by Jill Amadio
Where exactly would the man go? Would he even flee? Blair didn’t know that Tosca had survived the Wedge. But if he decided to take off, maybe he’d do the purloined letter trick in full sight on his boat among a group of other boats.
Thatch had told her about going fishing around some islands off Rosarito Beach on the Mexican Baja coast. The islands were uninhabited but a favorite spot for catching striped marlin and yellowfin tuna. The area was regularly surrounded on weekends by fishermen from nearby San Diego and Orange Counties. Surely, she realized, the Riviera would fit right in among the several other luxury sports fishing boats and barely warrant any attention.
Knowing Blair’s arrogance, I’m sure he has presumed I drowned, she thought. Even now he might be listening to the radio or watching television for news about a woman’s body being washed up on the beach yesterday, another victim of the Wedge.
She drove home, parked and jogged the six blocks to Blair’s small chalet. Noting the police cars outside and knowing she’d be unwelcome, she headed for his dock on the off-chance he’d be there, or perhaps he’d left already. As far as she was concerned, Tosca decided, he must think I’m dead. He knows Karma was arrested from the media reports, but he must be aware she’d soon prove her innocence of any murder. Most likely she’d confess to having plotted with Swenson to write the fake Sanderson books, but that wasn’t a criminal offense. The ghostwriter was dead, and thus the scheme was foiled. Karma would be free.
Tosca hurried along the last street that led to the water. With his back to her, Blair was on his dock, untying the remaining line from its cleat, the engine already growling.
“Well, well. It seems I’m just in time, Graydon.” She stood behind him. “The police are at your house.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Blair swung around, gaping at her. Before she could move he grabbed her around the waist and dumped her onto the deck of the Riviera, jumping aboard after her. He let go of the loose line, leaned over the rail to push the boat free of the dock and ran up the steps to the controls on the flybridge. The Riviera bucked like a horse when he increased the speed.
Tosca stood up, feeling fresh pain from the bruises she’d sustained, and mentally kicked herself for being so careless. Now what?
“Are we headed for the Wedge again, Graydon?” She shouted above the engine noise, looking up to the flybridge. “I don’t believe there’s a storm handy, is there?”
He glared down, increased the speed that sent sprays of water on both sides and raced toward the harbor opening.
Tosca quickly slid aside the cabin door and entered the salon. Should she find a knife with which to defend herself? Was there a way to sabotage the boat? Re’m fay! What a pickle she was in. She saw the ottavino battante on the table, its lid thrown back. On the bench seat were the Kinnor harp, the crwth, and the rebec. The two other instruments she saw she assumed were the Psaltery and the Chinese chyn. There was no sign of the theremin, and obviously he didn’t value it. So Blair had already brought his entire collection of valuable musical instruments onto the boat.
She grabbed the rebec and the Kinnor, one in each hand, ran outside to the rear deck and held both instruments over the side of the boat.
“Graydon,” she called up to Blair on the flybridge, “if you don’t take me back right now, I am dropping your instruments into the sea!”
She dangled them farther over the side of the rail, secretly dreading she might drop one by mistake because her arms still felt like lead after her escape from the Wedge.
Blair turned from the controls at the sound of her voice, saw the danger his collection was in, swore and slammed the throttle back. The boat shuddered and made a half-turn as it responded to Blair’s effort to slow it to a stop. He took a flying leap down the ladder, caught his foot on the last rung and sprawled on the deck beside her. He scrambled to his feet, his face drained of color.
The sudden slowing of the boat caused Tosca to grip the musical instruments tighter as the rail bit into her waist, bending her almost in half. Silly twit, she thought. Wouldn’t it occur to him that his sudden stop could have caused me to drop the darned things?
The boat settled down in the calm waters of the bay, and she straightened up slightly but still held the rebec and the harp as far over the water as she could reach.
“Don’t know what to do, do you?” she said, turning her head toward Blair and deliberately taunting him as she edged away to the far corner of the deck. “If you lay a finger on me, the Kinnor and rebec will be fish food. Well, not fish food, exactly, but very expensive hiding places for crabs and minnows.”
