Let the Dead Sleep

“Well, I never!” Jane said.

“Jane is a wonderful employee and you will not stand here in my store and insult her!” Danni said indignantly.

“Angus trusted me implicitly,” Jane declared.

“Perhaps,” Quinn said with a shrug. “But that’s not important right now.”

Danni looked at him warily. “You should state your business, your relationship with my father and then leave the store.”

“I helped him. He helped me. I guess Angus wanted to protect you, his little princess,” Quinn said. “Well, it’s a shame and it’s sad and it’s probably too late.” He felt his anger growing, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t really her fault if her father had chosen not to share the depths of his life with her.

But she should have figured out that he wasn’t just a shopkeeper or a collector! How naive could she have been? On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t been that naive. Maybe she’d just been gone too much.

“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I was very close to my father!” she began. “Mrs. Simon is suffering and needs help but understand this—I am not trained or equipped to deal with mental illness, and I rather think you might have some problems in that area yourself—rather than being a person who’s capable of dealing with it!”

“Call the police, then. Like I said, maybe they can at least buy her a few hours.” Although Quinn ignored her insult, he felt his fingers knotting into fists. He had to get out of the shop. There was no chance he’d offer unprovoked violence to anyone but he didn’t want to break anything there. He studied her for a moment and added, “If you come up with some sense, meet me at the Simon house at five. At five—I don’t care if you’ve closed or not. Billie handles the shop, anyway. He doesn’t need you here.”

With that, Quinn turned.

As the door closed behind him, he found himself shaking with emotion.

And some of it was anger.

Some of it was fear. Not for himself. He’d long since learned that fear, in itself, wasn’t a bad thing. But a man’s reaction to fear could be very bad indeed.

He was afraid for the future. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Angus Cafferty.

* * *

Danni watched the stranger leave, puzzled and trembling inwardly with outrage, indignation, a painful sense of loss. And dread...

She’d been working until she’d heard Gladys Simon’s strident voice. Working idly on the finishing touches to a painting. She assumed she’d been inspired by a face she’d seen on the streets of New Orleans. Dignified, aging, attractive, intriguing. But her painting was almost an exact image of the woman who’d come into the shop.

It doesn’t mean anything, she assured herself. It was just a resemblance. There were many such women in the South. Old-school, well-groomed and usually ruled by impeccable manners and propriety.

But...

She turned her thoughts to the man who’d been in the shop—as if he’d followed Gladys in, as if he’d known why she was coming. Yes, she’d seen him at the funeral. He’d interested her. He hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he’d kept his distance from the family and other mourners. It would be difficult, she imagined, for a man like that to really blend into a crowd. He had to be six foot four, and he seemed to be solidly built but not too heavily muscled. He had neatly cropped sandy hair and hazel eyes that seemed to marble to a piercing shade of gold.

“Who is he?” she asked Billie.

And if he knew my father so well, she wondered silently, feeling a familiar sense of loss and pain, why did my father never tell me about him?

I was so blithely unaware! Completely focused on art...

Billie looked uncomfortable. “He told you. His name is Michael Quinn. He’s a P.I. Used to be a cop with the NOPD, but he left the force to work for himself.”

“So what?” she demanded. “He worked with my dad to track down stolen objects or something like that?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Billie said, his gaze sliding from hers.

“Hmmph! He’s rude,” Jane said, resting the cane she’d brought down on the bar counter. “Obnoxious. Like a crazy man. You should stay away from him!”

“No, you should listen to him,” Billie insisted.

Jane shook her head. “Report him to the police!”

“Ah, Jane. You’ll argue with anything I suggest,” Billie said, aggravated.

“Well, rude isn’t really the problem at the moment.” Danni sighed, looking at the two of them. They could bicker like a married couple; Billie didn’t really trust Jane, she thought. But both of them were excellent at their jobs, excellent at helping her run the business. She lowered her head. Most of the time, they were amusing when they were together.

