Emerald Mountain — Frances Y. McHugh

The bus driver ducked his head toward the mountain that loomed darkly over the road.
"You going up there?
"Yes, I am."
"All alone?"
"Yes."

Perhaps it was only the loneliness of Leslie Terrell's house on the mountains that was responsible for his quick turnover in secretaries. Certainly the newest one did not believe the legend of the Indian maiden who was supposed to haunt the area. But she was disturbed by the discovery of poisonous oleander leaves in the teapot and unexplained sounds in the night.