Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Detective Serrano stood stock-still in the middle of the gruesome scene.
All was silent except for the branches of the cypress, swaying in the wind, tapping at the panes of the big window looking out over the garden.
There was an overwhelming metallic scent from the blood that marred the wood floor and splattered across several of the mirrors. And something else, white and fluffy.
Feathers?
The mirrors reflected the detective, and the bloody scene, infinitely, sending shivers up her spine.
“Detective?” Harper said. “Are you all right?”
He seemed startled by her presence, his eyes faraway and troubled. He shook himself. “I…I honestly don’t know what happened. They got away.”
“I saw.”
“Just kids. Bunch of stupid kids.”
She nodded. “The…the blood? Is it…?”
“I think it’s a chicken. Was a chicken.”
“Only one?”
“It’s amazing how much blood a single poor bird can produce, right?
” He shook his head and blew out a harsh breath.
“The area youth have long been fascinated by this place. Apparently, they’ve done similar sorts of things before.
Ms. Mason called the cops a few times complaining kids were doing rituals in her garden. ”
“Because of the legend of the Perles family?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not from around here. But yeah, especially around Halloween the locals start talking about the Lady in White, or Soren Perles roaming the streets looking for bodies. Or both.”
“Old houses often carry legends with them—especially when they’re left abandoned for a while.”
Silence fell over them as they took in the bloody scene, repeated ad infinitum in the mirrors.
“Sheesh,” whispered Harper. “I’ve been known to enjoy a fried chicken dinner in my day, but this is enough to make a person a vegetarian.”
Detective Serrano relaxed a little and approached one mirror but stopped just short of banging into it. “Whoops. Wow, this is a confusing room. Wouldn’t want to be drunk in here, if you know what I mean. Hey, what’s that say?”
The detective pointed to the bottom of each mirror. Etched into the glass were the words: S. Solam S. Tattler S. Echogordner Gematur.
“No idea.”
“I thought all you professor types knew Latin. You were spouting it earlier.”
“In the first place, no, we do not all know Latin. And anyway, this isn’t Latin.”
“Then what is it? Some sort of witchy mumbo jumbo? Speaking of which, this is one weird room. And I don’t mean because of the blood.”
“That’s reason enough for me,” Harper said. Despite her attempts to avert her eyes, she could see herself reflected over and over, as though she existed in hundreds of alternate dimensions. “Can we leave now? I don’t like this place.”
They made their way downstairs. The farther Harper got from Delilah’s “Reflection room,” the more she felt her regular self.
The cobwebs fell from her thoughts as she trailed the detective back into the living room.
Harper was almost sure she had seen her student Jenny running out with the others. Should she mention it to the detective?
“See anything that seems off in here?” he asked.
“Not particularly. It would help if I knew what I was looking for.”
“Just anything out of the ordinary, anything that strikes you as odd. This, for instance,” he said as he lifted the shroud from the mirror above the fireplace. “Any idea why this mirror would be covered up?”
Harper’s heart started to jackrabbit, but she felt compelled to look into the glass. The ornate gilt-framed mirror was so old that areas had oxidized or lost silvering altogether, leading to sections that did not reflect. But there was enough there to see…something.
Standing behind her.
Harper swung around. No one was there.
Looking back to the mirror, she saw it again. A sort of misty, barely-there image…then the haze began to swirl and solidify…
“What’s wrong?” the detective said, noting her expression. Frowning, he looked from Harper to the mirror, and back. “D’you see something?”
“Nothing,” Harper said, looking away. Surely it was a trick of the hazy light that streamed in through the multipaned windows. “It’s just…me and mirrors. We don’t get along.”
He let the shroud fall back onto the mirror.
“Your hair’s not that bad,” he grumbled in a sort of “what’s with women?” way. “Nothing a comb wouldn’t fix.”
“What? No. Not that…It’s…”
“It’s what?” He cocked his head. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those nutty psychics, thinking you’re seeing things in the mirror.”
“I’d really like to leave, if that’s okay. And I’m still not clear on why you wanted me to come here with you today.”
“Just covering my bases. I think we’ve got our man, but just in case, it pays to be thorough.
At the moment, the evidence suggests Ms. Mason was attacked in the garden, where you found her.
The brother gave us permission to search the house, but there’s no evidence it’s part of the crime scene, so I’m getting pressure to release it to the family.