“Billie, sorry. I can’t just take the word of some guy who thinks he knew my father better than I did. I am going to call the police. I’m worried about that woman.”

“Are you going to go and see about the bust?” Billie asked.

“Maybe,” she replied. “But...I need to report this. If something happened to her—if she was so upset she walked into traffic—I’d never be able to live with myself.”

Billie and Jane both stared at her. She called the operator rather than the emergency number and was put through to the right department. Billie and Jane watched as she gave the woman’s name and reported her strange behavior in the shop and then answered a zillion questions. Had the woman been armed? No. Had she threatened anyone? No. Had she mentioned suicide? No. But she had talked about a killer statue and sounded as if she needed some serious intervention.

In the end, a public safety officer promised that Mrs. Simon’s state of mind would be investigated, and she hung up, feeling frustrated.

Jane and Billie were still staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Your dad would’ve found out about the bust. He wouldn’t have ignored that poor lady,” Billie said.

“You haven’t been on any buying trips since he died,” Jane added. “No, I wasn’t your father’s right hand—like Billie—but I knew him well and loved him. Maybe...” She looked pained as she spoke again. “Maybe you should listen to Billie.”

“Will wonders never cease!” Billie muttered.

Danni lifted her hands in a gesture that said nothing at all. It was still hard; she didn’t spend her days crying or moping, but she felt as if there was a huge hole in her life. Angus had expected her to be strong and independent. She’d gone away to school and gotten her own apartment and led a life separate from his.

But he’d always been there. Once she was back in New Orleans, she’d seen him almost every day. She’d traveled with him extensively through the years.

Seeing the sights—at his urging—while he did his buying and collecting. He had spoiled her, yes. But he’d also taught her to be courteous and caring. He’d never walked away from anyone who needed help, whether it was a confused tourist seeking directions or a homeless veteran or down-and-outer needing food and shelter—or a ride to detox.

“I will go see the bust, okay? I’ll do what I can for Mrs. Simon.”

Billie nodded. “That’s what your dad would want.”

“I’m trying to keep his legacy alive,” she told the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...I was working. I’ll go at five. I’ll meet that obnoxious man and buy the stupid bust and hopefully make everyone happy, all right?”

Neither spoke or moved.

With a slight sound of impatience, she passed them by, thinking she’d return to her studio.

But she didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to see the painting she’d almost finished, the character study that suddenly looked just like a real person.

Mrs. Simon.

Instead, she headed downstairs to the rooms that had been the most precious to her father. There were glass cases here and there—and boxes everywhere. A full suit of armor stood in one corner while in another an upright Victorian coffin held pride of place. It had never been used for a body but had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in business on Canal Street. A mannequin enjoyed eternal sleep behind the small window above the face, a style that was popular at the time. The wall displayed the death mask of an ancient Egyptian queen. One corner of the room held a horrifically screaming gorilla from a movie that was never completed and probably with good cause; the sign on the creature said From The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.

She paused, glancing around. Other people, she thought, might find the basement creepy. She’d spent so much time working with her father that she’d learned to appreciate the delicate artistry put into so many of the items. The carving on the coffin, for instance, was the result of painstaking craft and labor.

Light filtered in from the old glass panes just above ground level but it wasn’t enough for her that afternoon. Danni turned on the low-watt bulbs that helped protect the old pieces of art and artistry and sighed wistfully. Some people might suggest that her father haunted the rooms where his collections were kept.

She wished he did.

“Oh, Dad, if only you were here now!” she said softly.

The book.

He’d been so frantic that she “turn to the book.”

It was a very old volume and it sat on a desk, encased in protective glass. Danni could remember it being there forever, she just hadn’t thought much about it among the other curios so dear to her father. She walked over to the desk, sat in the swivel chair and looked down at the old tome before opening the glass cover and lifting it out. She’d never held it before, and the book was heavy, the parchment rich and the pages gold-trimmed. It was American, something that always gave her father great pride, and had been printed in 1699.

