Ortega’s deep-chested voice was barely a whisper. “One of my closest. A mentor.” He thought further about that, adding, “More like a father, really.” He looked around the room at Civita and a uniformed cop nearby, who was also wiping her eyes. “For a lot of us.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks for trying, Doctor,” Ortega barely managed to whisper. “We all appreciate what you and your team did.”

  I paused for a long moment. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask, but it was such an unusual circumstance I couldn’t help myself. “The wounds were unlike any I’ve ever seen. I heard it might have been a tiger that attacked him. Is that true? Did the police capture it?”

  He glanced up at me and shook his head. “No. The only one who even saw it was the eyewitness who called it in to 911. And by the time he got down to the street and the paramedics arrived, there was no sign of any animal.”

  “What about security cameras?”

  “The closest two had been tampered with, deactivated,” Civita said. “But another one on a building opposite caught the whole thing and showed the tiger running back into the bushes.”

  “Has the zoo or anyone reported any—?”

  “No,” Ortega said. “Nothing.”

  “Then where could it have come from? Where did it go?”

  Ortega shook his head again. Civita looked equally baffled. The three of us were likely pondering the same thing. I found myself whispering, “But how does a huge Bengal tiger kill a man in downtown San Francisco and then disappear?”

  Ortega raised his red-rimmed brown eyes up to meet mine. To him, as to me, it was a complete mystery.

  This question proved to be a life-and-death mystery that would entwine both of us.

  But it was also only the first mystery I encountered during that life-changing week.

  The very next day, I was on an unexpected mission of my own, driving up into Marin County, north of San Francisco. I’d gotten a troubling voice message from an elderly woman named Estelle Hudson, the widow of a former patient. I heard anxiety and distress in her voice. She insisted it wasn’t a medical issue, but she urgently needed to talk to me and hoped I might come up to her house as soon as possible. I tried to call for more details, but her voice mailbox was frustratingly full.

  Normally, I enjoyed the drive north into Marin. Though I like the hectic heartbeat of San Francisco, it’s often counterbalanced for me by the calm placidity to be found in the old-growth forests north of the city. Unfortunately, placidity had taken the day off. My brow was knit with concentration. I blew out a tense puff, wondering what exactly I was headed for. It had already been a tumultuous few days. First, I’d had an ugly, painful breakup with He Who Shall Not Be Named. Now, in addition to worrying why Mrs. Hudson needed me, I couldn’t stop thinking about the horrible last moments of Detective Keating and the unanswered riddle of the deadly tiger.

  After turning my red Accord off Highway 1, I left behind the billboards and gas-food-lodging spots. I’d fed the directions on Mrs. Hudson’s message into Siri and was making my way along a less well-preserved county road. The houses were spaced farther and farther apart until at last there weren’t any at all. The surrounding forest threatened to swallow up even the road I was on.

  I thought I might’ve taken a wrong turn and was about to retrace my path, when I saw the old wooden mailbox Mrs. Hudson had described in her message just as Siri announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” Beside the mailbox, a gravel drive led deeper into the coastal pine forest.

  Six-tenths of a mile from the road, I was rewarded by the sight of a beautiful old Tudor-style estate. Its main house was large but not grandiose and gave every appearance of having been built in the late Victorian era. It was constructed in a half-timber style mimicking dwellings in seventeenth-century Elizabethan England and was surrounded by large old-growth oaks. Several well-tended gardens blossomed with marigolds, pansies, and wildflowers.

  It was the kind of place that always makes me smile, impossible not to be drawn to. What a wonderful retreat from the intensity of the city it would make. I imagined myself inside, wearing cozy clothes, enjoying a cup of English breakfast tea, while curled up in a comfy chair by the fireplace with one of my favorite historical novels. Or maybe even trying again to write something myself. I could get used to a place like this.

  I smiled even more when Mrs. Hudson emerged from the house to greet me as I got out of my car. She looked just as she had when I first met her the year before. She was in her early eighties, just over five feet, and quite spry. She had curly snowy-white hair above her sunny face. Hazel eyes shone out from behind white, large-framed glasses.

