“I will. Would you keep on photographing the messages for me? Maybe writing them out again if they’re hard to read? If they’re not all the same, it will help to have that information.”
He nodded. “I’ll get as many as I can. I’m not here all the time, but I’ll see if I can get anyone to help me record them. How can I get them to you?”
I pulled a business card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You can e-mail them to me, or call and I’ll come to you—whichever is easiest for you.”
“E-mail. Definitely. When I’m not with Jordy, I’m at the computer.”
That didn’t surprise me in the least. I offered a reassuring smile and my thanks before taking my leave. It was growing late and I had a few more things to manage.
I was sure now that each of the patients had been injured at sites associated with the tunnel project, though I still didn’t understand what the defining link was. Mindy and John from the market had both commented on the rise in strange occurrences and the appearance of Lois “Mae West” Brown’s ghost seemed to be part of that same phenomenon. Tunneling, by its nature, disturbs the ground it passes through and this particular bit of ground was full of artifacts of the dead as well as the usual dirt and bugs. Was it any wonder if there was an upwelling of ghosts, just as there’d been a rise in rat and insect infestations? Or if those ghosts were confused and creating havoc? I wasn’t sure what they wanted to say, but I was reasonably certain they were trying to say
TWELVE
I had agreed to have dinner with Phoebe Mason a few weeks earlier and I knew she’d never forgive me if I missed it—not even if I was working on a case she’d sent to me. I took the ferret home first —disappointed that Quinton wasn’t there—and then drove up to the Wedgwood-area restaurant the Mason family owns. I couldn’t remember ever having a meal with Phoebe in her own home, since it was easier to eat at the restaurant, which was always lively with the comings and goings of her large family.
Quinton was sitting in the back at the family table with Phoebe’s father when I came in and I had to admit I was a little surprised. With my boyfriend’s current preoccupation, I’d half expected him to blow this date off in spite of his reassurances. On the other hand, Phoebe would have been as unhappy with him for missing it as with me, so it had probably been no more an option in his mind than it had been in mine. No one risks the wrath of Phoebe lightly—she’s short and curvy and would rather make a joke than an enemy, but woe betide you if you piss her off. But Quinton’s presence still warmed me and sent a tingle of happiness through my whole body. I suspect I was smiling like a fool.
I threaded my way through the busy dining room and slid into a seat next to Quinton. “Hi, there, you,” I said to him, pressing a quick kiss on his ear. “Hi, Poppy,” I added, smiling at Mr. Mason.
“Hey’m, Harper,” Poppy said, raising his glass of warm water in a tiny salute. “Been a while.”
“Yes, it has,” I agreed as Quinton returned the kiss on my cheek.
“What you been doing with yourself?” Poppy asked, his Jamaican accent still thick and musical even after decades in the United States. He never seemed to change, though I’d known him and his family for years—he was still the slim, bent, weathered old black man I’d first met, his bald head shining in the light and the ever-present glass of tepid water in his knobby hand. Still making sly comments, directing the lives of his children and grandchildren with gentle verbal nudges and the occasional good-natured barb. It would be hard to dislike Poppy. He was one of the few people I’d ever seen whose aura remained steady and bright at all times, shining a cool pale blue and sparkling with white lights as if the very air around him was effervescent.
“Oh, just working,” I replied. “You know me.”
Poppy nodded. “I do.” He looked at Quinton and nudged him. “You making her leave them bad things alone, now?”
Quinton shook his head. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
“Where’s Phoebe?” I asked, breaking up the conversation about my work habits before it could get properly started.
“She back in the house, putting babies to bed. They do love a story from their Auntie Phee.”
Phoebe’s oldest brother, Hugh, shared the house behind the restaurant with his parents and it seemed there was always one relative or another dropping by with kids in tow who had to be watched over and tucked into bed by someone who wasn’t busy in the kitchen or the dining room. Since Phoebe was the oldest, the only daughter, and unmarried, she was often stuck with visiting-baby duty, though I don’t think she minded. For a woman who swore she was never, ever getting hitched, she had an unlikely affection for children, as well as a huge mental store of tales to tell them at bedtime. I suspected Phoebe of reading every children’s book that came into Old Possum’s before she put it out on the shelves to be sold.
A few more members of the Mason clan whisked by, set down more glasses of water, or dropped in to sit at the table while we waited for Phoebe, each one offering a smile, a story, or a greeting to Poppy and us. One of the cousins sat down long enough to tell Poppy a joke that got the old man roaring with laughter—he’s past seventy, but hardly shows it and doesn’t find his age relevant except as a wellspring of wisdom and funny stories.
Poppy wiped tears of hilarity from the corners of his eyes without ever putting down his water and shooed the cousin on his way with a grin. “Go tell that to Momma,” he suggested, eyes atwinkle with mischief.
“No way, Poppy,” the cousin replied, jumping up in fake alarm. “Auntie Miranda’d smack me silly and tell me to wash out my mouth. And then supper would taste so bad! ’Sides, I gotta fix the espresso machine.”
Poppy sighed as the cousin escaped to chores rather than risk the disapproval of his aunt over a dirty joke. “I swear, boys ain’t got the heart they used to do. Time was I’d have gone told Miranda that story myself.”
“Yeah, Poppy, but she’s married to you—she’d just flick you with that towel of hers and tell you to get out of her kitchen. Ty would end up wearing curried goat,” Quinton said.
Phoebe finally bustled in, waving at us before she ducked into the kitchen for plates of food and was chased back out by her mother wielding the snapping towel. Phoebe and her father laughed as she settled down with us at last.
“Hey, girl, you made it! And the handsome man, too,” Phoebe noted, nodding at Quinton. In spite of the friendly atmosphere, there was still a tinge of reserve in her tone to me and her aura was slightly redder than usual. I had a bad habit of leaving Phoebe in the lurch or worse—I’d almost gotten her shot once and she hadn’t quite forgiven me.
“Hey, Phoebe,” I replied, having to turn my head to keep her in my normal sight since she’d chosen to sit on my left, where I was still constantly trying to see through the Grey.
“What you been up to?”
“Work.”
“Not the kind that includes nasty men with guns this time?”
“No.”
“Or ghosts that kill people?”
“So far no killing people, but a few ghosts, yes.”
“What you into this time?” Phoebe said with a sigh.
“Some accidents around Pike Place Market.”
“Oh, now that’s an interesting place for ghosts. You know Chief Seattle’s daughter haunts the place. She used to live there until they built the market and knocked her little shack down.”
“Chief Sealth?” I asked, double-checking that I knew who she was talking about. “He had a daughter?”
“Sealth, Seattle—he’s the man,” Phoebe replied flapping her hands at me. “Yeah. He had a daughter. I can’t remember her native name, but they called her Princess Angeline. She was a very old lady by the time they built the market. There’s a famous photo of her somewhere. . . . I probably got one in a book in the store. You seen a little old Indian lady ghost? Maybe it’s her.”
I shook my head. “No little old Indian ladies yet. Though I did see a little old lady named Lois Brown.”