Carefully she turned pages, wondering what he’d wanted her to read in this book—or why he’d believed it would answer all questions, solve all dilemmas.

She was startled when a piece of folded paper slipped out.

She recognized her father’s writing—her name in cursive on the outside.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.

Danni, dearest daughter, my sorrow is great as I write this. My burden is hard to bear, and yet it will be yours, too. Read with the light on the desk. And remember, the book is only for those who have the heart and the will to understand and to care, and though I have tried to give you the life of a normal young woman, the day will come when you must understand. Of course, I will tell you, talk to you, about all this, but I am writing in case my time comes before I know. Life is fleeting for us all and none can predict the day that we’ll be called to a greater reward. My dearest Danni, I believe that love transcends time, and so I am with you, even if I have failed you.

Tears stung her eyes. “You never failed me, Dad. Ever. I loved you so much,” she said aloud.

No, he had never failed her. She didn’t know that much about his past—only that he had immigrated from Edinburgh when he’d been a young man, that he’d studied ancient history there and spent many years working on archaeological digs. He’d batted around the world until he was in his forties, met her mother—an anthropologist half his age—married her and moved to her home, New Orleans. After her mom died of an aneurysm when Danni was four, he’d done everything for her, acting as both father and mother. Even as an older man, he’d been gorgeous. But he’d never remarried.

A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “I wish you’d make a little more sense, Dad, but...no, you never failed me. You were the best ever!”

Danni began to flip through the pages. The Book of Truth offered medieval cures for whatever might ail you. One chapter listed herbs and their mixtures for maladies ranging from snakebite to the plague. Another gave instructions for cupping and bleeding.

She went back to the beginning. The print thoughout was large—perhaps to help the elderly and those with poor eyesight. The letters were exquisite, more like calligraphy than print.

She found a publication page. The book had been published in Boston. Maybe accepting herbs as natural medicinal components was something the author had done boldly and angrily, since it was printed only a few years after the calamity of the Salem witch trials.

She quickly discovered that she was right. The author, Millicent Smith, had written an introduction, dedicating the book to the women who had died in innocence, victims of jealousy or greed or even mass hysteria. “True evil rests deeply and does not enter into the clean souls of those who will not be corrupted by demons.” Danni admired the author and printer for their courage, and wondered how many copies of The Book of Truth had been created. Were they kept secret during those perilous times, circulating underground? How had her father come across this one?

“Turn to the book,” he’d told her.

She shook her head. She didn’t believe she’d have to protect anyone from being hanged, pressed or burned to death for being a witch. Maybe he was warning her to guard against prejudice of any kind, because there was nothing so dangerous.

Maybe it was his way of saying that there were people out there who needed to be saved.

“I called the police, Dad,” she murmured. “I tried to get help for Mrs. Simon.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll meet your bulwark of a private eye and buy the damned statue!”

She set the book back in its case, but as she did, she noticed another piece of paper between the next pages.

The light. Make sure you use the light!

That had been written hastily.

Use the light.

Well, she couldn’t read without light, could she? Besides, there were plenty of lights down here.

Determined, feeling guilty although she couldn’t understand why, Danni looked at her watch. She’d been down here longer than she’d realized.

If she was going to meet Quinn, she had to get moving.

But she hesitated, drumming her fingers on the glass, frowning. Michael Quinn. She vaguely remembered the name and wondered why. She knew she hadn’t met him through her father. It was a good old Irish name and there were plenty of those in the city.

And then she remembered. Years ago, the name had been revered. There’d been a Michael Quinn who had hit the sports pages of the Times Picayune again and again. He’d lifted his public school from obscurity to stardom playing football. He was offered scholarships to half the colleges in the country. He’d been a local hero, soaring to football glory while maintaining academic achievement and capturing the hearts of adolescent females through the city, the parish and beyond. She was only twelve at the time, so she couldn’t really remember the details, but...

