And, looking up at Tariq’s profile, his intelligent eyes and intriguing mouth…it was easy to get her mind off murder and mayhem.
All the way home, Harper pondered the beauty of Monterey Bay, cute little otters rescued from extinction, and the mythical sea creature known as the makkeweks.
But when they pulled up in front of Ellen’s house, Tariq asked, “Why is your apartment door open?”
“Ugh, not again.” This time, in the daylight and with Tariq at her side, Harper was more irked than frightened. “What isupwith that door?”
“Could be a faulty latch.”
“You know, the doors at the Perles Mansion are famous for opening and closing on their own.”
Tariq fixed her with a look. “You think the spirits are taunting you?”
“It’s…possible?”
“Is it?”
“Maybe…maybe it’s a message?”
“Or maybe it’s a faulty latch. Or an all-too-real creep who broke in.”
Harper stared at the door for another moment without making a move to get out of the car. “I’m calling the cops. Just in case.”
A very polite uniformed officer, who looked about the age of Harper’s students, showed up and did a quick sweep of the apartment.
There was no sign that anyone had been there. Her laptop was on the table, surrounded by her neatly stacked papers and notebooks, not a page out of place. The bed was made up, the quilt folded exactly as she had left it this morning. Harper checked the bathroom and was relieved to see the new mirror was in one piece.
Still…it felt like someone had been inside. Someone who should not have been. Harper could not explain why, even to herself, though she thought she detected a faint metallic scent underneath the aroma of woodsmoke and the scented candle she had been burning. She thought about what she had been telling her students not so long ago: Humans are animals with instinctual knowledge, though they too often discount what they feel.
“Nothing missing or disturbed, as far as I can see,” she said to the police officer. “I’m sorry—I feel silly now for having called you. It’s just that I was at the Perles Mansion this morning, and—”
“Oh, I heard about that!” said the officer. “You were there? No wonder you’re on edge. It’s good you called, just in case.”
After he left, Tariq asked: “Did you check for your jewelry box?”
Harper laughed. “My what, now?”
“Don’t women have jewelry boxes? That’s always the first thing they check for on cop shows.”
“Naw, I keep my diamond tiara and emerald necklace in a safety deposit box, right next to my stack of solid gold bars.”
“And here I thought you were a poor college professor, not an heiress,” Tariq said with a chuckle. “No jewelry box, check. You live, you learn.”
Harper smiled and showed him the cigar box where she kept her inexpensive earrings and a few necklaces. She had bought most of them at craft fairs, handmade by young artisans or retired hippies.
“Much better than a diamond tiara, in my view,” said Tariq. “Anyway, nothing wrong with the door latch that I can see. Most likely you didn’t shut the door all the way and the wind caught it. You’ve been a little distracted recently, what with death all around you.”
“True enough.”
“If it would make you more comfortable, call a locksmith and get a new lock installed.”
“Good idea,” Harper said. “One of my students has a brother who’s a locksmith. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
Tariq straightened and studied her, his hands on his hips. “Feeling better?”
“The otter helped. A lot.”
“Otters’ll do that. How about I hang around tonight? We could order a pizza, or tacos. Or better yet, I’ll cook for you.”