The two were standing in silent confrontation, at an impasse, when a bright red Harbor Patrol boat edged alongside, a voice blaring through a megaphone for Blair to surrender. Tosca breathed a sigh of relief but continued to lean over the back deck with the musical instruments. Until a sheriff came aboard, she wasn’t taking any chances, although she saw that Blair had gone back into his cabin.
The patrol boat came alongside, and one of its crew jumped onto the Riviera holding a rope. Detective Parnell and two sheriffs also boarded the Riviera. Blair emerged from the cabin to give himself up.
At this point Tosca felt permanently bent in half and wondered if her body would ever manage to straighten itself upright. Carefully and slowly, she stood away from the rail, still holding the instruments in stiff fingers. One of the sheriffs came over, took them from her and asked if she was all right.
“Just a kink or two, thank you.”
Blair, white-faced, his shoulders slumped, was taken off his boat and onto the Harbor Patrol boat, where Detective Parnell snapped handcuffs on him. The Riviera was seized and taken back to Newport Beach to be processed for evidence. Tosca was helped as she climbed aboard the patrol boat and then was asked to come to Parnell’s office to tell her story.
Four hours later she was home and calling Thatch. “Just had another trip on the Pacific Ocean, well, actually the bay,” she said. “I must really like Blair’s boat since I’ve been on it twice now. Oh, and he’s been arrested for murder.”
“I’m coming over. I don’t trust these enigmatic statements of yours. Half an hour. All right?”
“Yes, keresik, please do. I’m a little tired, but I’d love to see you.”
When Thatch arrived she’d already taken a hot shower and dressed in a sweat suit, her hair once again hanging limp and damp. She met him at the door and asked him to wait a few minutes while she finished drying her hair.
“Here’s a nice piece of gossip that Arlene passed along. Sunida and Karma have met,” said Tosca, entering the living room, “and they are liking each other. It’s not a mother-daughter relationship but rather more of a close friend one. They sure have Norman in common and are exchanging reminiscences.”
“Okay, but come and sit down. I want to hear all about this second voyage of yours.”
Tosca curled up next to Thatch on the sofa and filled him in on her latest sea adventure. Alternately horrified and angry at her impulsiveness, he eventually calmed down.
“I’m going to make you some tea, and you are not getting up from that sofa until it’s bedtime,” he said.
Delighted with the attention, Tosca nevertheless called out instructions as to which tea to use, the Darjeeling, where to find it on the shelf, how to warm the teapot, where she kept the tea strainer, how much water to add to the electric kettle and on no account to allow the steam from the boiling kettle to last more than three seconds and how much milk to add to the bottom of the cup. She said the milk must be poured in first before pouring the brewed tea into it, because if milk was added afterward, it changed the chemistry of the tea. She told him how much sugar she preferred, two teaspoons, please, and added that it would take at least five minutes for the tea to brew before ready for consumption.
When she stopped talking Tosca realized that Thatch had found a teabag, an empty cup and the microwave. Ninety seconds later he handed her the hot tea. She thanked him wit
hout using a single Cornish cuss word.
Epilogue
Two weeks later J.J. came racing up the stairs and burst into the apartment. “Someone’s parked in our garage! And the door can’t close.”
“Yes, love. I’m so glad your Porsche was off being repaired. Fitting my car in was a little difficult, but I did a good job, didn’t I?” said Tosca. “The door will close when you move some of those boxes.”
“That awful rusty old Jeep Wrangler down there is yours?”
“Yes, it is indeed, and don’t call it old. It’s six decades younger than your Dad’s Austin-Healey.”
“Mother, your car is pea green! Really bright pea green!”
“No need to shout, love, and of course it is. That’s one reason I bought it.”
She explained to an almost speechless J.J. that the Jeep’s color could easily be seen by other drivers, and its lightweight doors made it easy to open and jump out quickly if the ground suddenly spread apart during an earthquake. Her choice of vehicle also gave her comfort in that it sat high, in case of flooding, which she’d also read about, except she’d neglected to remember that floods were mostly in the Midwest, and she also liked the rugged front grille because it provided a battering ram should she encounter a stray rhino. She said she intended to keep the car’s soft top permanently rolled back.
