“A container used to hold potpourri, scent pellets, sachets.” I open other drawers. “This pomander is old. It’s not a reproduction and looks about the same era as when this addition was built, around the time of the Civil War, possibly earlier or a little later. I can’t say for sure. But definitely not seventeenth century. And certainly not modern.”

I walk my gloved fingers through neatly folded athletic clothes, maybe half a dozen tank tops and pairs of tights. Ladies size small. Some of them still with the tags. None of it inexpensive.

“Mid-to late eighteen hundreds is my guess.” I continue to tell Marino what I see and think. “The important point is the dried herbs, flowers or oils used are fresh or they wouldn’t smell this potent.”

“Do you want it to go to the labs?” He flips up the clasps on the scene case.

“Yes …” My thought is stalled by the sudden sensation that I’m inside a pub.

I stop everything for a moment and concentrate. Then it occurs to me.

“I smell hops,” I say to Marino and whoever else might be listening.

“As in beer?”

“As in the brewing of it.” My voice is strong and audible, and I realize I sound aggressive.

Maybe two can play your game.

“Sounds like wishful thinking. I sure as hell could use a couple beers right now,” Marino says.

“Hops has other uses, including medical,” I explain blandly, as if I have no feelings about it.

He sniffs the air near where I’m standing. “I don’t smell it but that’s nothing new when I’m with you. I think you were a bloodhound in another life. It will be interesting to see if Chanel had something wrong with her. If she might have been sick.”

“I don’t believe so. At least there was nothing evident on gross examination. We’ll see what shows up on histology but Luke would have mentioned it if he’d found any sign of her having a disease or some other serious problem.”

“Well not that I’m an expert,” Marino says, “but a lot of the stuff we’re seeing in this house is what I associate with someone worried about bad luck or bad health or dying.”

Carrie made a pact with God that she wouldn’t suffer a similar fate.

I hear her talking in the video, telling the story of her life as if I might have compassion for anything she’s ever been through. And I don’t. I’m beyond feeling humane or understanding. I don’t care, and I see her pale skin and short platinum hair as she reads from her script and holds up a bottle of her special protective potion that supposedly keeps her young.