  “Dr. Winslow! Ooo, I’m so pleased you could come, lass.” The energy of her Dunfermline Scottish ancestors coursed within her, and she retained their lilting Highland dialect. She exuberantly waved me toward her with both hands and gave me a wonderful hug. She smelled like the pink roses on the modest housedress beneath her cream-colored cardigan. She pulled away from our embrace, leaned back slightly, and grasped my shoulders firmly, gazing into my eyes for a moment with an expression of great fondness as I asked, “Are you really alright? Your voice on the phone had me worried and—”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry. I’m fine—really,” she said insistently. But I didn’t completely believe her. There was something curious bubbling underneath. It seemed like some odd combination of stress and yet enthusiasm that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She took my arm as she continued, “I’m so glad you could come up and see the place. Here now, take a little walk with me.”

  I wanted to ask why she had sounded so urgent in her message, but it seemed like it might be a subject she had to work her way up to, so I elected to be patient. She guided me around the grounds of the small estate while telling me how she and her late husband, Douglas, had been the caretakers for decades. I’d met the couple when they were on a visit to San Francisco last year. They were dining at Scoma’s on Fisherman’s Wharf when Mr. Hudson had a severe stroke. I happened to be at a nearby table and had jumped in to help.

  “If you hadn’t come to his aid, he would’ve died on the spot,” she said to me now. I started to protest, but she anticipated me. “No, don’t you deny it—it’s true. And the way you went with us to your hospital and took him under your wing, even when we couldn’t pay properly because the insurance was bollixed up. Your kindness was a blessing to him, young lady. And it gave me another whole year with Dougy.”

  “I was sad when I got your note about his passing.”

  Mrs. Hudson sighed. “And the donation you made in his honor was very dear.” She gave my arm a little squeeze of appreciation. We continued walking along a curving path through the flower gardens. I was finally about to ask why she’d called me, when she took a deep breath of the coastal country air. “Ah, how Dougy loved this place. Lived here all his life. It was built about 1890 and bought by an Englishman, a Captain Basil, in 1899. Shortly after he engaged Dougy’s grandfather as caretaker, Basil disappeared. But he left a trust fund for the Hudson family and their descendants to continue caring for the place. His only stipulation was peculiar: that electricity must constantly be supplied. At first it was by these steam generators.”

  She pointed them out to me, the old machines chugging along in a shed beside the house. It seemed very curious.

  Mrs. Hudson went on, “Even when electrical service became available out here about 1915, the Hudson family kept those old gennies cooking. Captain Basil had issued specific instructions that there must never be any interruption in the estate’s electrical service.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one knew,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He was apparently quite an eccentric, a collector as well. There are many curiosities in the cellar, as well as some very fine wines. Basil insisted that a constant temperature be maintained there by means of a special cooling unit he built himself. The original agreement mandated that the electricity was to remain on until January first, 2025. If ever it was turned off, the Hudson family’s contract would be immediately terminated.”

  “How completely odd. Has there ever been any—”

  A low, deep rumbling startled us into silence. Frightened birds flew out of the nearby trees. Then we were hit by a sudden and severe jolt.

  Mrs. Hudson and I clutched each other in alarm as we both said, “Earthquake!”

  The surrounding trees shook and swayed. Two stone birdbaths in the garden toppled over.

  We clung to one another as a seismic wave rolled beneath our feet. Once it passed, Mrs. Hudson said, “Ohh! That was a sharp one! Don’t remember one that strong since ’89.”

  We each drew a long breath, but she doubtless saw by my colorless face and the way I still clutched her arm that I was anything but calm. She frowned with concern. “What is it, dearie?”

  I inhaled again. “I lost my parents in a quake.”

  “Oh, dear God.” She rested her hand on my arm sympathetically. “I am so sorry. How did it happen? Where?”

  “It was in Sumatra—2009. My mom was one of the ‘Doctors Without Borders’ who rushed over there right after it hit. Dad went along to help. They got caught in a massive aftershock and . . .” I just shook my head. Each earthquake I’ve felt since has reopened the emotional wound.

