“When did the historical society sell the Perles Mansion?”
“Let’s see…” Constance plucked a large book off the shelf and started paging through it. “Ah yes, here it is. The Perles Mansion was briefly owned by a contractor in the 1970s who wanted to turn the building into commercial office spaces, but didn’t get very far before running out of money. And when Monterey was redeveloping and creating the conference center, there was a lot of debate about which historic buildings to keep and which to renovate. Unreinforced adobe structures are not earthquake-safe, as I’m sure you know. The old ones were well-built, and the bricks will last for centuries if protected from rain, but a good shake can bring them tumbling down. That’s one reason they’re usually only one or two stories tall.”
“Makes sense.”
“Now, this is interesting,” Contance continued. “Believe it or not, when Delilah Mason bought the place there were still some of the original furnishings in the home.”
“From the mid-1800s? After all those years and all those inhabitants? That seems…unusual.”
“Surprising, isn’t it? Apparently, a few pieces survived despite everything. Quality craftsmanship, I suppose. That, anda bit of luck. Delilah Mason shored up the building’s foundation, brought the electrical and plumbing systems up to code—that must have cost a pretty penny—and expanded the home a bit. That worried me at first, because the Perles Mansion isn’t on the historical register and thus isn’t protected. But Ms. Mason clearly loved the place; she used to come in here a lot, researching the home’s history. She told me she left the original rooms largely intact and undisturbed, and she’s certainly poured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into that property. I would rather have seen it become a public building, but at least she appears to be respectful of its age.”
“Or she used to be, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t hear? I’m sorry to tell you, but Delilah Mason…died.”
The heavy book in Constance’s hands fell to the table with a loudthud. “She’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, I assumed you had heard already.”
Constance gave a vigorous shake of her head. “I’ve stopped following the news. Can’t deal with politics and I’ve never cared for social media. So, Delilah Mason is dead. Wow. What a shame. What happened?”
Harper hesitated. The radio and newspaper had not explained the circumstances of Delilah Mason’s death, or that she had been buried alive, and Detective Serrano had asked for discretion, so she chose her words carefully. “She was found in the garden—”
“The Séance Garden,” Constance said.
Harper nodded. “At the base of the tree.”
“Poor Delilah.”
You have no idea.
“Do they know what happened?”
Harper shook her head. “The police are investigating, but they’re keeping the details quiet for the moment.”
“That Séance Garden is probably the strongest evidence of local witchcraft, by the way,” said Constance. “There were a lot of rumors about Isabel Perles, and strange goings-on beneath that tree.”
“As in…?”
“Legend has it that she ‘went mad,’ as they said at the time. She was seen burying something at the base of the tree—which was much smaller back then, of course—and shortly thereafter burned all her fine dresses. Until then she had been quite the social butterfly, the belle of the ball. It was quite a shock to the community, even made the local paper. The paper’s searchable in the computer; you should look it up.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
“Even before, Isabel Perles was well known for being a spiritualist and holding séances. And afterward, there were rumors about her ‘doing witchcraft’ at the base of the tree. Hence the name…”
“The Witch Tree.” Harper nodded. “And the brother, Soren Perles, was a doctor?”
She nodded. “He graduated from Harvard Medical School, but there were some who doubted him.”
“How so?”
“There were grumblings about his professional capabilities, though that was said of many physicians in his day. Medical science was still in its infancy, and the lack of antisepsis inevitably meant high rates of mortality from infections. Louis Pasteur proposed his germ theory in 1861, but it took decades to catch on.”
Harper nodded.
Constance laughed. “Listen to me natter on—you no doubtknow the history of medicine far better than I. As for the Perles family, most of what I know is rooted in local legend and rumor. They came here from Galveston, I believe, but most of the family died within a few years, leaving just the brother and sister, Soren and Isabel. They were esteemed members of the community, but neither married nor had children.”
