Today’s lecture must be playing with my head.
But when she turned around, a large black dog was watching her from half a block away, its eyes seeming to glow in the reflection of the streetlight.
“Well, hello, sweetie,” she called out in the high-pitched voice that seemed to come naturally whenever she spoke to animals or babies. “Where did you come from? I didn’t see you when I pulled up.”
The dog did not move a muscle. Had it not been standing in the middle of the street, she might have thought it was a piece of garden statuary.
Then it dawned on her: Could this be the same dog she had seen at the Perles Mansion last night? Might it be Delilah Mason’s pet, forgotten after the tragedy? It appeared to have a collar, but it was too far to tell if there was an ID tag.
“It’s okay,” she said, holding out her hand and wishing she had a treat to tempt it. “Come say hi, puppy. Are you hungry?”
The dog stared at her. After a moment, it turned away, trotting down the street and around the corner.
Delilah Mason isn’t coming back, Harper reflected. If this was her dog, was anyone taking care of it? Was it searching for its person, hungry and scared and confused because it could not find her?
Harper got back into her car and drove slowly down the street and around the corner, scanning the quiet streets of the neighborhood. No luck. She widened the search area, peering down driveways and into yards. Once she thought she spotted the dog behind a bush, but it turned out to be an inky shadow cast by the streetlight.
Slowing to a halt at a stop sign, she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she debated how to proceed. Last night had been so awful, Delilah’s burial in the garden so ghastly. On top of all of that, Harper could not bear the thought of allowing an innocent animal to suffer, alone and forgotten. It felt like a final heartless act, a stinging, callous denouement.
On the other hand, Tariq had said everyone in Monterey knew Delilah Mason, or at least knewofher, and that she had been well-off. She must have had friends and acquaintances who would step in and make sure her dog was cared for. Buthe also said Mason had become something of a recluse. If itwasDelilah Mason’s dog, maybe it was heading home, only to find it empty.
The Perles Mansion was not far.
Worth a try.
Harper pulled to the curb half a block away from the Perles Mansion.
A tall woman stood on tiptoe, attempting to peer into the garden and batting aside the bright yellow police tape markedCRIME SCENE / DO NOT CROSSthat crisscrossed the heavy wooden gate. The woman had long, silver-gray dreadlocks, and was dressed entirely in shades of purple, from her lilac boots to her long indigo skirt, lavender cloche hat, and plum-colored coat.
A small pile of flowers, cards, and a smattering of half-burned candles sat on the sidewalk in front of the gate. A teddy bear held a helium balloon that bobbed in the breeze. Part of Harper had assumed, because of what Tariq had said and the way they had found her, that Delilah Mason was alone in this world. It was heartening to know there were people who knew her, cared for her, and missed her.
As Harper approached, the woman in purple turned to face her, her large, espresso-dark eyes raking Harper up and down. There was not a hint of a smile on her face. When she spoke, her voice was deep and resonant. “Your aura, it’s very dark. And a bit muddy green around the edges.”
Harper did not know how to respond. “Oh, um…Sorry? I guess?”
“I sense wounded energy. You’ve been dealing with a lot. It’s overwhelmed you, perhaps, and your ego has taken a beating. I’m Sigrid.”
“Harper Grae. It’s nice to meet you. Did you know Delilah Mason?”
“No one knew Delilah, not well.” She shook her head. “But then, that is the human condition, is it not?”
“I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”
A moment of silence passed. Both women stared at the heavy wooden gate, as if it could explain what horrors had taken place in the house and garden beyond.
“She was my sister,” Sigrid said quietly.
“Your sister?”
“Not a sister in the conventional sense, of course. Not by blood.”
“Oh?” Harper fluctuated between feeling annoyed and intrigued by the stranger’s cryptic manner.
“She sometimes allowed us to gather and call down the moon in her garden. I hoped she would become a coven sister. A sororal bond can be far stronger than blood,” Sigrid said.
“I’m sure. Chosen family, right? I didn’t realize Delilah Mason was Wiccan.”
She shook her head. “She was not. And neither am I, for that matter. There are many ancient ways to celebrate the beauty of nature and the magic of this world.”