But nothing. He’d disappeared. There’d been brief articles about him—about his behavior, attending parties known for excessive drug and alcohol use. Then everything had stopped. She hadn’t heard anything about him ripping up the college scoreboards or joining the pros. He’d just disappeared.

Might have been a different Michael Quinn.

* * *

Gladys heard the voice again as she drove down the street. He was there, beside her, whispering in her ear.

“Do it. Gun it!” he ordered her.

She had ignored him as she’d driven through the French Quarter; you could barely move through the Quarter at times, much less gun a car. People walked into the street heedlessly—especially those who’d gotten an early start on Bourbon Street.

But now, she could see a group of schoolchildren. A crossing guard stood in the street with a large red stop sign, warning drivers that it was a school zone and elementary kids were making their way across the road.

“Gun it. End it for the little bastards—stop the pain for them now. Half of them live in crack houses, you know that. End their pain and yours. Gun it!”

She turned to look at him. He was beautiful. His face was so handsomely structured, with dark hair curling over his brow. His mouth was full and sensual. He moved, and yet he still looked as if he were cast out of marble. It was so strange; the statue in her house was a bust, showing only the head, shoulders and neck of the man, but he seemed to be sitting by her side in full body. He acted natural and at ease. He’d been carved during the time of the Renaissance, but he spoke English and knew modern idioms. He seemed to know modern mores and customs, too.

He was beautiful, yes...

And so malicious. Evil to the core. His smile was one of pure cruelty.

“You have to do it, Gladys. Think of the world, always the same. Kill or be killed. You can end their misery and your own. Or if you survive, you’ll walk away because of your fragile mental state, the depths of your grief. It’s kill or be killed, Gladys. That’s the way of the world.”

She saw the man in her mind, of course, but he seemed so...real. She’d seen him the night her husband had died, seen him standing over the body. And she’d known that Hank Simon was killed by the marble bust he’d been so ecstatic to acquire, the piece that had lain half-buried by the grave of a pirate-turned-entrepreneur in St. Louis Cemetery #1. A former pirate, yes, but a man who’d dedicated himself to good works in the latter part of his life. God knew where the bust had been before that.

He’d stood over Hank where he lay on the floor of their grand Garden District home; he’d stood over him, smiling, while Hank lay broken and bleeding. It looked as if he’d fallen or jumped over the balcony railing, but he hadn’t. She’d known it when she saw the man. He had disappeared into thin air and she hadn’t seen him again—until he’d appeared at the foot of her bed that morning, telling her she had to do as he instructed, or she’d wind up like Hank.

It was astonishing that her heart hadn’t given out then.

No, it was tragic that her heart hadn’t given out. Because now he was with her, urging her to kill....

She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to mow down schoolchildren with her Lincoln.

And yet...

She felt her foot almost itching to touch the pedal. She felt something inside her suddenly longing to do as he said—hit the gas. Hit it hard. Hit all the children she could. And, definitely, hit the plump crossing guard with her sign and her whistle....

Her foot inched down on the gas with a malevolence that seemed to fill her heart with bloodred fury.

Chapter Two

QUINN HAD THOUGHT he’d be able to keep up with Gladys.

Chasing her on foot hadn’t been difficult, but following her once he’d gotten back to his car had proven to be a challenge. Parking in the Quarter was a nightmare, so naturally he’d been two blocks down. Still, Gladys Simon wasn’t exactly a speed demon, so he should’ve managed to catch up with her.

But it was the French Quarter. He should have known but never suspected that a parade would close off Bourbon precisely when he needed to cross it.

Gladys had beaten the parade.

He chafed, waiting. There was no turning; there was no backing up.

Assuming that she’d be headed home, he figured he’d start uptown as soon as he could. He tried to assure himself that Danni Cafferty had called the police and that they’d come by—or social services would—to see to her welfare.

