Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
Harper returned from Carmel just in time for her afternoon office hours.
One nervous nineteen-year-old stopped by to discuss the midterm, but otherwise all was quiet.
Thinking back to her conversation with the dean, Harper used the time to start a to-do list for the next two months.
First item on the list: “WRITE!!!” She hadn’t gotten beyond that when there was a knock on her door.
“Come in,” she called out, assuming it was another student hoping to weasel information out of her about the exam. As if she were a rookie professor, new to the not-so-subtle ways of undergraduates.
But to her surprise, it was Detective Tom Serrano.
“Quite an office you got here,” he commented as he stepped toward the window. “Nice view.”
“Isn’t it?” Harper said. “Please, have a seat. What can I help you with?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, now inspecting her bookshelf, his head to one side as he perused the titles.
Why doesn’t he sit down? Harper wondered. Was this some kind of dominance maneuver? If so, it was her move.
“I heard Ms. Mason died not long after we found her.”
“Never regained consciousness, unfortunately.”
“I’m so sorry. Her family must be devastated.”
“Not much family left to grieve, but I get your point.” He turned to face her. “How well do you know Tariq Johnson?”
“We’ve been friends for years.”
He looked thoughtful. “I thought men and women couldn’t be friends. Unless they’re gay, I guess.”
“Do you always get your knowledge of human relationships from the movies?”
He smiled.
“Why are you asking me about Tariq?” Harper asked.
He paused for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer, seemingly engrossed in the contents of her bookcase. Finally, he said, “Turns out, he’s a known quantity around here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some of the locals filled me in. He was a troubled teenager.”
“Weren’t we all?”
“He more than most.”
Even though Tariq himself had told her about his larcenous joyride, his past was something she found hard to square with her friend, the nerdy-cool marine biologist. She cast her mind back to graduate school, when he was closer to his teenage years.
Even then, though, he had always seemed so calm, so steady.
“You’re going to leave me hanging?” Harper said. “What are you referring to?”
“Wouldn’t want to cast aspersions.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”
He shrugged. “I read your article about being buried alive.”
“Really? I’m surprised.” First Joel, and now the detective. It occurred to Harper that she may have inadvertently upped the readership of her obscure historical articles simply by being in the vicinity of a terrible crime.
“Not a lot of detectives reading scholarly journals?” Serrano asked.
“I wouldn’t think so, but then again, you’re the only detective I’ve ever spoken to,” Harper said. “Were you looking for something specific?”
He gave a half nod, half shrug. “Just trying to get a handle on things. Your article paralleled what happened to Mason, in a way.”
“As in, maybe I wrote about it, and then tried my hand at it?”
“Weirder things have happened. You hear about that romance novelist who wrote an article on how to kill a husband, then killed her husband?”
“I remember reading something about that. So what did you glean from my article?”
“Mostly that you have an impressive vocabulary. And you like footnotes. Anyway, I understand you’re not only an expert on witchcraft and being buried alive, but also on poisons?”
“Is that relevant? I thought Delilah Mason was stabbed. And, of course, buried.”
“Where’d you hear about the stabbing?”
“Um…” She shrugged. “Around? I think it might have been in the papers…”
He nodded. “She was stabbed. And now I’m asking if you’re an expert on poisons.”
“I think you need to speak with a toxicologist, not a historian.”
“Look, Professor, it’ll speed things along if you’ll just answer my questions,” he said, finally taking a seat.
“Sorry.” Harper tried to calm her fluttering heart.
In the movies people always seemed so calm when speaking to the police.
But even though she had not done anything wrong, the detective made her nervous.
She could only imagine how she would present herself if she actually were guilty of something.
Probably immediately spill her guts, allowing the police to close the case in record time.
Good thing she had not considered embarking on a life of crime.
“I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but yes, poisons are sort of an academic sideline of mine. ”
“That’s an unusual sideline.”
“Not really. In the past many of the so-called witches were healers familiar with the medicinal properties of plants, which they used to brew medicine for sick people. That requires knowledge and skill because most medicines are poisonous if not prepared properly or given in the wrong dose. Paracelsus famously wrote that ‘the dose makes the poison.’ ”
“Who’s Para-celsius?” The detective stumbled over the pronunciation.
“Paracelsus. A very smart Swiss fellow. Lived and wrote a long time ago. He coined the famous dictum, Quid hoc non est venenum? Omnia venena sunt, nihilque sine veneno est. Solus dose determinat rem non esse venenum.”
“I’m flattered you assume I speak Latin. Care to translate?”
“ ‘What is there that is not poison? All things are poison, and nothing is without poison. Solely the dose determines that a thing is not a poison.’ ”
“Huh.”
“His point was that when it comes to medicines, they can all be poisonous if not administered properly,” Harper continued.
“As I said, you should probably consult with a toxicologist. I know mostly about how poisons and medicines were used historically, in the pursuit of crowns, or lovers, or positions in the court…”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Which is obviously not what you’re asking,” Harper continued.
“Bottom line: It’s not that hard to poison someone.
Not historically, and not today. It certainly doesn’t require training or expertise.
A little antifreeze in a smoothie, an overdose of readily available drugs such as insulin or nicotine, or even eye drops like Visine.
And of course, a lot of garden-variety plants and roots are poisonous if ingested. ”
“Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”
“I’ve also watched a lot of true-crime shows. Does this line of questioning have anything to do with Soren Perles?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been listening to local ghost stories,” Serrano said.
“It’s not that. I thought maybe his old laboratory…Never mind.”
“How did you know about the laboratory?”
“The ghost tour leader mentioned it. Joel Aristide.”
“Guy’s got a big mouth.” Detective Serrano snapped his notebook closed.