But first I wanted you to take a look. My colleagues, the forensics team, they’re great.
But sometimes a pair of fresh eyes will see something we’ve overlooked. ”
“It’s not because I’m under suspicion for being there that night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Detective Serrano said with a smile. “Until I put the perp behind bars, my own grandmother is under suspicion. And she’s a heck of a sweet old lady. All right, let’s get out of here.”
Escaping the house felt like coming up for air after too long a time underwater. Harper took several deep, restorative breaths, feeling her lungs expand; the air was cool and tinged with the scent of autumn.
She noticed the garden gate was ajar. And a familiar big black dog stood near the stone angel. Silent. Its head hanging low as it stared in their direction.
Damn. Harper didn’t have any treats with her.
“Come here, pup,” she called out. “Aren’t you a pretty boy? C’mere.”
“Who are you talking to?” Detective Serrano said from behind her.
She turned to him. “The dog.”
“What dog?”
“That—” When Harper looked back, the dog was gone. She searched the shadows but saw no glowing eyes, nothing at all. “It was right over there, by the well. You didn’t see it?”
She heard a rustling near the oleander and thought she saw the dark flash of a tail in the fading light. “Come here, pup. There’s a good boy!”
Harper chased the dog through the tangled shrubbery, oleander leaves slapping her in the face. She emerged into a small clearing encircled by the thick bushes.
Two ancient, lichen-encrusted headstones stood side by side. The first read:
Isabel Annamarie Lopez Perles
1842–1877
Beloved Sister
A Pearl in Death as in Life
Beneath as Above
Asleep as Awake
And the second:
Soren Joseph Lopez Perles
1838–1877
“The wind is my breath,
The darkness my soul,
The earth my embrace,
Await my return”
Surrounding the graves were signs of an altar set up in the style of the Day of the Dead: There were half a dozen candles, vivid orange and yellow marigolds, and brightly colored pieces of paper that had been cut out in decorative designs.
The bushes rustled as Detective Serrano pushed through the foliage to join her.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“A cemetery of sorts,” Harper whispered, for the clearing seemed almost holy.
“Weird place for a cemetery.”
“Not really. People used to bury their loved ones at home. Death was a very hands-on affair.”
“Not sure that’s even legal these days, to keep old bodies in a residential neighborhood.”
“They’ve been here a very long time.”
“Looks like someone’s been here pretty recently. Not exactly a well-guarded crime scene, right? Still don’t know where Officer Stollins got to. What’s with all the flowers and candles and confetti?”
“The flowers are marigolds. The Aztecs called them cempasúchil. They symbolize light and are said to draw spirits back to the world of the living for a visit. And that’s not confetti, it’s papel picado, a popular kind of decoration.
They’re associated with the Mexican Day of the Dead, which is coming up soon, right after Halloween. ”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Beats me. You asked, I answered. I thought I saw the dog come through here.”
Serrano fixed her with a look, sympathy in his eyes. “You know, this sort of thing…it can really shake a person up,” he said, his tone kind. “Why don’t you go home, have a cold beer, and watch an old comedy. That’s what I do.”
Still suffering the eerie aftereffects of seeing all that blood reflected in all those mirrors in the Reflection room, and then the…
something…she thought she saw in the mirror above the fireplace, Harper was relieved and happy to lay eyes on the welcoming golden light emanating from Ellen’s kitchen window.
She let herself in and handed Ellen the gift she had bought at the Thomas Kinkade gallery in Carmel. Ellen unwrapped the package slowly, oohing and aahing over the soft-focus print, and insisted it was the best gift she’d had in years, bar none.
“And I know just where to put it, too—on the fireplace mantel, in the place of honor,” Ellen said, giving Harper a hug. “Thank you, hon.”
Harper put the kettle on for tea and the women settled in at Ellen’s kitchen table.
Making tea, putting the seeds and crushed leaves in a wire mesh tea strainer, was an old-fashioned ritual, Harper mused, similar to her morning routine of making coffee: grinding the beans, heating the water, setting up the cone, pouring the water over the grounds, breathing in the steam…
all of it, the daily ceremony, before the actual drinking.
The importance of ritual to humans could not be overstated.
It elevated the rote and familiar to something almost sacred.
It’s just tea, Harper.
But what was the deal with Delilah’s teas and mystery tinctures? What had she been brewing in her “mad scientist’s laboratory”?
“And what have you been up to today?” Ellen said.