“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 themcempasúchil. 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’spapel picado, a popular kind of decoration. They’reassociated 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.
Harper told her about her trip to Carmel, and yesterday’s visit to the antiquarian society, where she found Soren Perles’s account book. Ellen had just opened a fresh tin of her favorite Danish butter cookies when Harper began to describe her experiences at the Perles Mansion with Detective Serrano.
“That basement was not on the blueprints at the historical society.”
“How odd. I do know that Delilah Mason did a great deal of work on that house when she moved in. It was a real service to the community,” Ellen said. “What’s the mansion like? I’ve always wanted to see inside.”
“It’s…pretty much what you’d expect. Lots of paintings, of course, and Delilah was apparently very fond of kitschy knickknacks and souvenirs. Oh, hey, I wanted to ask you about something I found in the archive.” She showed Ellen the photos she had taken of Soren’s account book. “Do these names mean anything to you?”
“Let me see,” Ellen said, and put on her reading glasses. “Oh, honey, those are graveyards.”
“They are?”
Ellen pulled up a map of the area on her phone. “Encinal and San Carlos are right next to each other—you passed themon the way into town. And El Carmelo is in Pacific Grove, not far. Not sure about La Vieja…”
“Maybe these names and initials are patients he lost, and he’s noting where they were buried?”
“I suppose they might be, but why would he do that? Besides, this area was pretty rural at the time. A lot of folks would have been buried at home, in a family cemetery.”
“Do these cemeteries still exist?”
Ellen chuckled. “Of course. What would one do with the bodies?”
“I read that when San Francisco needed more space, officials dug up almost all of the human remains in the city and relocated them to Colma.”
“City of the dead,” Ellen intoned with a nod. “I read about that, as well. They say the deceased outnumber the living there, though I think that’s probably true everywhere, don’t you? I mean, do we really know who might be lying beneath the earth we walk on, without benefit of a gravestone or marker?”
