Then Harper noticed the back door of Ellen’s bungalow stood wide open. She relaxed. Her elderly friend must be sleepwalking, or…sleep-dancing? Harper had found her sister sleepwalking on more than one occasion, and their mother had explained it was important not to wake a somnambulist but to gently guide them back to bed. She quickly pulled on her boots and strapped the pepper spray to her wrist, just in case.
She approached her front door, took a deep breath, and again looked out the peephole. This time there was nothing blocking the view. There was no one on the landing and no one on the stairs. Just an old woman sketching her dance of sorrow on the lawn.
Harper opened the door and called out: “Ellen?”
The woman kept swaying.
Harper hurried down the stairs, but as she started across the lawn, the figure scurried to the house and ducked through the back door.
Good. She must be headed back to bed. To be sure, Harper entered the bungalow and crept down the dark hallway to Ellen’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and Harper peered in. A faint light from the streetlamp sifted through the bedroom window’s sheer curtains and illuminated Ellen’s peaceful face. She was snuggled under her handmade wedding-ring quilt, snoring faintly. Bright red numbers on the clock on her bedside table read 3:17 a.m.
Harper breathed a sigh of relief. Safe and sound. If her sister’s sleepwalking episodes were any indication, Ellen would have no memory of this incident in the morning.
Harper went back outside, found the house key in its hiding place on the garden shelf, and carefully locked the rear door. As she replaced the key, she glanced at her apartment. Her front door stood ajar.
She hadn’t left it that way. Surely. Or…had she?
Again, she considered dialing 911. But how foolish would she feel if the police arrived, and the open door was the result of nothing but the absent-mindedness of a tired college professor? Even in a sleepy town like Monterey the police had better things to do at three in the morning. Harper had been so intent on helping Ellen that she must have left her own door open, that was all there was to it. It had been a long, weird day, and she needed rest.
But when she reached the stairs to her studio, she hesitated, one foot on the bottom tread. What if someone really was inside?
Harper knew the code to Ellen’s gun safe and was familiar with weapons, thanks to her father. He hadn’t taught her much in life except to trust no one and, perhaps relatedly, how to handle a gun. At this point, Harper would sleep better with a weapon by her side.
She returned to the bungalow, retrieved the house key, went in, and locked the door behind her, then quietly crept into Ellen’s bedroom to remove the gun from its safe. The elderly woman continued softly snoring. Harper checked to see if the gun was loaded and was relieved to find that it was not, but slipped a clip into her robe’s pocket, just in case. Then she did a quick tour of the house, ensuring that the doors and windows were all locked and bolted. Feeling a little silly but still shaky, she checked the bathroom, the closets, and behind the long window curtains. She was not up for more surprises tonight.
Satisfied there was no one but Ellen and herself in the house, Harper made up a bed on Ellen’s living room couch and fell into a fitful sleep.
“Harper?”
Harper awoke to find Ellen standing over her, looking puzzled. The woman’s snowy hair was an unruly mop, and she wore a hot-pink flannel nightgown, decorated with turquoise flamingos.
Harper stared at the flamingos.
The dancing woman had worn white.
Seventeen
“What’s wrong, hon?” Ellen asked.
“Were you wearing that last night?” Harper croaked, struggling to sit up and orient herself, trying to focus her eyes, and her mind.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your nightgown—were you wearing that last night?”
Ellen looked down at her bright pink flannel. “Of course. This is my cold-weather nightgown, and it’s been chilly lately. Why? And why are you on my couch holding a gun?”
Harper opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had no idea what to say.
“Let’s have some coffee, shall we?” Ellen suggested. She led Harper into the kitchen, sat her down at the table, and pushed the button on the coffee machine.
Harper placed the revolver on the table with a heavythunk. “I should put that back in the gun safe.”
“That’s probably a good idea. But have your coffee first. It’s not loaded, is it?”
“No.” Harper took the clip out of her robe’s pocket and set it beside the pistol.
The kitchen was soon filled with the welcome aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Harper happily accepted a mug, watching the steam rise and curl, its wispiness reminding her of what she had seen in the mirror yesterday at the mansion. What shethoughtshe had seen in the mirror yesterday. It had all happened so fast, and she kept telling herself it was a trick of the light…but she could have sworn something, or someone, had been standing behind her.
