“I don’t think so,” Asher said. “At least, I never noticed it. And there’s usually a tarp down—she painted in here.”
“It’s really quite common to place a shroud over a mirror,”Highbaugh said. “Part of many mourning rituals. It’s done in a house of the dead, so the spirits aren’t attracted to it.” He seemed suddenly embarrassed, and shrugged. “Or so my mother used to tell me.”
“But why would Delilah have draped the mirror? As far as she knew, nobody had died here, right?” Harper asked.
“Are you suggesting the murderer did it?” asked Asher.
“More likely somebody since then,” Highbaugh said sensibly.
“Somebody, like whom?” Asher demanded, agitated. “Is it a common thing for police officers to do something like that?”
Highbaugh looked taken aback. He held up his hands in surrender. “My apologies. I should not have said anything.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Asher said with an endearing duck of his head. “I’ve been on edge lately. It was probably Mario. He seems like a superstitious sort.”
Asher reached up and whipped the shroud off the mirror. Harper gazed at the looking glass, and her breath caught in her throat.
The woman in white stood behind her, her rebozo covering her head and shoulders and obscuring her face. Harper could make out only her glowing eyes. The figure reached out long, pale, ethereal arms, as if appealing to Harper for something.
Harper opened her mouth to speak, then realized the men were discussing Delilah’s paintings. They hadn’t seen a thing.
Heart pounding, she turned her back on the mirror. Was she really seeing something, or was it her imagination?
“Most of her canvases are in here,” Asher was saying to Highbaugh. “There are more in the closet, I believe. Feel free to look through them.”
“Thank you,” Highbaugh said. He pulled on a pair of latexgloves and walked over to a stack of canvases leaning up against the wall and began emitting softoohs andaahs as he browsed. “Mr. Mason—”
“Call me Asher, please.”
“Asher, then. May I suggest you have these professionally photographed and cataloged? I’ll be happy to arrange it. My man Emerson is taking photographs of all Ms. Mason’s paintings in Benjamin Philips’s current collection, but those are mostly from her California impressionist period.”
“ ‘Your man’ Emerson?” Harper interrupted.
Highbaugh nodded. “He does some photography for me.”
“Is that Sergeant Emerson? I think I met him on base,” said Harper. “I thought he was military police.”
“He is. He is also a freelance photographer.”
“Are military personnel allowed to moonlight?” Harper asked.
“I am not familiar with the military’s policy on outside employment,” said Highbaugh with a sniff. “Does it matter?”
Asher was watching this exchange with a bemused look on his face. He stepped in with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I honestly don’t care about the details. You offered to catalog these paintings, Alastair, and I appreciate your help. If that includes having them photographed, then have them photographed. We’ll…I suppose we’ll have to decide which to sell and which to keep at a later date. This has all happened so quickly, I’m not even sure whether there’s an updated will to be executed, or if I’m the sole heir, as her only living relative.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Do you mind if I take snapshots with my phone, just to jog my memory?”
“Be my guest,” Asher said. “So, Harper? You said you wanted to see the basement?”
“Um, not exactly. Detective Serrano wanted me to take alook the other day, but we sort of got interrupted,” Harper said. “Still, I would like to get that journal I mentioned yesterday, if you’re still willing to part with it.”
“Delilah loved the basement,” Asher said, half to himself. “First thing she did when we bought the place: located the basement door. It had been nailed shut and covered over with paneling.”
“Why was it covered up?”
“I have no idea. After what happened with the original owners, maybe no one had the stomach for an underground laboratory.”
“How did Delilah even know it was there?”
