Читать книгу Waking the Dead - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

Chapter One

THE HOUSE WAS off Frenchman Street, not a mansion and not derelict. It sat in a neighborhood of middle-class homes from which men and women went to work every day and children went off to school. The yard was well-kept but not overmanicured; the paint wasn’t peeling, but it was a few years old. In short, to all appearances, it was the average family home in the average family neighborhood.

Or had been.

Until a neighbor had spotted the body of the woman on the kitchen floor that morning and called the police. They’d entered the house and found a scene of devastating chaos.

Michael Quinn hadn’t been among the first to arrive. He wasn’t a cop, not anymore. He was a private investigator and took on clients, working for no one but himself. However, he maintained a friendly relationship with the police. It was necessary—and, in general, made life a hell of a lot easier.

It also brought about mornings like this, when Jake Larue, his ex-partner, called him in, which was fine, since he was paid a consultant’s fee for his work with the police...and his personal pursuits could sometimes be expensive.

“You know, Quinn,” Jake said, meeting him outside, “I’ve seen bad times. The days after the storm, gang struggles in our city and the usual human cruelty every cop faces. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Jake—Detective Larue—was sent on the worst and/or most explosive cases in the city...or when something bordered on the bizarre.

Jake was good at his job. He was good at it, Quinn had long ago discovered, because he’d never thought of himself as the be-all and end-all. He took whatever help he could get, no matter where he got it. That was how cases were solved, and that was why he was willing to call Quinn.

Good thing he was back in the city, Quinn thought. He’d just arrived a few hours earlier. Danni didn’t even know he was back after his weeks in Texas—he’d meant to surprise her this morning.

Quinn looked curiously at the house. “Drug deal gone bad?” he asked. It didn’t seem like the type of home where such a thing happened, but there was no telling in that market.

“I’ll be damned if I know, but I doubt it. Get gloves and booties. We’re trying to keep it down to a small parade going through,” Larue said.

Quinn raised his brows. It was almost impossible to protect evidence from being compromised when that many people were involved. But Larue was a stickler; he’d set up a cordoned path to the porch. There were officers in the yard, and they were holding back the onlookers who’d gathered nearby. The van belonging to the crime scene techs was half on the sidewalk and cop cars crowded the streets, along with the medical examiner’s SUV. The only people who had passed him were wearing jumpsuits that identified them as crime scene investigators.

“Dr. Hubert is on,” Larue said.

Quinn liked Ron Hubert; he was excellent at his job and looked beyond the norm when necessary. He wasn’t offended when another test was suggested or when he was questioned. As he’d said himself, he was human; humans made mistakes and could overlook something important. His job was to speak for the dead, but hell, if the dead were whispering to someone else, that was fine with him.

“First things first, I guess. The entry hallway,” Larue said.

There was no way to avoid the body in the entry hall. The large man lay sprawled across the floor in death. Hubert was crouched by the body, speaking softly into his phone as he made notes.

“The victim is male, forty-five to fifty years. Time of death was approximately two hours ago or sometime between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. Cause of death appears to be multiple stab wounds, several of which on their own would prove fatal. Death seems to have taken place where the victim has fallen. There are abundant pools of blood in the immediate vicinity.” He switched off his phone, stopped speaking and glanced up. “Please watch out for the blood. The lab folks are busy taking pictures, but we’re trying to preserve the scene as best we can. Ah, Quinn, glad to see you here, son.” Pretty much anyone could be “son” to Dr. Ron Hubert. He was originally from Minnesota and his Viking heritage was apparent. His hair was whitening, but where it wasn’t white, it was platinum. His eyes were so pale a blue they were almost transparent. His dignity and reserve made him seem ageless, but realistically, Quinn knew he was somewhere in his mid-sixties.

“He was stabbed? Have you found the weapon?” Quinn asked.

“No weapons anywhere,” Larue answered. “This is—we believe but will confirm—Mr. James A. Garcia. His family has lived in the area since the nineteenth century. He inherited the house. He was a courier who worked for a specialty freight company.”

