She eventually decided on a framed print of a little cottage by a river at sunset that reminded her of the glowing golden light spilling from Ellen’s kitchen window in the evenings. When Harper mentioned it was a gift for a dear friend, the gallery owner insisted on wrapping it in cheerful floral paper and decorating it with a mound of ribbon topped by a huge pink bow. “Enjoy!” she said, handing Harper the frothy package.
Harper stopped at a coffee shop and bought an overpriced but luscious latte to go, then returned to her car and headed for the Carmel Mission, which dated from 1797. As a historian she felt duty bound to visit the place, though Harper knew well that mission history was highly problematic, its annals full of the savage mistreatment and exploitation of the native peoples. It was complex, and yet the history should be acknowledged and analyzed.
The cashier in the mission’s gift shop suggested she visit nearby Tor House. Remarkably, the poet Robinson Jeffers built the mini castle by hand, hauling the heavy stones to the site himself, one by one, then learning from a stone mason how to shape and lay them. Jeffers was so enmeshed with his home that he promised to haunt Tor House after he was gone, writing:
My ghost you needn’t look for; it is probably
Here, but a dark one, deep in the granite, not dancing on wind
With the mad wings and the day moon.
Good thing Professor Harper Grae, with a PhD from Berkeley, did not believe in ghosts.
The first time she showed herself to me, I was frightened. Beyond frightened.
But I came to understand. It was the wrong face in the mirror, but it was her face.
Wrong in the sense that she was wronged.
Thirteen
Harper returned from Carmel just in time for her afternoon office hours.
One nervous nineteen-year-old stopped by to discuss the midterm, but otherwise all was quiet. Thinking back to her conversation with the dean, Harper used the time to start a to-do list for the next two months. First item on the list: “WRITE!!!” She hadn’t gotten beyond that when there was a knock on her door.
“Come in,” she called out, assuming it was another student hoping to weasel information out of her about the exam. As if she were a rookie professor, new to the not-so-subtle ways of undergraduates.
But to her surprise, it was Detective Tom Serrano.
“Quite an office you got here,” he commented as he stepped toward the window. “Nice view.”
“Isn’t it?” Harper said. “Please, have a seat. What can I help you with?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, now inspecting her bookshelf, his head to one side as he perused the titles.
Why doesn’t he sit down?Harper wondered. Was this some kind of dominance maneuver? If so, it was her move.
“I heard Ms. Mason died not long after we found her.”
“Never regained consciousness, unfortunately.”
“I’m so sorry. Her family must be devastated.”
“Not much family left to grieve, but I get your point.” He turned to face her. “How well do you know Tariq Johnson?”
“We’ve been friends for years.”
He looked thoughtful. “I thought men and women couldn’t be friends. Unless they’re gay, I guess.”
“Do you always get your knowledge of human relationships from the movies?”
He smiled.
“Why are you asking me about Tariq?” Harper asked.
He paused for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer, seemingly engrossed in the contents of her bookcase. Finally, he said, “Turns out, he’s a known quantity around here.”
“What does that mean?”
