“How well do you know Tariq?” Asher asked.
“I’ve known him for a long time. Since grad school.”
“He had a difficult time growing up, you know.”
“Were you two friends when you were young?” Harperwas torn between wanting to know more and feeling disloyal for listening to gossip about her friend.
Asher shook his head. “I had him investigated when he began to date my sister.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It’s the modern world, Harper. A simple background check can be illuminating.”
“And what did the background check show?”
“He was a military brat, went to graduate school in marine science. Has a decent job but doesn’t own much. No brothers or sisters; his parents retired to a trailer park in Yuma.”
“Meaning?” Harper felt a twinge of annoyance at what sounded like a note of scorn in Asher’s voice. Was that disdain for someone not fortunate enough to grow up with money and own a multimillion-dollar home on the exclusive California coast? “Seems to me Tariq’s accomplished some pretty admirable things: a PhD from Berkeley and a professional position at the Monterey Aquarium.”
“Oh, he’s certainly intelligent,” Asher said. “Although the private investigator did find some concerning information.”
“Tariq told me he got into some trouble as a kid,” Harper said. “Stupid kid stuff.”
“I’m afraid it was a little more serious than that. Tariq was adopted into a military family that had a biological son his same age. The son was killed in a suspicious hunting accident.”
She froze. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. They were kids, only twelve, if I recall,” he said with a tilt of his head. “All I’m saying is that Tariq’s a hunter. He knows his way around guns and knives. And I find it disturbing that he of all people was here that night, that he was one of those who found Delilah—” Asher’s voice broke, and he cut himself off.
Harper’s heart went out to him even as she felt protective of Tariq, caught between fealty to her friend and wanting to understand what Asher was suggesting. She remembered flailing in grief after her mother’s sudden death, her mind casting about for a reason, an explanation, wondering if there had been signs she should have noticed, wanting to blame the EMTs and a too-slow response at the emergency room. Railing against the fact that symptoms of heart attacks in women were too often not recognized. Railing against the priest who tried to comfort her with empty platitudes. Railing against the commonplace cruelties of life. People rarely understood how exhausting and confusing grief could be unless they’d experienced it themselves.
“You seem to be forgetting that I was there that night, too—in fact, I was the first to realize what was happening,” Harper pointed out. “And Mario was also on the tour.”
“I’m aware of that,” Asher said. “But you had never even met Delilah. Tariq and Mario not only knew her, they’d been involved with her. I…Sometimes I look at them and think they’re just poor schmucks genuinely grieving my sister. And then I think maybe one of them harmed her, and I want to tear him apart with my bare hands.”
“Mr. Mason?” came Highbaugh’s voice from the other room.
“It’s Asher, please,” said Asher as he and Harper returned to the living room. “What can I help you with?”
“I was just wondering how we should proceed with this treasure trove. These paintings are far too valuable to leave here, unattended, with ax-wielding handymen and who knows who else running around. Anything could happen.”
Asher nodded and passed a hand over his face, blowing out a breath. “How do we handle this? Do I shove them all in the trunk of my car, or…?”
“Oh, good heavens, no. We engage a bonded art-transport service or have Emerson handle it. He has a firearms permit and knows his way around art. He’s familiar with the place, he’s been here several times, in fact, to bring some of Delilah’s paintings to the gallery. I could make the arrangements to have it done right away, if you like.”
“I would appreciate that,” said Asher. He gestured to the canvas sitting on the easel. “What about the unfinished ones, like this?”
“Those, too,” Highbaugh said. “Some collectors highly value an unfinished work because it gives them greater insight into the artist’s thought process. Though this one is…well, even more surreal than her typical work.”
“Oh, by the way,” Harper said to Asher, “a friend of your sister’s, Sigrid, mentioned that particular painting was promised to her.”
Highbaugh frowned.
“Sigrid? That’s the so-called witch person?” asked Asher.
“Um, yes…She was a good friend of your sister’s. She said Delilah painted at least part of this canvas in her garden in Salinas.”
All three of them stood back and studied the surreal work. Painted in earth tones studded with deep teals and magentas, the canvas depicted an upside-down female figure being cocooned by vines as menacing black birds circled overhead. A murder of crows. In one corner of the canvas Delilah had painted her living room fireplace with the mirror hanging above, a wraithlike figure seemingly emerging from it.
