“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.”
Four
The next day, Harper gazed out at a small sea—a pond, really—of young faces.
They looked bored. Soporific, even.
Small but prestigious, Monterey College emphasized the sciences, especially those related to marine science: chemistry, biology, oceanography, and ecology. Most of the students were focused on these courses; the “softer” disciplines, such as history, were neither their interest nor their priority. They were in her class only because they had to complete at least one history course, and though they were bright and polite, they mostly cared about the effect their class grade would have on their GPA. Harper took this as a professional challenge: She would find a way tomakethem care about the past.
That was not going so well today. The students were not in the least bit engrossed in today’s topic, the history and significance of Gothic literature in the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries. Harper set aside her lecture notes and shifted gears.
“So, Halloween is coming up. Who here likes ghost stories?” she asked. “Or horror stories?”
The students exchanged glances, apparently wondering if she was serious. A few gave halfhearted shrugs, and one young man tentatively raised his hand.
“What is it you like best about those kinds of stories, Kevin?” Harper asked brightly.
“I dunno. It’s, like, cool and stuff?” Kevin said, then looked away and sank into his seat, as if hoping she wouldn’t ask him anything further.
“Did you know that almost every culture in the world has some sort of ghost story tradition? Why do you suppose that is?”