“What if it rains?” said J.J. “The forecast said there’s rain moving in. Look at the dark clouds!”
“Please. It never rains. Besides, I have my parasol.”
J.J.’s expression told her how ridiculous she’d look driving around in an open vehicle, especially a pea green Jeep, holding up a parasol.
As if on cue, a few large droplets began to fall. Tosca whooped joyously. She donned her wellies and grabbed the parasol. She ran down the steps to the garage and jumped into the Jeep.
After driving around the block Tosca returned the vehicle to the garage. Upstairs, she took off the willies, left them outside the front door and shook the parasol, leaving it open to dry, although it was barely wet.
“Just wanted to see what it felt like, driving in the rain,” she told her daughter. “Nothing like London, but it’s a start.”
Thatch knocked on the doorframe and looked into the living room, where Tosca and J.J. stood facing each other, arms akimbo.
“Hello, ladies. Am I interrupting a wrestling match? I’ve brought champagne to celebrate another murder solved—no, two murders solved—by our visiting sleuth.”
Tosca and her daughter grinned at each other. J.J. took the bottle of champagne from Thatch and put it in the fridge. Without a word she and Tosca grabbed Thatch’s arms and marched him down to the garage.
“It’s hers, not mine,” announced J.J.
After giving the Jeep a once-over and remarking how uncomfortable the seats looked, Thatch agreed that all the reasons Tosca told him for buying it were probably valid. He told her he was pleased she’d chosen a car with an automatic transmission, after the almost disastrous problems she’d had with the Healey, and the color would indeed be seen for miles as a warning to other drivers.
“That said, it’s kinda strange you’d rather drive a big Jeep instead of that stunning vintage sports car.”
“That’s J.J.’s complaint, too. Nevertheless, you must both remember I am making a heroic effort to embrace America, and it is not easy, given how admittedly stubborn Cornish people can be. I am doing my small bit, because what could be more iconic and American than an aggressive, fearless, in-your-face battering ram Jeep Wrangler? Stop frowning, both of you. Let’s go upstairs for a glass of mead.”
Meet Author Jill Amadio
Jill Amadio hails from Cornwall, U.K., like the character in her crime series. Amadio has been a reporter in Spain, Colombia, Thailand and the U.S. She is a true crime author, has ghosted a thriller, writes a column for MysteryPeople ezine, and freelances for My Cornwall magazine.
Amadio is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime and Crime Writers Association UK. She lives in Southern California.
Like what you read? Here’s a sample of the first
Tosca Trevant mystery:
Digging Too Deep
by Jill Amadio
One
“Sorry I’m late, Mother. Have you been standing out here long? We had a death on the island, and the memorial service ran on forever,” said J.J. Trevant. She picked up the two suitcases and loaded them into the Porsche parked curbside at Los Angeles International Airport.
“A murder? Re’m fay! Right on my new American doorstep.” Tosca Trevant pursed her lips.
“No, of course not a murder. Where did you get that idea? A neighbor drowned. And what on earth do you mean, right on your doorstep?”
“I’ve put in for a promotion from gossip columnist to crime reporter, so I need a murder to solve. Don’t be dense, dear.”
J.J. slammed down the trunk lid and stared at Tosca. “That’s ridiculous. You know nothing about crime writing. Besides, this wasn’t a murder. The poor woman died on vacation in Mexico. Surely the royal scandal you discovered wasn’t a crime, was it?”
“Let’s not get into that right now, love.”
J.J. opened the passenger door for her mother, who stepped in and buckled her seat belt.
“How was the flight?” asked J.J. as they drove out of the terminal. “That eleven-hour trip from London is no picnic. Did you sleep? It must have been horribly uncomfortable for you in that unbelievably short outfit.”
“This?” Tosca tugged at the hem of her black leather miniskirt. “You’ve been out of England too long. Covers my knickers all right, doesn’t it? The toddler I held on my lap part of the flight didn’t mind. What a joy it was to cuddle him. You’ll learn that when you have children of your own.”