“The woman in the kitchen, we believe, is his wife, Andrea. It looks as if she was slashed by a sword,” Hubert said. “Make your tour quick, Detective,” he told Larue while nodding grimly at Quinn. “I need to get the bodies to the morgue.”

Quinn accompanied Larue to the kitchen. He couldn’t begin to determine the age of the victim there; only her dress and the length of her hair suggested that she’d been a woman. To say that a sword might have been used was actually a mild description; she looked like she’d been put through a meat slicer. Blood created a haphazard pattern on the old linoleum floor and they moved carefully to avoid it. “There’s more,” Larue told him, “and stranger.”

Upstairs, another body lay on a bed.

“Mr. Arnold Santander, Mrs. Garcia’s father, as far as we know. Shot.”

“Gun? Calibre?”

“Something that blew a hole in him the size of China. And there are two more.”

Another bedroom revealed a fourth body—this one bludgeoned to death. Quinn couldn’t even guess the sex, age or anything else about the remains on the bed.

“Maggie Santander, the wife’s mother,” Larue said.

The fifth body was downstairs by the back door. Compared to the others, it was in relatively good condition.

“This one is a family aunt—Mr. Garcia’s sister, Maria Orr. What I’ve been able to gather from the neighbors is that Maria Orr picked up the Garcia children to take them to school. She was the drop-off mom and Mrs. Garcia was the pickup mom. Maria often stopped by for a coffee after she took the kids to school and before heading to her job at a local market. Mrs. Garcia was a stay-at-home mom and looked after all the children in the afternoon.”

Quinn hunkered down by the body and gingerly moved the woman’s hair. He frowned up at Larue. “Strangled?”

“That’s Hubert’s preliminary finding, yes,” Larue replied.

Quinn stood. “No weapons anywhere in the house? The yard?”

“No. Obviously, the techs are still combing the house. I have officers out there questioning neighbors and going through every trash pile and dump in the vicinity and beyond. The city’s on high alert. I’m about to give a press conference—any words of wisdom for me before I cast everyone into a state of panic?”

One of Larue’s men, carefully picking his way around the corpse, heard the question and muttered, “Buy several big dogs and arm yourself with an Uzi?”

He was rewarded with one of Larue’s chilling stares. “All I need is a city full of armed and frightened wackos running around,” he said. “Quinn, what sort of vibe are you getting here? Anything?”

Quinn shrugged. “Was there any suggestion that they could have been into drugs or any other smuggling?”

“The poor bastard was a courier, a baseball coach, a deacon at his church. The mom baked apple pies. No, no drugs. And it sure as hell doesn’t look like one of them killed the others and then committed suicide.”

Quinn spoke to Larue, describing the situation as he understood it. “The grandparents were in bed—separate beds and rooms, but I’m assuming they were old and in poor health. The wife was cleaning up after breakfast, while the husband appeared to be about to leave the house. I think the aunt had just arrived and saw something—but didn’t make it out of the house. She was running for the rear door, I believe. You’d figure she’d be the one shot in the back, but she wasn’t. She was caught—and strangled. The different methods used to kill suggest there was more than one killer in here. What’s odd is that the blood pools seem to be where the victims died. No one tracked around any blood, and there are no bloody fingerprints on the walls, not that I can see. Yes, we have blood spatter—all over the walls.” He shook his head. “It should be the easiest thing in the world to catch this killer—or killers. He or she, they, should be drenched in blood. Except...your victim trying to escape via the back hallway was strangled. There’s no blood on her whatsoever, and you’d think that if the same person perpetrated all the murders, there’d be blood on her, as well. Unless she was killed first, but that’s unlikely. It looks like she was running away.”

“So, the bottom line is...”

