“Come on in, hon,” came Ellen’s voice. “In the kitchen!”
Harper kicked off her boots and left them on the porch, slipped her feet into a pair of slides Ellen kept in a small wooden chest next to the front door, then crossed through the wood-paneled living room and dining room toward the snug, cheerful kitchen at the rear of the house. In the hallway hung an extensive spreadsheet of Ellen’s family history going back centuries, so long that it was now creeping around the corner.
“Looks like you’re making progress,” Harper noted.
“Yes, I finally found the birth and death dates for someone I was half convinced didn’t actually exist! A tiny twig on the family tree, but I couldn’t rest until I had figured it out. Had to comb through records of vital statistics from a dozen different towns but I finally found it. Mystery solved! On to the next. So, pull up a chair, and tell me everything,” Ellen said as she saved her work and closed the computer.
Ellen was a small woman with a wild mop of pure white hair—her “cotton-top,” she called it—and lively hazel eyes. Harper had seen photographs of her as a younger woman, and apart from the wrinkles and the slightly sagging jowls that came with age, hers were the kind of looks that maintained their distinctive character over the years. Ellen had never been model-beautiful, but her face was strong and symmetrical, her gaze friendly and open, her smile engaging.
Ellen typically offered Harper a cup of tea when she visited, but not today.
“May I offer you a glass of absurdly expensive wine?” Ellen asked, gesturing to the bottle on the kitchen table next to a half-full wineglass. “Took me forever to get the cork out. Myfancy son sent it from Napa. I’m fine with the cheap stuff, but it’s not bad.”
Ellen’s “fancy son,” Jonathan, was a hedge fund manager at a San Francisco investment firm. Jonathan did not appear to have a lot of time for his mother, but he did make sure she did not want for anything. According to Ellen, Jonathan had offered to set her up in a nice condo near him in San Francisco, but she preferred to remain in the house she had grown up in and to which she had returned as a single mother after her marriage dissolved. The home was small but cozy and sat on a large lot with room for a lawn and a garden out back. The separate garage had been constructed with salvaged wood from an old barn, and the large studio apartment on the second story, with its old-fashioned tiled kitchen and bathroom and numerous windows, was airy, sunny, and charming. It suited Harper perfectly.
Harper helped herself to a wineglass from a glass-fronted kitchen cabinet and Ellen filled it with a luscious, ruby red cabernet from Opus One Winery.
“Thank you,” Harper said. “I could use a drink. You would not believe the night and day I had.”
“I’m all ears.”
Ellen listened intently as Harper told her about finding Delilah Mason the night before. Her voice caught at the memory; her nails still showed the evidence of having clawed at the dirt and mud of Delilah’s macabre grave.
“Oh my goodness,” said Ellen, sitting back. “I read something about police activity at the Perles Mansion, but I had no idea! You poor thing! And poor Delilah. Is there a madman running around? Should I get my gun out of the safe, do you think?”
“I doubt you should be worried. I’m no expert, but the way we found her was so odd, it really seemed personal. She was buried in the Séance Garden, under the ‘Witch Tree,’ as it’s called. Did you know Delilah Mason?”
“I knewofher. Most of us locals did. She was rather remarkable—one of those people easy to admire from afar, but perhaps not as easy to befriend.” Ellen shook her head, gazing into the deep red wine in her glass. “I can’t believe she’s gone, and in such a horrible way. Her poor brother will be devastated.”
“Does he live in Monterey?”
“Somewhere around here, I believe. His name’s Asher. They were very close. Maybetooclose, some say.”
“How so?” Harper sipped her wine and felt her body beginning to relax. She hadn’t realized how tense she had been. The cabernet was so full-bodied she could feel herself sinking into it, as if it were a down pillow.
“Oh, it’s pure gossip. That’s the thing about small towns. People talk. My mama used to say, ‘If you haven’t heard a salacious rumor by lunchtime, it’s your turn to start one.’ ”
They shared a laugh.
“I do remember when Delilah and Asher were children,” Ellen mused.
“Did you teach them at school?”
“Oh no, they went to private school, but they were known around town—they used to wander around alone a lot as kids. They were almost like twins—born just a year apart. And like twins, they made up their own language. As I recall, it was vaguely German, or something like that.”
“They sound gifted.”
“Very much so,” Ellen said. “But over the years, theircloseness became a bit of a problem. Asher and Delilah’s now ex-husband—Benjamin is his name—got along like oil and water, and there were more than a few very public rows. Poor Delilah was caught in the middle. When she asked Benjamin for a divorce, stories started circulating that she and Asher were closer than your average siblings. Then again, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if Benjamin started those rumors. I never much cared for him.”
“Because of how he treated Delilah and her brother?”
“Because he’s weak and he’s rich. Weak men are dangerous, and weak men with too much money are doubly so.”
“Sounds like you know this cast of characters well.”
“Other than the few years I was married and living in Gilroy, I’ve been here all my life. One hears things,” she said with a knowing nod. “But I wasn’t close to the family. The Masons had money, whereas I’ve always been a simple sort.”
Harper smiled. Her landlady might not have a lot of money, but “simple” was the last word Harper would choose to describe Ellen Sundvold. The woman was smart as a whip and had the depth of character and life experience of someone who understood, and had compassion for, what Sigrid had referred to as “the human condition.”