“Not on my radar, as you know.”
Tosca sighed. ”You can’t race cars forever.”
J.J. glanced at her mother. “And look at your hair! It’s down to your waist now.” She frowned. “Bit old for that, too, aren’t you?”
“Old? I haven’t said hello to fifty yet, although it’s fast approaching. Re’m fay.”
“I wish you wouldn’t swear in Cornish, Mother. It makes you sound more eccentric than you are. No offense, of course.”
“None taken, love. I will try my best to behave myself. Apologies for descending upon you with hardly any warning. I was so rudely hustled out of England, I barely had time to send you those jugs of mead. I hope they didn’t get too jostled en route. I can’t wait to have a glass.”
J.J. shrugged. “I haven’t opened the box. You know I hate that awful plonk you insist on brewing yourself. Anyway, now that you’re here you can relax.”
Tosca raised her eyebrows. “Relax? With a royal lawsuit hanging over my head? Fat chance. I’m in exile.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been reassigned, that’s all. Don’t exaggerate.”
“I still can’t believe I caused such an uproar.” At J.J.’s snort, Tosca grimaced. “Honestly, I had no idea Queen Elizabeth would be so rattled. She should know my ‘Tiara Tittle-Tattle’ column is harmless.”
“Harmless? Like a python. The royals never know where you’ll strike next. That piece you wrote last week about the Earl of Dunene’s false teeth falling into the queen’s lap at dinner was a bit mean spirited, don’t you think?
“But it was true! The footman told me he saw the earl try to catch them, but it was too late.”
“All right, but you still haven’t told me what your scoop was. Sex again, I suppose. Your last email said that you’d blundered through the wrong door at Buckingham Palace, and you’d be arriving here today. Sounds really bad, so tell me.”
“It wasn’t sex, for a change, and the palace hushed it up, of course. No, J.J., I’ve promised not to discuss it, even though it was the best scoop of my career. That wimpy editor Stuart assured the Queen’s Counsel and their vast team of barristers and solicitors the column would never see the light of day. In exchange for my si
lence over what I saw, as I said, I asked Stuart to switch me to crime reporting, but he refused.”
“Sorry, Mother, but I can’t see you interviewing murderers and families of victims unless they’re wearing crowns.”
“I’ve always wanted to cover criminal cases for the newspaper, but I got stuck with the gossip column. Oh, well, at least I still have a job.”
J.J. guided the car expertly onto the southbound 405 freeway, weaving in and out of six lanes of giant tanker trucks, semis and bumper-to-bumper traffic until the carpool lane appeared. She entered it and gunned the engine past eighty miles an hour.
“Goodness, dear!” Tosca clutched the armrests. “Don’t you think you should slow down? We’re not on one of your speedway tracks. I can’t imagine why you chose such a dangerous career as racing. Too much like your father, God rest his soul.”
“We’ll be home soon. Please, just close your eyes.”
Ignoring her daughter’s advice, Tosca swiveled her head rapidly from side to side as she took in their surroundings on the drive south and kept up a running commentary.
“Look at that! Perfectly proportioned palm trees. Poor things. Not really their natural state, is it? And there’s yet another McDonald’s right near the ramp. Still, it’s very convenient for drivers and, I hear, much better than our miserable motorway cafes and the greasy atomic depth-charges they claim are burgers. Oh, will we be passing that mangled spaceship they call Disney Hall? Looked a bit tortured in the photos I saw.”
“No, it’s downtown Los Angeles. Mother, you really should rest your eyes.”
Arriving on Isabel Island after crossing the short bridge that connected it to the coastal town of Newport Beach, J.J. took Center Street, which cut through the island for three blocks. Lined with shaggy eucalyptus trees, it was the island’s hub and heart with cafes, boutiques, small art galleries, craft stores and a tiny post office. During the summer Center Street teemed with tourists before they headed for the ferries, two fifty-seven-foot barges, to take them across to the four-mile-long peninsula on the other side of the harbor. Built in 1906, the ferries were a year-round fixture that carried passengers and three vehicles across the main channel every three minutes.