Chapter Thirty-Three #2
Emerson shrugged. “I guess it’s pretty expensive to keep that gallery going.
Said he doesn’t make as much money as you might think selling artwork.
And when his mother got sick, he was desperate to find a cure.
Delilah sent him home with all kinds of tinctures and teas she’d mixed up, claimed they would help. ”
Harper’s attention turned from the medical cabinet to the tarp it had been wrapped in. It was flecked with drops of brightly colored paint, and in the center was a large, reddish-black stain. Harper looked more closely. That wasn’t paint. Could it be…blood?
“Where did you get this tarp?” Harper asked.
“This is how Highbaugh gave the box to me. To make sure it didn’t get banged up, I guess.”
“When was that?”
“It was…I dunno, last week? Monday, I think. I remember I was watching football when he called and asked me to meet him at the gallery. He gave me this cabinet and a bunch of other things, told me to hide it all.”
“You said Delilah Mason gave Highbaugh some of her teas and tinctures for his mother, right? How long was that before his mother died?”
Emerson looked surprised. “Are you suggesting something Mason gave him killed his mother?”
“I’m asking when she gave her concoctions to Highbaugh.”
“Can’t swear to the dates,” Emerson said, looking thoughtful. “But I do know Highbaugh sort of lost it, said the stuff Mason gave him made his mother hallucinate. I gotta tell you: I didn’t much care for the look in his eye. I’ve been in combat, and I’ve seen that look before. It ain’t good.”
When Harper arrived at the hospital, Ellen was sitting up, chatting with her son.
“We owe you a debt of gratitude,” Jonathan said.
“Paid in advance,” Harper said, and gave Ellen a kiss. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired, but otherwise well. I’m being released tomorrow.”
“That is good news,” Harper said. “You look much improved.”
“Jonathan, dear, would you run down to the cafeteria and fetch Harper something to drink?”
“Sure thing. Coffee? Soda? Name your poison.”
“Jonathan,” Harper said.
Jonathan looked stricken when he realized what he had said.
Ellen laughed. “Calm down, you two. I’m fine. Harper will take coffee, I suspect. Black.”
“Back soon,” Jonathan said.
“Why don’t you grab a bite to eat while you’re there? I’d like to speak with Harper for a few minutes.” After Jonathan left, Ellen turned to Harper. “I will happily get all sentimental with you in a few minutes, but to cut to the chase: I don’t remember much about last night.”
“Ellen, did you buy some tea from Delilah Mason? Or some kind of tonic, maybe?”
“I didn’t realize that was what you were talking about the other day,” said Ellen. “Yes, I did. Some charming young women were selling it, and I wanted to be supportive. Like Girl Scout cookies, but without the sugar.”
“Two of my students, Jenny and Blanca, said something about Joel Aristide recruiting them to sell Delilah Mason’s teas and tinctures,” Harper said. “I could kick myself for not following up on that.”
“Finding a woman buried alive would throw anyone off their game.”
“Something else just occurred to me,” said Harper, her mind racing. “The last time I was at the Perles Mansion, Alastair Highbaugh mentioned Delilah being found buried alive under the Witch Tree.”
“Wasn’t she?”
“Yes—but how did he know that? He wasn’t there the night it happened, and the police hadn’t released that information. They were keeping really tight-lipped about it.”
“This is a small town, Harper. People talk.”
“So I’m learning. Still.”
“What would be Highbaugh’s motive? Didn’t he make a lot of money representing her?”
“We assume he did, but who knows if that’s true? Even if it is, Delilah Mason’s death would increase the value of her paintings, and therefore his percentage of the profits. It’s just the way the art world works. And from what I’ve heard, Highbaugh needed money. Could it be that simple?”
“Seems a rather convoluted way to make money. I mean, maybe kill her, but why bury her like that? What would be the point?”
“To throw everyone off the scent, maybe? So people would think that it had something to do with a reenactment of Isabel Perles’s death?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said Ellen.
“Also, I think I saw him at the bar one night, talking to Joel. A man in a suit; Highbaugh is always in a suit.”
“A lot of people wear suits.”
“Not at the Pearl, they don’t. And Joel was constantly drinking from his big orange water bottle—if Highbaugh was meeting with him, he could have slipped something into it.” Harper felt the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “Plus…the tarp.”
“What tarp?”
“Delilah Mason was stabbed before she died. Asher said his sister painted in her living room, and always put down a tarp to protect the original wooden floors. Alastair Highbaugh had a tarp flecked with paint with a big, reddish-brown stain in the middle. Sergeant Emerson of the Fort Ord MP gave it to me; I have it in my trunk.”
“Harper, it’s time to call the police, don’t you think?” Ellen said, looking worried.
“Good point.” Harper dialed Detective Serrano, but this time he did not pick up. She left him a detailed message about finding possible evidence and a likelier suspect in Delilah’s murder.
Jonathan returned, coffee and cookies in hand, and they chatted for a while.
“I’d best be going,” Harper said after a bit. “Time to speak with the prissiest person I’ve met here: Alastair Highbaugh.”
“Harper, hon, I wish you wouldn’t. If what you suspect is true, Highbaugh could be dangerous.”
“I’ll swing by his gallery. It’s a public place on a busy street in Carmel. I should be safe enough.”