  “It’s terrible that you had to go through that, Amy.”

  I nodded appreciation and tried to force myself back into the moment of the warm friendly afternoon, but it wasn’t easy. I managed a wan smile. “Must have been difficult for you too, losing Douglas. Have you been lonely out here?”

  “At first, of course. Though I have so many fond memories here that I truly adore this place.” Then it was Mrs. Hudson’s turn to draw a hesitant breath, as though about to get into a difficult subject. “But I’m afraid old Captain Basil hadn’t counted on all the taxes starting up. There was the ’29 crash, the bank failures, and finally the big S&L collapse in ’88. Yesterday I learned that this house and property is about to be auctioned off for a fraction of what it’s worth.”

  “Oh, no.” I was grieved on her behalf.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” She shook her head. “I feared it was coming and I’ve tried to find my son, but he’s a gadabout who likely wouldn’t have the means anyway, and the sale is in less than a month.” She looked at me again with that curious, enthusiastic glint in her eye that I’d noticed earlier. “I wanted you to have the chance to buy the place, Amy.”

  My jaw dropped. Wow. I was thoroughly astonished.

  She went on quickly, “In return for your kindness to my husband. And I’d be happy to stay on and manage it for you, if you’d consider that.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Hudson.” I was overwhelmed. Conflicting sentiments coursed within me. “I am so very touched. What a lovely, generous gesture.”

  “More than a gesture, lass, it’d make me greatly happy too. You’ll do it, then?” Her eyes positively sparkled.

  I would’ve gladly. My heart raced with enthusiasm at the idea, but my much more pragmatic mind quickly examined even the remotest possibilities and kept running into harsh realities. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, how I would love to, but I’m barely surviving now. I’ve still got serious student loans to repay and—” Her disappointed expression inspired me to make one last mental pass at considering the possibilities, but there simply were no straws to grasp. I sighed. “I’m afraid it’d be just impossible for me to buy the house, much as I love it.”

  “Are you certain, dear? Isn’t there any way you could—”

  “Believe me, I wish there were.” I cast my eyes around the gardens to the quaint house with flowerboxes under the leaded-glass windows and an aging redbrick chimney at one end. What a splendid, secluded, inspiring place to live, and maybe to write—something I’d actually been toying with lately in my less practical moments. “You have no idea how much I’d have loved it.”

  She was visibly let down, but she touched my arm as the courage of her bravehearted Scottish ancestors kicked in and she drew a breath. “Well. I’m sorry, lass. But I do understand.” She squeezed my arm again. “At least let me offer you a wee bit of lunch.”

  As we walked back up toward the house, I felt a weight in my stomach. It was frustration at having to miss out on the golden opportunity to own such an enchanting old house. As if sensing my mood, the sky was darkening slightly and an uneasy wind arose, carrying wisps of coastal fog through the pines. I experienced an oddly ominous feeling, like someone had walked over my grave.

  Inside the house, my inability to take up Mrs. Hudson’s offer felt even more disappointing. Though its exterior was decidedly Tudor, the interior was quintessentially Victorian. In the foyer, mahogany paneling abounded, all finely crafted and polished to a deep, rich luster. Looking ahead into the main sitting room I saw dark blue and burgundy Persian carpets atop polished parquet floors. The tasteful furnishings were in the Morris & Company style from the final years of Queen Victoria’s reign, an era of elegant lace and gracefully sculpted wood. On a small table beside the entryway was an antique cylinder phonograph with its distinctive large hornlike speaker. “I’ve never seen a real one. Is that an original?”

  “Indeed it is, lass,” Mrs. Hudson said proudly. “Mr. Edison’s first 1899 model.”

  The entire sitting room was inviting. Several chairs and two settees had matching floral prints done in velvet. Three ceramic vases displayed freshly cut flowers from Mrs. Hudson’s garden. A large, healthy potted palm nestled between an imposing grandfather clock and a rolltop desk. Tall leaded-glass windows provided elegant frames for the green vistas outside, now with the fingers of fog combing through the trees and creeping across the lawn.