“Here’s the deal: Delilah Mason hardly ever used her cell phone, apparently she thought they were a health risk.
Usually text messages and call histories are a gold mine when it comes to this sort of thing, so without that we’re sort of flying blind. ”
“Oh, that’s too bad…”
“You busy right now, Professor?”
Harper glanced at the clock: It was almost five. “My office hours are just about over. Why?”
“Let’s take a ride.”
The gate of the Perles Mansion was festooned with even more flowers and candles, as well as a smattering of handwritten notes thumbtacked to the wood.
The teddy bear still held the string of a helium balloon that bobbed laconically in the breeze, and a few Halloween decorations had been added to the mix: the figure of a witch, a silhouette of a black cat.
Dusk came early in mid-October, and the orangey light made the scene appear softer and yet more sinister. The sun’s final rays streamed through the twisting cypress branches, painting the sidewalk in shades of pink and gold, reminding Harper of Delilah Mason’s early California impressionist works.
The garish yellow crime scene tape sealing the gate had been cut. Serrano pushed the door open and waved Harper in.
Unsettled, Harper reminded herself to breathe. Her heart pounded, and she felt perspiration on her upper lip. Just a trauma reaction, she thought. Nothing to be nervous about.
Hesitantly, she passed through the gate.
Everything was more or less as it had been the night they found Delilah: The garden was dominated by the massive cypress tree, its twisting black branches reaching high overhead, and crowded with oleander bushes on all sides.
Harper tried to keep her gaze averted from the spot where they had found Delilah.
The mournful angel statue still knelt and gazed down at the disturbed dirt, seemingly despondent.
The former grave was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and one forlorn yellow evidence cone lay on its side.
The Perles Mansion’s front door was closed against the elements, the latch area sadly splintered.
On the second floor, in the same window as before, there was a dim glow—or could it be a trick of the late-afternoon light? And was that a silhouette in the window, as if someone stood behind the curtain, peeking out?
Harper’s heart caught in her throat. Sigrid’s words came back to her: “That’s the Reflection room…Delilah loved to stand at that window and look out over the garden, into the branches of her tree.”
Harper glanced at the no-nonsense countenance of Detective Serrano, and opened her mouth to say something. But when she looked up at the window again, she saw nothing. No glow, no shadow. Just darkness.
Harper felt hot, then cold. She tried to measure her breathing, slowly in through her nose, even more slowly out through her mouth.
“You okay, Professor?” Serrano asked.
“A little rattled, but yes. I have a question,” she said, mostly to distract herself. “Isn’t this a crime scene? Is it okay that we’re here?”
He hesitated for a moment, apparently measuring his words.
“We’ve identified a person of interest. I just need to cross a few more things off my list.”
“Who is it?”
He shook his head. “Still developing the case. That’s one reason I want to hear your thoughts. Just don’t touch anything.”
They passed by the old well, ringed with angel’s-trumpets, their extravagant blooms hanging low and bathing the garden in an intoxicatingly sweet scent. It looked a lot like a scene from one of the paintings at Thomas Kinkade’s gallery.
“Another question,” Harper said. “What’s with the well? Wouldn’t the Perles Mansion be supplied by city water?”
“Oh, a lot of these old places have wells,” said Serrano. “Very common back in the day. Most were closed up years ago, though some folks keep ’em as cute garden features. Like gnomes.”
“Ah. Those plants are poisonous, by the way,” she said, gesturing to the angel’s-trumpets. “As is oleander, for that matter.”
“Meaning?”
“Just pointing out how common poison is.”
As they turned back to the house, the front door stood wide open, the yellow crime scene tape hanging down like a morbid party streamer.
“Goddammit!” Serrano exclaimed. His eyes searched the garden, shrouded in twilight shadows, and called out: “Stollins?”
There was no response. Shaking his head, the detective explained: “There should be an officer here, watching the place. Probably heeding nature’s call.”
A muscle worked in his jaw as Serrano stuck his head in what was left of Delilah Mason’s splintered front door. “Stollins?” he called again. Then he beckoned to Harper, who hesitated but followed him inside.
“Nice raccoon,” Detective Serrano murmured as they passed through the foyer.
As Harper had noted before, the Perles Mansion was stuffed with everything from books to figurines to dried flowers and seashells, but was otherwise quite ordinary.
A grandfather clock ticked loudly, and assorted paintings crowded the walls.
In many ways it was just an ordinary home of an ordinary woman who died in an extraordinary way, which explained the many surfaces marred by fingerprint dust.
“Basement’s this way,” Serrano said, and started down the hall.
As she trailed after him, Harper began to feel…something. As before. Dreamlike, as if no matter how much she walked, she remained in the same place, the hallway telescoping in front of her. She even glanced down at her feet to confirm they were moving.
“Professor?” came Detective Serrano’s voice, startling her out of her reverie. He was waiting halfway down the hallway, next to the opening that led to the living room.
Harper realized she was still standing in the entryway. She hadn’t moved at all. Now as she walked toward him, it felt as if she had arrived by his side quickly, without fully meaning to. She felt light-headed, her thoughts muddled.
She glanced into the living room, where she noted the grand fireplace with the large gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, still covered in a dark gray cloth.
Now that she had seen some of Delilah Mason’s art, she recognized that this fireplace and the mirror were featured repeatedly in her paintings.
Was this the one that had shown her “the wrong face”?
Harper shivered again. There was nothing quite like looking into the mirror and seeing something, or someone, that one should not. Seeing something unexpected, unwelcome. Seeing one’s own reflection turn its back, or seeing an unexpected presence superimposed over one’s reflection.
Harper knew, too well, what it felt like to see the wrong face in the mirror.