Digging Up the Dead Read Online Free PDF

due to the dangling gold hoops that dragged at her earlobes and hazel eyes whose outer edges tilted down toward a nose that drooped unattractively. Her thick red hair, masses of it piled upon her head, was her best feature and, thought Tosca, saved her from being nondescript.
    “I’m Karma,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Welcome to my home. I hear you are a Johnny DiLeo fan, that you sing opera, the queen kicked you out of England, and you come from Cornwall.”
    “How on earth do you know all that?”
    “It’s a small island,” said Karma.
    Tosca hastened to explain that she was indeed a fan of Sanderson’s fictional detective, that her singing was strictly confined to the bathtub, because although she came from a family of opera singers, she was not one herself, and yes, she was a Cornishwoman. As for Her Majesty, Tosca admitted the palace had been instrumental in her reassignment to America.
    “We all know you, too,” said Karma, “for finding out how Professor Whittaker’s wife died. Here, let me make you a White Russian. Then I’ll introduce you to the friends of mine with whom I think you’ll have the most in common.”
    At Tosca’s raised eyebrows Karma added, “They’re in the publishing business.”
    She mixed the White Russian, handed it to Tosca and steered her toward a short, overweight blond man in his forties and an elderly, white-haired woman
    “These are two of my dearest friends,” Karma told Tosca, “and the most important people in Grandfather Sanderson’s legacy. Meet Sally Hirsch, whose company still publishes his books, and Oliver Swenson, our editor and the writer I want to work on the manuscript or manuscripts that Fuller is said to have left. Once we find it—or them, that is. We’ve been searching everywhere for years.”

 
     
     
Chapter Nine
     
     
    Tosca shook hands with each in turn, taking Sally’s first, her fingers as dry as twigs, then Swenson’s fleshy, plump hand that felt like unkneaded dough. Sally smiled a greeting. Her thick make-up failed to cover the wrinkles her smile produced all over her plain features, but her expression was a sincere one.
    In contrast, Swenson’s thick lips barely moved, his chin sunk into a thick neck with two rolls of fat. His girth was mostly due to a bulging beer belly that strained at the buttons of his plaid shirt. Nevertheless, Tosca found herself fascinated by his eyes, a pair of perfectly matched black pearls glistening with bold intensity as he stared at her.
    “Ah, yes. Oliver. I read in Publishers Weekly that you will be working on Fuller’s manuscript if it shows up. Quite a challenge.”
    “Not really,” he said, his tone disdainful. With a quick motion that Tosca judged was a practiced one, he flicked back the unruly lock of fair hair hanging over his forehead.
    “I am intimately familiar with his style,” he said. “I can quote much of his writing, particularly the last book published just before he died.” Swenson glanced pointedly at Sally, who looked away.
    Tosca sought to fill the uncomfortable silence that followed. “Hirsch House has always published Sanderson’s books, I believe,” she said, addressing Sally. “A wonderful treasure of works.”
    “Yes, we’ve been fortunate enough to handle his books ever since Fuller wrote his first novel, a brilliant debut for one so young,” she said. “My father owned the company but passed away several years ago. Happily, we still enjoy a great, successful partnership with Karma and Graydon, although these days many of us in publishing are hurting due to the ebook revolution. Sanderson’s books are sold on the online Amazon web site, of course, but Chandler far, far outsells him. Sales for Fuller’s ninth and final novel before he died have, in fact, been disappointing.”
    Swenson snorted. “You should have promoted it more. You spent hardly any money on publicity or for a book tour.”
    “You know very well, Oliver, that Fuller was not a well