“Based on everything I’m seeing, I’m going to suggest more than one killer,” Quinn said. “Still, they should be almost covered in blood—unless they wore some kind of protective clothing. Even then, you’d expect to find drops along the way. It seems that whoever did this killed each of these people where we found them—and then disappeared into thin air.”

Larue stared at him, listening, following his train of thought. “You didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” he argued.

“I’m not omniscient or a mind reader,” Quinn said.

“Yes, but—”

“Your men should be searching the city for people with any traces of blood on them. It should be impossible to create a bloodbath like this and not have it somewhere. And the techs need to keep combing the house for anything out of the ordinary.”

“This much hate—and nothing taken. Implies family, a disillusioned friend...or a psychopath who wandered in off the street. They say this kind of violence is personal, but there are plenty of examples to the contrary. To take a famous one, Jack the Ripper did a hell of a number on his last victim, Mary Kelly, and they believe that his victims were a matter of chance.”

“They were a ‘type,’” Quinn reminded him. “Jack went after prostitutes. What ‘type’ could this family have been? My suggestion is that you learn every single thing you can about these people. Maybe something was taken.”

“Nothing seems to have been disturbed. No drawers were open, no jewelry boxes touched.”

Quinn nodded, glancing at his former partner. Larue was in his late thirties, tall and lean with a steely frame, dark, close-cropped hair and fine, probing eyes. There were things he didn’t talk about; he was skilled at going on faith, and luckily, he had faith in Quinn.

“That’s why I called you,” Larue said. “I’m good at finding clues and in what I see.” He lowered his voice. “And you, old friend, are good at finding clues in what we don’t see. I’ll have all the information, every file, I can get on these bodies in your email in the next few hours. Hubert said he’ll start the autopsies as soon as he’s back in the morgue.”

“Mind if I walk the house again?” Quinn asked him. “There’s something I want to check out.”

“What’s that?”

“Like I said, I’m surprised more blood wasn’t tracked through the house. But what I do see leads back to James Garcia.”

“One would think—but you’re trying to tell me that James Garcia butchered his family—and came back to the hall to slash himself to ribbons?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I agree with you that it’s virtually out of the question. I’m just saying that the only blood trails there are lead back to him. There’s no weapon he could have done this with, so...that tells me someone else had to be in the house. They got to the second floor first and murdered the grandparents, headed down to the kitchen and killed the wife, then caught either the aunt or James Garcia. But you’ll note, too, that there’s no blood trail leading out through the doors. Like I said, whoever did this should have been drenched. It seems obvious, but surely someone would’ve noticed another person covered in blood. Yes, this is New Orleans—but we’re not in the midst of a crazy holiday with people wearing costumes and zombie makeup. And even if the killers were wrapped in a sheet or something protective, it’s hard to believe they could escape without leaving a trace.”

“What if they had a van or a vehicle waiting outside?” Larue asked.

“That’s possible. But still...I’d expect some drops or smudges as the killer headed out. I’m going to look around, okay?”

“Go for it—just keep your booties on and don’t interrupt any of my techs. Oh, and, Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank God you’re back.”

Quinn offered him a somber smile. “Glad you feel that way.”

He left Larue in the hallway, giving instructions to others, and supervising the scene and the removal of the bodies.

At first, Quinn found nothing other than what they’d already discovered. Of course, he was trying to stay out of the way of the crime scene unit. They were busiest in the house; he knew they’d inspected the garage but concentrated on the house, so he decided to concentrate on the garage.

He was glad he did. Because he came upon something he considered unusual.

It was in between two cans of house paint.

He picked up the unlabeled glass container and studied it for a long time, frowning.

There’d been something in it. The vial looked as if it had been washed, but...

There was a trace of red. Some kind of residue.

Blood? So little remained he certainly couldn’t tell; it would have to go to the evidence lockup and then get tested.

He hurried back in to hand it over to Grace Leon, Larue’s choice for head CSU tech when he could get her. She, too, studied the vial. “Thanks. We would’ve gotten to this, I’m sure. Eventually we would’ve gone through the garage. But...is it what I think it is?”

