Digging Too Deep by Jill Amadio Page A

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.”

 
     
     
Chapter Nine
     
     
    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,