Chapter Three
Three
“Buried alive?” Detective Serrano raised a sandy-blond eyebrow. “That seems like quite a coincidence. You study things like that, then come across someone who was buried alive? What are the odds of that, do you suppose?”
“Not good,” Harper conceded. “It’s all sort of…surreal.”
“I’ll bet.”
Harper felt Tariq’s eyes on her and met his gaze.
He gave her an encouraging smile, which helped to center her.
He stood with the others by the gate, accompanied by the young officer.
The retired couple was quietly attempting to comfort Joel, who was sobbing loudly and wiping away his tears with the tail of his velvet jacket.
“Did you find anything useful in the house?” Harper asked. “Anything that might tell us what’s going on?”
Detective Serrano shook his head. “We entered due to exigent circumstances because another victim or the perpetrator might have been inside. Now we’re waiting on a warrant to do a more thorough search. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
“Anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all?”
“There’s not much to tell. We came into the garden, heard something that sounded like grunting or groaning, saw the mound of dirt move and…” Harper paused and took a breath. “We dug her up.”
“By ‘we’ you mean…?”
“Me, Tariq Johnson, and the older gentleman, the retired nurse.”
“What is your relationship to them?”
“I met Lamont and his wife tonight, on the ghost tour.
“And you say you and Mr. Johnson are just friends?”
“Just friends.”
“Uh-huh.” The detective wrote something down. “So, Dr. Grae, while you and Mr. Johnson and the older man were digging up the victim, what was the tour leader doing?” He checked his notes. “Joel Aristide?”
“Joel appeared to be in shock. He watched the three of us dig.” Harper held up her arms, which were covered with dirt from her fingertips to her elbows. “I just wish…” Her voice caught in her throat.
“They got her to the hospital alive,” said the detective, his tone surprisingly gentle. “That’s something.”
He looked over his notes once again, then nodded. “Okay. I think that’s all for now. I’ve got your information, and I imagine we’ll have more questions later. In the meantime, here’s my card—let me know if anything else occurs to you.”
He called out, “Joel Aristide.”
Harper rejoined Tariq.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, but then I wasn’t the one buried alive.”
“I knew Delilah, you know,” he said, letting out a long breath. “But I didn’t even recognize her, given…”
“How we found her,” Harper said with a nod. “I’m sorry, Tariq. Were you two close?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. Everyone in town knew Delilah. Anyway, I’m sorry, Harper. Truly. I thought going on a ghost tour would be a hoot.”
“Yeah, gotta say, as a fun evening it was a bit of a bust.”
“Not to mention a lousy introduction to my fair Monterey. I thought you’d enjoy a little history.”
Mostly by way of distraction, she said, “By the way, what was Joel saying about witches being hanged on this hallowed ground? I’ve never heard of witch trials in Monterey, have you? Sounded to me like he was making it up as he went along.”
They both looked over toward Joel, who was gesticulating wildly, still sobbing, as he spoke to the detective.
“Poor guy,” Harper said. “He’s a bit of an ass, but according to him, he and Delilah Mason are close.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Really? Why?”
Tariq shrugged. “Delilah runs in some pretty posh circles. She comes from serious money, owned a house on 17-Mile Drive for a while. I think her ex-husband still lives there.”
“I’ve heard of that 17-Mile thing—what is it?”
“It’s a road that runs through Pebble Beach, with its world-famous golf club. The playground of the extremely wealthy. The road is closed to all but residents, so visitors have to pay for the privilege of driving by and gawking at the homes of the moneyed elite.”
“Why would anyone pay to drive by mansions and a golf course?”
“17-Mile Drive is more than that—there’s an incredibly beautiful stretch along the coast, with beaches and woods, and the old lone cypress that Joel mentioned earlier. It’s provided inspiration for a lot of the California impressionists, including Delilah Mason.”
“Isn’t she a little young to be one of the impressionists?”
“Not a French impressionist. A late California impressionist. It’s a school of tonalism and plein air painters, or something along those lines. I’m no expert.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty familiar with Mason and her art.”
“I—”
He cut himself off as Detective Serrano came back to tell the remaining members of the tour group that they were free to go but not to speak to anyone about what they had seen in the garden or how the victim was found.
The forensics teams were busily photographing and searching the area for evidence, setting out bright yellow numbered cones.
The static of police radios interrupted the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the faraway barking of sea lions.
As they walked out the gate, Tariq added in a quiet voice, “Joel’s right that Delilah claimed she wasn’t afraid of spirits—on the contrary, she was excited by the idea of them. But there’s no denying that living here changed her. She didn’t seem close to anyone anymore.”