He smiled grimly. “We’ll have to get it tested. But my assumption is yes.”

* * *

The giclée—or computer-generated ink-jet copy—first drew one’s gaze from across the room because of its coloring and exquisite beauty.

Foremost in the image was a dark-haired gentleman leaning over a love seat where a beautiful woman in white lay half-inclined, reading. He could be seen mostly from the back, with only a hint of his profile visible, and he presented her with a flower. The scene evoked the type of mysticism and nostalgia that could be found in the work of the pre-Raphaelite painter John Waterhouse.

Movement, life, seemed to emerge from the image. It was complex; the viewer felt a sense of belonging in the scene, being part of a living environment.

Behind the love seat was a great hearth, like that in the hall of a medieval castle. Above the hearth was a painting of a medieval knight, sans helmet; to each side of the image were massive plaques that bore the coat of arms of the House of Guillaume, with crossed swords below each. To the left, a massive stone staircase went up to the second floor and to the right, a hallway leading to another region of the castle, presumably the kitchens. It was guarded by a pair of 1500s suits of armor, standing like sentinels. And yet it felt like a scene of modern—nineteenth-century modern, at least compared to the medieval background of the castle—bliss.

Near the couple, on a massive wooden table, a boy of about twelve and a girl of maybe eight engaged in a game of chess. On the floor, a smaller child played with a toy. The pigments used were striking—even in the print, which was a copy of the original. Crimsons were deep and used throughout; the castle was dark and shadowed but the shadows were tinged with the same crimson and offset by mauves and grays. The little girl’s clothing added a splash of blue. Just inside the giant doors to the far left in the painting, a silver-colored wolfhound barked as a proper butler opened the door to official-looking men about to make a call.

The allure of the courtly man and the beautiful woman first entranced the viewer. The scene was so lovely, so romantic.

The painting didn’t, at first glance, seem to fit the title chosen by the artist—Ghosts in the Mind.

But then, even as the viewer studied the beauty and serenity of the scene, his or her perception of it would begin to change. If he or she shifted to a slightly different angle, looked at the painting from a different perspective, the hidden details became evident.

Beneath her book, the woman held a dagger. While he offered a rose to the woman, the man concealed a pistol behind his back.

A closer look revealed that malevolent, cunning eyes gazed out from the helmets on the suits of armor, both of which stood on pedestals but with swords in their hands.

The chess pieces had faces, alive and screaming.

The child on the floor played with a guillotine. What had appeared to be roses strewn over rushes on the floor were dolls—and their decapitated heads.

“Danni! Danni Cafferty, how are you? And Wolf!”

Danielle Cafferty turned as Niles Villiers, owner of the Image Me This gallery, came toward her. Wolf, to her the world’s most impressive pet, was seated by her feet. He was about the size of a small freight train but Wolf and Niles knew each other and Niles didn’t so much as blink; well-behaved pets were welcome in his gallery.

And Wolf allowed himself to be petted and crooned to. He even thumped his tail for Niles.

“I love this dog, Danni,” Niles said. “But I thought he actually belonged to your friend, Quinn? Haven’t seen him around in a while.”

“He has business in Texas,” Danni explained. Niles looked at her a little sadly. “Too bad. I like that Quinn. Great guy. So the guy leaves you, but you get the dog?”

Danni started to protest; Quinn hadn’t left her. After the case involving the Renaissance bust and the cult that had nearly formed in the city—the case that had brought them together—they’d both been afraid they’d gotten too close too fast. As a result, they’d decided to move slowly.

Quinn had gone to Texas a month ago to help the force there. He’d done it before when asked by law enforcement friends—or friends of friends—in other places. Usually he was only gone a few days. This time it seemed he’d been gone forever. But he’d made a decision never to leave her without Wolf. There was no question; the dog would lay down his life for her.

“At least he’s an amazing dog!” Niles said.

“He sure is.”