But he couldn’t be sure.

He knew he had to reach Gladys himself. If Danni wasn’t going to take the statue, he had to do it. But he didn’t know whether he dared wait long enough to catch up with Gladys, since she seemed to be at the end of her rope. If Danni had just agreed immediately to come and get the damn thing, he wouldn’t have been so worried.

When he’d tried to call Gladys, she’d refused to talk to him. When he’d tried to see her at home, he’d been put off by a protective housekeeper. He hadn’t known that Hank Simon had the statue in time to try and see the man. In fact, he wouldn’t even have learned about its existence—other than through vague references in art-history books—if it wasn’t for the sniveling Vic Brown, incarcerated now with no bail while he awaited trial.

Vic had sold the bust to Hank Simon. Then, of course, Quinn had found out that Hank had died, which meant his wife now had it.

Vic had shot down three of his associates in the Chartres Street gang before being winged by the police himself. According to Vic, the bust had made him do it.

The newspaper had alerted him to the criminal’s planned defense. Visiting him in his cell had told Quinn that Vic seriously thought the bust had ordered him to shoot his friends—it was them or his own life. A self-defense plea might actually work for the poor bastard; Vic’s attorney, Anthony Everst, was trying to get Vic into a hospital unit. Not a bad call, since the dope dealer and petty crook was ranting in his cell about being damned now that he was no longer possessed.

Despite maneuvering more quickly than the law allowed when he finally cleared the Quarter, Quinn didn’t catch up with Gladys on the road. But when he arrived, he saw that her car was in the driveway.

Apparently Gladys had gotten home without incident.

He left his car and hurried up the walkway to the porch of the beautiful old Victorian house where the Simons—pillars of society, philanthropists in the extreme—had lived. The house, he knew, had been in the Simon family since it was built just prior to the War Between the States. It spoke of old money and genteel living, slow breezes and gracious hospitality.

He banged on the door and pressed the buzzer urgently.

It was opened by the battle-ax of a housekeeper.

“You again,” she said. Her name was Bertie. He knew that from trying to go through her to speak with Gladys before. He’d begun this quest as soon as he’d learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.

“Bertie, it’s imperative that I talk to Mrs. Simon. I think I can help her. You must know that her mind is unbalanced by grief. I can help her. I swear to you, I can.”

“She’s in mourning,” Bertie said. “And she doesn’t need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husband’s behalf or any such thing.” Bertie wagged a finger at him. “I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I don’t care if you were a cop or if you’ve become a big hero—I heard enough ’bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Bertie, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your employer,” Quinn said, tempted to grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and push her out of his way. “She’s nearly unhinged. She needs help.”

“Not from the likes of you. You get out of here, Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said.

It really was a matter of life and death; still, he didn’t want to force the woman to move if he didn’t have to. One thing he’d say for Bertie—she knew his old reputation and could clearly see his size, but her loyalty to Gladys kept her from giving an inch.

“How about you just ask her if she’ll see me? Tell her it’s about the bust.”

Bertie stiffened. She looked at him and either decided that Gladys was in such bad shape that even he might help or that he might be ready to physically set her aside.

“Fine, you can come in,” she snapped.

She opened the door, and he entered the foyer with its elegant stained glass. He saw the central stairway leading up to the rooms above and balcony from which Hank Simon had thrown himself to his death. Bertie wouldn’t glance in that direction. She stared straight at him and indicated the room to his right. “Go on into the parlor and stay there!” she said firmly.

He nodded and walked in. She followed him, closing the heavy double doors as if that would assure he didn’t wander around the house.

Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil War–era owners flanked the mantel. The furniture in the room was an eye-pleasing collection of different decades and styles. The chairs were richly upholstered and the room’s central piece—a grand piano—was polished to a magnificent shine.

He sat restlessly in one of the wingback chairs. Bertie was taking way too long.