“No, not a problem. At least, I hope not,” Dean Willis said, and cleared his throat. “How shall I say this? Best just to plunge in, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.”
“Here’s the thing: It has come to my attention that you recently took part in some kind of ghost walk. Is that correct?”
“It was a joke.”I am going to kill Tariq. “I only went because I lost a bet with a friend.”
“And when you were on the ghost walk you found the, er, the body of Delilah Mason?”
“Sort of. I mean, she wasn’t dead until…later.”
Dean Willis nodded. “Dr. Grae, I believe you know that there are some on the faculty who don’t, shall we say, appreciate your area of research.”
“I am aware of that, yes. I hope you don’t think—”
“I had a long chat with your advisor at Berkeley before we invited you to campus, and he assured me of the quality of your work. I also read your recent article on the symbolism of being buried alive. Fascinating stuff. Really first-rate.”
“Thank you.” Harper glanced at his photos of hot-air balloons for reassurance. Surely someone who loved such things must have a sense of whimsy, and thus be open to different ideas? “I’m actually expanding on that article now; it feels like there’s enough there for a book.”
“Excellent. A book under your belt would be excellent…” He cleared his throat and brushed something nonexistent off his desk blotter. “But if I am to be honest, the concerns about your research are not entirely without weight given Monterey College’s emphasis on the STEM fields. I am also given pause by the rather strange coincidence of what happened to Delilah Mason.”
“I assure you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with that.”
“I did not imagine you had. But a word to the wise, Dr. Grae: Focus on your research and teaching, work on your book, and get some peer-reviewed publications out quickly so that tenure will proceed without difficulty.”
Monterey College was much smaller and more focused on teaching than the large research university Harper had been at previously, and thus the pressure for winning research grants and the like was less intense. Nonetheless, as Dean Willis just reminded her, Harper still had to prove herself to her new colleagues by publishing her work in reputable historical journals. For at least the next few years, she needed to put her head down, get to work, and do whatever she could to make topics such as the history of witches and vampires and zombies and poisons as palatable to the academic community as they were to the general public.
Why, oh why, had she not thought to research something safe, and dry, and boring, like presidential history?
Because it’s safe, and dry, and boring. That’s why.
“Understood,” said Harper. “And thank you.”
“Of course. Thanks for coming by.” As Harper opened the door to leave, the dean added, “Dr. Grae? Stay out of the papers. And no more ghost tours!”
“No more ghost tours,” she gladly agreed.
Nine
That evening, Harper parked a block away from the Pearl Tavern and walked down the busy street, passing several small groups of students and tourists.
As she approached the old brick building that housed the bar, she noticed something she had not seen before: A very old sign had been painted, long ago, onto the side of the building. The paint was faded and flaking, but she could make out the words:Soren’s Pearl.
Harper paused, staring up at the sign. Soren wasn’t all that common a name. She racked her brain: What had Joel said about Soren referring to his sister as his “pearl”?
Pulling open the door to the tavern, she was immediately assaulted by the aroma of stale tobacco smoke alongside the sour tang of spilled beer, vying with the homey smell of popcorn from an old-fashioned, continually popping machine. She spotted Tariq sitting by himself in a secluded booth, nursing a whiskey on the rocks.
“Just the two of us tonight?” Harper asked as she approached.
“So far, at least,” Tariq said with a warm smile. He stood to help Harper take off her coat, then signaled to their server. “Red wine?”
“Please. And maybe some popcorn—I skipped lunch.”
As Tariq hung her coat on a nearby hook, Harper studied him in the golden light of the bar, and decided he was one of those guys who grew more attractive with age. When they first met, Tariq was skinny and gawky and nondescript. He had filled out since then, becoming sturdy and strong-looking, and the planes of his face had sharpened and taken on character. He was now quite handsome, in a sort of well-built nerd way. He wore glasses, his dark hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven, and despite working absurd hours at the Monterey Aquarium he managed always to smell good.
“Chet and Penny are working late on a project,” Tariq said. “But Antonio said he’d try to stop by. I’m just as glad, frankly. Nice to have a chance to talk, given…everything.”
A waiter covered in tattoos set a basket of fragrant popcorn and a full glass of wine on the table.