Niles greeted her next with an encompassing hug. She accepted it warmly. Niles was not only a friend, he’d been kind and generous enough to let her show her own art at his gallery on Royal Street. Image Me This was just a block and a half down from her own antiques and curio store, The Cheshire Cat. “Thanks for coming today,” he said.

“You know me, Niles. List a gallery showing and I’ll be here.”

A waiter went by and Niles snagged two champagne flutes, giving one to her. “I did especially want you to come. You add an aura of the sleek and beautiful—of modern sophistication.”

Danni smiled at that. “Niles, you should’ve told me I was supposed to be sophisticated. I’d have worn something other than jeans.”

Niles waved a hand in the air. In a suit himself, he was extremely handsome, with his striking hazel eyes and olive skin. He was tall and slim, every inch the regal host. “My dear, even wearing a plastic garbage bag, you’d walk with an aura of mystery and class—and it doesn’t hurt that you have a wolf at your feet. People are looking at paintings, but they’re watching you, as well. And if you shop here, they’ll think it’s the place to buy.”

“Hmm. Thank you. However, I think most of the credit goes to Wolf,” Danni said. She set one hand on Wolf’s head. Sometimes people gave her a wide berth—they were afraid of the dog. But he was so well-mannered that they usually asked if they could pet him. Wolf was, when not fiercely defending his family, a truly loving dog. Even if he was part wolf, as his name suggested.

Niles took a step closer to her, sipping from his champagne glass. “I have some wonderful original oils at this show, and, of course, I’d love to sell them. But a house in Paris was recently authorized to create giclée copies of Ghosts in the Mind. They’re beautifully done, from the original, of course. Giclée is a way for people to own incredible works of art without having to rob banks or be millionaires themselves, and honestly, the quality is so good, it’s almost impossible to tell the copies from the original.”

Danni smiled. “That’s not entirely true. Yes, done well, they’re as exact as you can get, but prints still don’t compare to the real thing.”

“Okay, maybe not, but...they’re striking on a wall.”

“And you can sell a lot of giclée copies and make money and survive, and I’m all for it,” Danni assured him. “As long as the artist isn’t cheated.”

“Danni!”

“Oh, Niles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

He grinned back at her. “When are we going to have another show of your paintings?” He shuddered. “Now that horrible case with the cult is well behind you.”

Danni shrugged. She’d actually been working the past few weeks. Working on her painting—and on her life. It was barely a year ago that she’d discovered her father had led a secret existence before his death—and that she’d inherited not only his earthly goods, but his rather unearthly ones, as well.

Niles was referring, of course, to the case that focused on the bust of Pietro Miro. She’d known nothing about the nature of real evil when she’d first become entangled in that situation, and now she knew too much. Her father hadn’t just been a collector of the priceless and unusual; he’d also been a warrior of sorts, saving others from the forces of evil. It made her feel, at times, as though she was dreaming about an odd graphic novel in which she simultaneously played a role. Before that strange case last year, she would never have believed that evil—or the wicked intentions of others—could reside in an object like Pietro Miro’s marble bust.

“Sorry,” Niles said quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. That nasty mess with the cult wasn’t that long ago. And you were close to several people who turned out to be involved.”

“I’m fine. That’s all over. Billie, Bo Ray and I are doing well at the store,” Danni told him. “And I’m always grateful for your interest and support, Niles.”

“So. I have all these beautiful pieces in here—gorgeous street scenes, paintings of musicians so good you can practically hear them, the Mighty Mississippi, Jackson Square, the cemeteries and the French Quarter—and you head right over to the giclée of Ghosts in the Mind.” He raised his brows. “Back to your work for a minute. Let me remind you that we haven’t seen anything in almost a year.”

“I’ve been working. I don’t have anything ready yet,” Danni said.