  An inside wall had a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcase with an attached rolling ladder to reach the topmost shelves. I helped the sweet lady pick up several books and other items that had fallen during the quake. A number of photos on one shelf caught my eye. They were of the younger Mrs. Hudson and her husband. I smiled. “Oh, look at you two!”

  With a wistful expression she said, “Aye, we were quite a pair.”

  In a few pictures they were wearing different sets of theatrical costumes. “And what’s going on here?”

  She blushed slightly, downplaying it as if a bit embarrassed. “Oh, we appeared together in some local theater productions. I’d done a little acting before we met, and I dragged Dougy into it. A couple of times we performed as a duo doing some bawdy old English music hall songs and sketches.”

  “I wish I could’ve seen that!”

  She touched the picture frame lovingly. “What fun times we had. My favorite was when he’d play his old pennywhistle.” She touched the tiny flute nearby. “He got the knack as a wee lad—played it with a lilt. And I’d clomp through a little jig.” She glanced over the photos, then gave a long sigh of satisfaction. “I miss it all. Nothing quite like being on the stage.” Then she glanced at me with a twinkle in her eye. “Now, how about that lunch?”

  As we entered her cheery white kitchen, with its window boxes and lace café curtains, she pointed toward a door to one side, saying, “There’s a rack of Captain Basil’s many vintage wines down there in the cellar. We’ve never ever touched the bottles before, mind you, but now that it’s all to be sold, I don’t suppose opening one matters.” I was about to politely decline, when she pressed on: “And there’s nary a one I’d rather share a taste with than you, Amy.”

  I’m not one to drink much, particularly at lunch, but Mrs. Hudson had been so kind I didn’t want to further disappoint her. I opened the door and carefully made my way down rickety wooden stairs. The chilly cellar made me shiver. Lit by a single hanging bulb, it was more than a little foreboding. Outside, the fog was coming in more thickly, and the meager light came through the tiny cellar window. Indeed, it seemed as though the fog had crept into the cellar. The air felt heavy.

  I righted a coatrack that had fallen across the steps and moved on down among dusty remnants of furniture from before the turn of the twentieth century. There were old candelabras and various bric-a-brac. The wine rack along the wall was large—about seven feet tall and just as wide. The many bottles were laden with dust and my personal least favorite: cobwebs.

  As I looked for a bottle with the lowest possibility of creepy crawlers, I noticed some recent damage to the wall at the far edge of the wine rack. Several bricks had been recently dislodged—perhaps from the trembler that had just shaken us up outside. I also saw that one section of the wine rack had slipped slightly forward, probably due to the same cause. I reached out and shoved it back into place.

  To my great surprise, the section of shelves moved back several inches farther than I’d expected, as though it had actually slipped beyond the brick wall. I was confused and concerned that it not fall over and break any of the bottles. I pushed it a little more in an effort to secure it against the wall, which I now assumed must be slightly farther behind the rack than I’d first thought.

  Imagine my escalating confusion when the wine rack kept going back deeper still. My heart leapt as I realized this section of the wine rack was actually a carefully concealed door. My pulse rate galloped with a delightful, excited rush I hadn’t felt since I was a kid reading Nancy Drew. Curiosity impelled me to find out what was on the other side. I pushed the wall a bit farther, unmindful of the creepy cobwebs tearing away and drifting around me.

  It was then that I made the incredible discovery.

  At first, when I peered through the narrow crack I had made, I saw only gloom. Resolved to shed more light on the subject, I shoved the wine-rack door open a few more inches. There was a creaking of wood, and I nearly jumped out of my skin as loud crackling came directly over my head, sending a flurry of sparks sprinkling down upon me. The pivoting wall had gotten bound up with a pair of bare, hundred-year-old wires overhead that the quake had evidently displaced. They were arcing together, with brief electrical flashes. They snapped and popped into the dark distance around what I now perceived was a secret room behind the wine rack’s wall.