Sanderson’s anniversary, Sally’s collapse and death, and how the tourmaline had fallen on the floor from her purse.
“I recognized it instantly,” he said. “As a geologist I often follow the fate of extraordinary minerals and gemstones that are found, but the Chandelier disappeared from view very quickly. I wondered if it had been put on public display somewhere with its twin, the Candelabra, but it wasn’t. You can imagine my surprise when I saw it the other evening at Karma’s. Do you know her?” Thatch leaned forward, watching Sunida open the box, remove the gemstone and place it on the coffee table.
“I know all about the party,” she said. “Someone I know was there, and he told me that Sally was rushed to Sheldon Hospital, where she died. It has upset me greatly.” She paused, then said, “No, in answer to your question, I have never met Karma, but I know all about her, of course, as she’s Norman’s daughter and half-sister to my son.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The bombshell Sunida dropped stunned Thatch and Tosca into silence. Tosca was the first to recover.
“Your son?
“Yes, Norman Sanderson and I had a little boy, Jeremy. He died of meningitis when he was three years old.”
Sunida’s face crumpled. She excused herself and left the room and returned a few moments later, dabbing at her eyes with a facial tissue. Tosca gave her a little more time to recover before asking, “Norman Sanderson was your child’s father?”
“Yes. We never married, but we were mostly together until he died in the car crash with his wife, Destiny.”
She told them she had met Norman when he traveled to Bangkok to research a book and was struggling to become as good a writer as his father. He attended a Thai dance performance at the Oriental Hotel and after the show asked to meet with any of the dancers who spoke English.
“I was one of the dancers,” she said. “I could speak English quite well, because my father was a gardener at the British Embassy, and he taught me after he learned many words. Foreigners are entranced with our classical dance and the elaborately decorated costumes and headdresses we wear.” She laughed. “Dancing, we all look very exotic and intriguing, but in reality we are just somewhat pretty girls, not the magnificent beauties that the silks, jewels and exaggerated makeup give us. I think Westerners find our dance techniques mesmerizing, especially the hand movements.”
She paused to demonstrate, bringing her forefinger and thumb together and bending and curling her other fingers and wrist so far back they almost touched her arm.
“Norman wanted to know about the history of our dances, which tell ancient stories. The one I danced the night he watched us was a favorite with Thais, all about humans and gods, heroes, demons and other characters. Monkeys play a part, too. There are a series of more than sixty movements during a performance, and dancers start to train at the age of six or seven. I showed Norman the nine-inch fingernail caps we wear and my spired gold headdress. We ended up spending all our time together. When he left for America, he brought me with him.”
Sunida told her tale in a quiet, assured voice, admitting she knew Norman was married and had a daughter.
“I didn’t care. He was such a loving man. I knew he had room for more than one wife, and in Thailand minor wives, what you call mistresses, are the norm. Some of the wealthier men have four or five, and they often all live together. But Norman planned to divorce his wife and marry me.”
“A harem,” said Tosca. “But it’s different here. What happened?”
“He had second thoughts about getting a divorce. He thought a scandal would ruin his career once he became a famous author, which never happened, of course. It didn’t matter to me whether we were married or not. He set me up in this house, and he was here much of the time.”
She stood up. “Let me show you his study, where he did his writing.”
Sunida took her visitors through the kitchen and opened a screen door. Across the tiny courtyard was a studio. She invited them inside. Thatch and Tosca looked around at the bookshelves, file cabinets and a richly carved teak desk similar in style to the coffee table in Sunida’s living room. On top of the desk were a laptop, a stapler and two framed photos. One showed Norman and Sunida standing in front of the Royal Palace in Bangkok, its richly ornate red and gold roof glinting in the sun. The second photo was of Sunida holding Jeremy as a toddler, his black hair and almond-shaped eyes similar to his mother’s.
Off to the side of the desk were an electric typewriter, another laptop and a laser printer. Tosca thought back to the night of Karma’s party and
Fuller’s staged desk with its carbon paper, pencil holder and pipe.
“Norman spent a lot of time in here,” said Sunida. “I know he never produced a book, but it didn’t matter to me as long as he was happy, which he was. Luckily, his father’s earnings kept us all afloat, and after Norman died I was able to get a good job at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and I decided to stay.”
She sat at the desk and slid her hands across the typewriter keys. “I didn’t care whether Norman was a successful novelist or not. I loved him. Sadly, he never got out of his father’s shadow and had very little confidence about taking on any kind of creative work. Maybe that’s why he married an artist.”
They were suddenly interrupted by a man asking, “Hello? May I come in?”
Oliver Swenson poked his large, blond head around the door. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company, Sunida.”
“Come in, come in, dear.”
Tosca’s jaw dropped in surprise both at seeing the editor of Fuller Sanderson’s books in Sunida’s house and at how the Thai woman greeted him. Dear?
“Do you know Oliver? He was at Karma’s party,” said Sunida. “He’s the person who told me about Sally’s collapse.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course,” said Tosca. “Nice to see you again.”
His demeanor was totally opposite to the surly man she’d talked to briefly at the fundraiser party. Instead, his large face split into a wide smile, and he emanated friendliness. He turned to Thatch.
“I don’t think we were introduced that night.”
In a jovial mood, far different to the stormy exit he’d made after Blair had taunted him at Karma’s house, he offered his hand to Thatch, who shook it, nodding and smiling.