“Well, let us know when you do. You’re good,” he added. “So is Mason. He just hasn’t had the chance he needs. But his time will come... Meanwhile we can admire the giclée. It is beautiful. At a distance. And everyone’s drawn in. Hubert was a talented artist, and this piece is different, even for him. He was fascinated by the dark side of things, but rarely did he come up with something that teased the eye with such exquisite beauty—only to display such wickedness in the, er, details?”

Danni nodded. “His Weeping Angel at Dusk is sad and dark, I guess, but very beautiful.”

“You know something about the artist, right?”

“I was an art major, remember? I don’t know too much, and he didn’t paint that many pieces, since he died so young. But he’s considered a relatively minor artist. He’s hardly ever mentioned these days.”

“That was true until recently,” Niles said. “Because, of course, Ghosts in the Mind, his most famous work, went missing for years and was only discovered a few months ago—and sold at auction. There’s a story to that, of course, but as to Hubert, well...like you said, he died young. We might have had so many more wonderful pieces had he lived longer. His use of perspective was extraordinary. Not many artists could create completely different images, pictures within pictures, in such an effective way.”

“If I’m remembering my art history correctly, the original was oil on canvas and was painted in Switzerland during the summer of 1816. The world endured what they now refer to as ‘the year without a summer,’” Danni said.

“Apparently, a natural climate change at that time was enhanced by the eruption of a volcano—Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies,” Niles explained. “I got interested in this stuff because of Ghosts in the Mind, so I’ve been reading about it. Anyway, the volcano erupted in 1815 but the fallout changed the weather and the atmosphere all over Europe, even a year later. It snowed in June! In the United States, too,” he said. “Anyway, that terrible weather caused a great many miserable days, but also brought about this wonderful, chilling piece of art.”

“Don’t forget, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came out of that summer, too.”

“Yes, yes, of course! And it was influenced by the fact that scientists all over were playing with electricity. Mary was familiar with some of the greatest scientific minds of her time. It’s a brilliant book,” he said in a reverent voice. “One that looked at what life was and what it wasn’t...just like this painting looks at the masks we wear on the outside while we hide our real thoughts on the inside. Most critiques have agreed that this was Henry Sebastian Hubert’s finest work. Pity, pity, pity!”

“He died by his own hand,” Danni murmured.

Niles shook his head dismissively. “So said the bumbling authorities back then! Tragically, he was found in the tower where he was painting, seated before his masterpiece. They said it was poison. What did they know?” Niles demanded.

Danni laughed. “Probably a lot more than we suspect. Remember, anatomy was the rage back then. Corpses were stolen for dissection.... Burke and Hare were busy digging up corpses to sell and then killing people for the money their bodies would bring. They—”

“That wasn’t until later,” Niles interrupted.

“Yes, but they weren’t the first,” Danni said. “Different countries had different laws on acquiring corpses for medical purposes and learning about anatomy and so on. The thing is, by the early 1800s, doctors and scientists had been dissecting cadavers for centuries. Medical people couldn’t cure most diseases, but they’d certainly learned about anatomy. Still, you have a point—he might have been poisoned and they might have missed it. But since Hubert was alone when he died, his fingers curled around the wineglass that held whatever toxin it was, I’m sure they were right, and he committed suicide. The poor man couldn’t run to a doctor and get a prescription for an antidepressant. Yes, it’s a tragedy. Sadly, history is full of such tragedies. Shelley drowned in a lake and Byron was only in his thirties when he died. Mary Shelley lost three of her four children at very early ages—it was all very sad and tragic.”

Niles still didn’t seem convinced that anything was as sad as the death of an artist.

“So, did someone just license the painting for giclée reproduction?” she asked Niles.

“Like I was saying, the painting disappeared soon after Hubert died, reappeared in some kind of storage, in England, then ended up in a museum in France. It disappeared again during World War II.”

“This sounds familiar. Wasn’t it stolen by the Nazis?”

