Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
At happy hour at Stokes Adobe—another building that was allegedly haunted—Ellen ordered a blackberry mojito, and Harper asked for a tamarind margarita. They decided to split a wood-fired shiitake mushroom pizza and a large green salad.
“I wish she would have sold me that photograph,” said Harper.
“She said she’d check with the owner, see if she’ll change her mind.”
“I hope she does. After all that’s happened with the house, I feel a strange kind of attachment to Isabel Perles.” After a moment’s hesitation, Harper added: “Also, that dog looks so much like the one I’ve been looking for.”
Ellen laughed. “You believe in dog ghosts now?”
Harper forced a smile. “No, of course not.”
“I don’t think a big black dog is that unusual, really. They had them back in the day, and they have them now. But a lot of people think that animals are sensitive to the paranormal. Perhaps your mystery pup is attracted to whatever’s going on over at the Perles Mansion.”
“Or he was looking for food and hoped we’d drop something. But speaking of alleged hauntings…it occurs to me that there’s an angel’s-trumpet hanging over the old well on the Perles property.”
“Which means…?”
“Joel mentioned that Delilah had access to ‘special waters.’ Angel’s-trumpet is a known hallucinogen. If Delilah was using well water, then she might have inadvertently included hallucinogens in her concoctions.”
“And…?”
“And I’m not sure. But it seems like something I should mention to the detective. Just in case.” Harper sat back as their food arrived, and they dug in with gusto.
“You mentioned Alistair Highbaugh said he was married,” said Ellen. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Why would he lie about something like that?”
“Probably to make himself seem more normal. He’s an odd one.”
“Highbaugh, Joel Aristide, and Delilah Mason all knew each other through community theater, many years ago. Do you think that means anything?”
“Can you imagine a stage production with those three?” said Ellen with a chuckle. “I didn’t know Joel, and barely knew Delilah, but they seem like real characters on- and offstage, each and every one of them.”
“Characters, indeed,” said Harper, serving the salad. “And now two of the three are dead.”
“You think something from the past is coming back to haunt them?”
“Maybe. I should ask Gabe, see if he could provide me with more details about any theater connections.”
Harper helped Ellen settle in for the evening and picked up her mail.
It was starting to rain; no doubt the bomb cyclone Tariq had mentioned had arrived.
As Harper climbed the stairs to her apartment, she noticed the rain had made the varnish on the steps and the landing slick, and made a mental note to buy a mat to place in front of her door.
She had moved into the apartment almost two months ago and was still coming up with household items she needed.
Amazing how many things it took to set up even a small home.
Today’s mail consisted of two bills and a package: The finger bone had arrived. To her surprise, the return address was marked Sergeant Emerson, AA, APO. A military address.
Emerson? Harper had been sure TheGhostGuy would turn out to be Joel. What was the moonlighting MP doing trading in bones, of all things?
She took the finger bone out of the package. It was smooth and white, just what one might expect. Hard to imagine that it had once been part of a hand, one that had been held out to clasp that of a loved one. Had it written love letters…picked crops…brushed the face of a beloved child?
Why did it feel so disturbing to hold a human bone at all, even more to buy it off the internet? Could this trade in bones have anything to do with what had happened to Delilah, or Joel?
And that reminded her of her discussion with Ellen about the angel’s-trumpets, also known as Brugmansia, that flourished in the mansion’s garden.
Harper sat down at her table, opened her computer, and looked up the symptoms of Brugmansia poisoning: intense thirst, slurred speech, problems swallowing, fever, confusion, hallucinations, vomiting, delirium, seizures, coma.
She continued to read: Some people ingest parts of the angel’s-trumpet plant on purpose to get high.
Of course they do, Harper thought. It is easily accessible, and free—but also extremely dangerous.
The treatment for Brugmansia poisoning was intravenous physostigmine to reverse the toxic effects, but if not introduced early enough, the plant’s powerful toxins could induce coma and death.
Oleander poisoning was similar. Its primary toxin, oleandrin, causes confusion, weakness, and dehydration, and contains cardiac glycosides that lead to high potassium levels and cardiac arrhythmias.
The oleander branch symbolizes the fragile link between sleep and death.
Had someone poisoned Joel, or might he have taken Brugmansia on purpose to get high? It would explain the hallucinations and erratic behavior. Maybe it wasn’t vodka in that water bottle, after all.
Harper glanced at the clock. Was it too late to call Detective Serrano? Probably. She dialed his number anyway.
“Hello, Professor Grae. We haven’t got the results of the toxicology panel back yet. This isn’t CSI, you know. In real life, these things take time.”
“I realize that. But I thought you might give the medical examiner a heads-up to look for Brugmansia or oleander poisoning, or other toxic botanicals.”
“Brug-what?”
“Brugmansia. ‘Angel’s-trumpet’ is the common name.”
“Well, okay, but it’s probably not necessary. I think we got our guy.”
“You do? Who is it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. It’ll be in the papers once it’s made public.”
“And here I thought we were friends.”
The detective gave a bark of a laugh. “Okay, my friend, I’ll toss you a bone: Turns out Delilah Mason did have a will, and guess who’s a beneficiary? Your buddy Tariq Johnson. She left him twenty-five thousand.”
“But for a woman with her fortune, that’s not all that much.” Harper’s voice sounded hollow to her own ears. Did they really think Tariq did this?
“You can hire a hit man for a hell of a lot less. To some people, life is cheap.”
“So…are you saying that Tariq is your main suspect?” Harper demanded, her heart in her throat. “Do you have any evidence? Are you—”
“Whoa, Nellie. I’m not saying any such thing. In fact, it’s another fellow entirely. Like I say, it’ll be in the papers soon enough.”
That was a relief, at least. But who had he identified as the culprit?
Only after Harper hung up did she remember that she had forgotten to retrieve Soren Perles’s journal from Ellen’s safe. She peered out the window. Ellen’s garden lights were on, but the bungalow was dark.
Probably it was best to go to sleep without Soren Perles’s voice in her head anyway. She did not want to dream about him again. Better to work her way through more of the journal tomorrow, in the light of day.
Harper awoke at three in the morning, again thinking she heard someone outside her apartment.
It must be the wind from the storm rattling the door.
Her fault—she had forgotten to call a locksmith to have it fixed.
Branches tapped and scraped at the window, reminding her of the Witch Tree, reaching out to the windows of the Perles Mansion.
She tried to ignore the strange sounds, rein in her imagination, and let herself fall back to sleep.
Until someone spoke, right beside her.
“Where is it?”