heaven’s sake. What did she expect?
She had her housekeeper show me out before I could ask anything else. Like who trimmed her lawn, because day-um, I had no idea bushes could be clipped into the shape of a Kokopelli.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked the young woman as she escorted me to the door, knowing she couldn’t have. She looked around twenty.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder, then shook her head.
“Can I ask how long you’ve known the Lowells?”
After opening the door, she scanned the area again before saying, “No. I just started here a couple of weeks ago. Their long-term housekeeper retired.”
“Really?”
She seemed to want me out of the house. Bad. And I didn’t want to get her in trouble. I knew how these people worked, and their employees were not to speak of anything that happened at their house or they would lose their jobs immediately, but we were talking about the well-being of one of their own. “How long had the last housekeeper worked here?”
“Almost thirty years,” she said, seeming as baffled by the idea as I was. How someone could last thirty years under the reign of that woman was beyond me. But if anyone knew what happened in a house like this, it was the hired help.
“Thank you,” I said, offering her a wink. She grinned shyly.
I left the Lowell mansion with way more questions than I’d had when I went in, but at least I had a clearer picture of what Harper had endured growing up. Still, she didn’t tell me how long this had been going on. While I could guess why—nobody believed her, why should I—I would need to confront her as soon as possible. I was missing pertinent information that could help us solve this entire case.
But one thing stuck out in my head. Everything Harper had done, all the nightmares and delusions and lashing out, pointed to one thing: posttraumatic stress disorder. The tip-off was the party poppers. I had taken enough psych in college to recognize the most basic symptom of PTSD: extreme response, like shaking and nausea, to loud noises.
Being stalked could cause posttraumatic stress to a degree, especially if the situation was life-threatening, but Harper’s symptoms would indicate a more severe form. Surely a licensed psychotherapist would know that. Maybe I needed to visit these seven therapists Mrs. Lowell was telling me about.
I called Cookie to have her find out exactly who Harper was seeing and when. “Also, I want to talk to their housekeeper who recently retired, and then I need more info on the Lowell family.”
“Housekeeper. Got it. But info?” she asked, typing away at her keyboard.
“Dirt, Cook. I need you to scrounge up all the dirt you can get on them. Any family with that much hot air has something to hide, and I want to know what it is.”
“That kind of dirt rarely makes the headlines, but I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“And I want to actually talk to the therapists the Lowells were sending Harper to. She’s been seeing them since around the age of five.”
“That could be difficult.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?”
“No,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’m saying it’s about time you gave me a challenge.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
The second I hung up, I called David Taft. Officer Taft worked the same precinct as Uncle Bob and had a departed little sister who liked to visit me at the worst times possible. Namely any. We weren’t exactly friends, Taft and I. Which might explain the cold reception.
“Taft,” he said when he picked up.
“Hey, Charley Davidson here.” When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “I have a client who says you’re her liaison at the precinct. Harper Lowell?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. So, you’re back?”
“I was never gone. She claims someone is stalking her. Trying to kill her.”
“I know who you’re talking about. We never got anything on any stalker.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I didn’t. Until I spoke to her parents.”
Well, well. I was starting to like him. “Why is that?”
“I don’t know. They seemed a little too eager to convince me their daughter was crazy.”
“I got the exact same feeling.”
“So, she hired you?”
“Yep. Did you ever find any evidence at all?” I couldn’t hide the hope in my voice.
“Nothing that couldn’t be explained away as a crazy woman seeking attention. Stuffed rabbits aren’t exactly life-threatening.”
“When they’re not stuffed and they’re placed on your bed while you sleep with their throats cut, they are.”
“Look, I’m