“Perfectly true!” Niles said excitedly. “It seems an old Nazi war criminal died in Brazil within the past year, and the painting was found wrapped and buried in a vault. The Brazilian government returned it to the French museum, but the museum’s having hard times and gratefully put it on the auction block. No one knows who purchased the original yet. These things can be so hush-hush and done through corporate names and all that. But the new owner authorized a gallery to make a copy, and from that copy, they were allowed to do a giclée limited edition of two thousand. And—” he lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a coconspirator “—there’s a rumor that the purchaser was from here—from NOLA! I was incredibly lucky. I scored a hundred of them for the gallery. I’ve already sold sixty-six.”

Danni studied the copy of the painting again. It was as interesting, as rich, as complex, as the human/monster tale about Dr. Frankenstein’s creation.

“Shall I save one for you?” Niles asked.

Danni wasn’t sure. On the one hand, the giclée of the painting was beautiful. It was also terribly dark and seemed to be a warning regarding human nature. Did a man smile and offer a rose while thinking of murder? Were children innocently playing, already on the way to cruelty and a callous disregard for life?

A lady in an elaborate feathered hat swept by to gain Niles’s attention; he excused himself to Danni, winking as he did so. “I’ll save one!” he promised.

“Great. Lovely. I can keep it with the coffin and guillotine and shrunken heads down in Dad’s collection,” she muttered to herself.

“Hey, Danni.”

As she turned to leave, she almost crashed into Mason Bradley, Niles’s sometime-salesman and sometime-artist. Mason’s forte was restoration and he was very good at it. Like most artists, he worked on learning his own style by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.

“Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.

“Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”

“I’m doing okay.”

“I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.

“Yes, Wolf.”

“Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.

She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”

“I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”

“I’m just fine, Mason.”

“Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”

“There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”

Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”

“I agree. Oh! Mason, I’m seeing more and more of your cemetery prints out there! You’re doing great. The paintings are wonderful—and I’m delighted that the prints seem to be everywhere.”

“Yes, but the paintings themselves don’t always sell. People don’t necessarily want to pay for an original. So I’m still a struggling artist, you know how that goes,” Mason said. “But at least I’m not a starving artist.” He took her empty champagne glass. “I guess I should get back to selling. I know we’ll keep one of the Hubert giclées for you. Hey,” he told her, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “There’s a rumor that the collector who bought the piece is here—right here in New Orleans!”

“Niles mentioned that.”

“It’s such a unique object,” Mason said reverently. “Anyway, my dear friend, remember we love you, Niles and I. And don’t forget, if you need me, I’m here!”

“Thank you.” Danni smiled as Mason hurried away to attend to another customer and then found herself turning back to the giclée.

It was surpisingly difficult to tear herself away from Ghosts in the Mind. Determined, she finally did. Billie McDougall—her Icabod Crane/Riff Raff lookalike and helper in all things—had been running the store alone. Bo Ray Tomkins, their clerk, hadn’t been with them long, and generally worked on their bookkeeping and inventory, although he also assisted with sales when necessary. Billie didn’t care if he manned the counter on his own, but still, she’d been gone for a few hours.

Danni waved a goodbye to Mason, who returned the gesture, and stepped out onto Royal Street, Wolf at her heels. The sun shone down on handsome balconies, some still wearing their Mardi Gras apparel or banners and ribbons and signs. Some sported chairs and plants with vines that seemed to trickle down, adding to the faded elegance that was so much a part of the French Quarter.

But just as she started to head back to her own shop, Wolf began to bark frantically and pull at his leash. He was very well trained, but so excited she was afraid he’d drag her across the street.

“Wolf!”

Then she realized that a figure was standing there, watching her.

He was wearing a light casual coat, perfect for the spring weather. It hung nicely on his six-four frame. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, which hid his short sandy-blond hair and hazel eyes. But he smiled slowly, and she’d know that smile anywhere...just as she knew him.

Her heart quickened, and she felt exhilaration sweep through her.

She was deliriously happy to see him.

And yet...

His appearance made her tremble. Was he back because he lived here, because he wanted to see her?

Or was something about to happen?

Quinn.

Quinn had returned.