“Since before I was born,” she agreed. “You even knew my mother.”
“Lovely lady, truly sweet and good and beautiful,” he said reverently.
“Which is all very nice,” she responded. “But you’re here for more than that.”
Billie sighed, leaning back. “Your grandfather collected in Scotland,” he said.
“Collected what?” she asked.
“What needed to be collected.”
“Billie!” she said with exasperation. “We sell things here. We’ve had the shop open forever. I sold a Tiffany lamp the other day. I’ve sold all kinds of paintings, sculptures, costumes, clothing, toys—you name it and we’ve sold it. So what does this really mean?”
“It means there are things out in the world that shouldn’t be there. It means that every now and then, there’s something that causes heartache and...” He paused. “And death and mayhem and grief.”
“Like the bust,” she said.
“Like the bust.”
“But there are lots of things in the basement. Many things my father added to his private collection. If they’re somehow evil, how could my father keep them here?”
Now Billie looked really uncomfortable.
“Billie!”
“If he kept them, he cleansed them,” Billie said.
“With Michael Quinn?”
“In the past several years, yes.”
She drummed her fingers on the table, realizing he wasn’t going to volunteer anything; she’d have to keep asking.
“Why Michael Quinn? Did he meet him through a special group or secret society?”
Billie shook his head.
“Then how?”
“He came to see your father.”
“Because?”
“He’d been hired to find a child.”
“And so my father...helped him find the child? Wait—was the child found? Alive?”
Billie smiled at that, nodding his head fervently. “Quinn came to your father to ask if he’d heard about any wacko group that was maybe planning a child sacrifice. Your father had recently purchased the contents of a long-deserted warehouse. A man and a woman had come in, trying to buy things from that warehouse, but nothing had been cataloged as yet. They went away, said they were coming back. They’d left a number where they could be reached when the contents were cataloged. Your father had begun looking into the contents of the warehouse, trying to find out who’d died and left everything there to rot with no family to make a claim. Anyway, he eventually discovered that the man who’d owned the storage place—under an alias, of course—had been none other than Gruesome Gus.”
Danni blinked at him. Gruesome Gus was a serial killer in west Texas. He’d been apprehended and sentenced to death—and he hadn’t fought it. He’d actually died of lethal injection a few years back.
“Did my dad know the stuff had belonged to Gus before he bought it?”
“No, but he would’ve taken it if he had—just to make sure.”
“To make sure of what?”
“That it was safe,” Billie told her.
“All right. So Michael Quinn came here. Because he thought Dad could help him.”
“Yes.”
“Why? How did the two of them connect in the first place?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Quinn.”
As if recognizing the fact that they were discussing his master, Wolf whined softly.
Danni gave him a shortbread cookie. It probably wasn’t good for him, but she didn’t have dog biscuits. If Wolf was going to be hanging around, she needed to invest in dog food and treats.
“Trust me, I will ask Quinn,” she murmured. “Go on.”
“With what?”
“What happened then?”
“Oh, well, that couple? They’d asked for a scepter. Your dad found it. He didn’t feel there was anything special about it—it was the type of thing they sell in wiccan shops or costume shops.”
“So?”
“He told Quinn. And Quinn used his contacts to backtrack the cell number your father had been given. It was pay-ahead, the kind you supposedly can’t trace—but they were able to discover where the phone had been sold, ask some questions—and get an address for the people. They’d taken over a fishing shack on the bayou. They’d gotten hold of some old Greek or Etruscan or some such book that promised eternity if they provided the sacrifice of a child and did all the right incantations, used all the right props. Anyway, Quinn went out there and got the kid back.”
“What gave Quinn the idea? That this child might have been stolen for something so...obscene?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Billie said again.
Danni nodded thoughtfully. “What’s your part in all this?”
“I assist. That’s what I do. Whatever your father asked of me. I guarded the place, I made calls, I read, I did whatever he needed done.” He smiled, petting the dog. “I watched over Wolf with them, when they were afraid poor Wolf might not make it.” He looked her in the eyes, his face solemn. “And I’m here for you. For what you need. I don’t have the touch myself, you see. So, I assist.”
“What do you mean, the touch?”
“Some people are just...special.”
“Oh, Quinn is special, all right,” she said.
Billie grinned, leaning toward her. “Some people know what they have to do in life. Some become priests or rabbis or whatever. Some look after the innocent—they somehow know they’re supposed to and they find the way, even if there are a lot of detours. Your father...he came from a long line of men who knew they’d been touched by the hand of an ultimate power. Quinn...now, he had a few detours. But he doesn’t give up. With you, I remember asking your dad once or twice if he was worried that he didn’t have a son. He’d tell me that girls were brighter than boys and then he’d wink at me in that way he had. ‘Smarter, Billie. They tend to be smarter. And they know how to think with their hearts. My girl will be just fine.’ But then he died. And he hadn’t said anything to you. You are his child, so I will be there for you no matter what you do, if it means looking after the shop and babysitting when the time comes—or marching into strange battles. You lead, Danielle Cafferty, and I will follow. But as to Quinn...I can tell you only that he is a good man. Almost reminds me of a medieval warrior. Someone as unique as the things in your father’s private collection. But you—you have to find your own path. Make your decisions. Learn the ways of your father—if you choose.” He took a long swallow, finishing his tea. “Thank you. Now we really need to sleep. Or I need to sleep.” He smiled weakly. “I’m not as young as I once was. In fact, I may not be the squire anymore who should be running behind you, carrying your lance and shield.”
Impulsively, Danni rose and kissed his cheek. “I’d have no other squire, Billie. No other.”
That obviously pleased him, although he lowered his head so she wouldn’t see.
They left the tea service in the sink for morning. Arm in arm, they climbed slowly up the stairs. Danni went back to bed, encouraging Wolf to jump up beside her. The dog was doubtful at first, but then curled at her side.
She couldn’t help wondering what had turned an alcoholic womanizer into a medieval knight.
Curiosity kept her awake for a while.
But again, when she slept, she slept deeply.
The sun had risen high when she opened her eyes.
Chapter Nine
QUINN’S FIRST STOP in the morning was the rectory; he wanted to talk to Father Ryan and find out how Bo Ray—Butt Kiss—was doing.
Ryan opened the door, apparently expecting him.
“No Wolf?” he asked.
“I left Wolf with Danni last night,” Quinn told him.
“I have coffee on. C
ome in,” Ryan said.
Quinn followed him into the rectory’s homey kitchen. Father Ryan poured a cup and handed it to him. “You hungry?”
Quinn shook his head. “I ate a few of those power bar things—they taste like cardboard but they fill you up. So, how is Bo Ray? And for that matter, how are you—since I dumped the junkie on you.”
Ryan smiled. “I’ve got him in the hospital—under an assumed name and under guard. He’s cleaned up, by the way. He’s a worn-out, skinny young man, but he looks better. Good-looking kid, actually. Pretty smart, well-read and all that. If he got it together, he could shake up the world. Or at least contribute to his own community.”
“Well, let’s hope.”
“You came out all right,” Ryan pointed out.
Quinn shrugged uncomfortably. “Dying kind of makes you want to watch it, you know?”
Ryan nodded without saying anything else on the matter. “How’d the night go?” he asked.
Quinn told him what had happened.
“I can see how Eyes might be in on this,” Ryan said. “He plays the generous, charitable businessman—but he’s out there campaigning for anything that might line his pockets. He has a lot of workers who...well, they stick it out because they have to. He’s cruel and rude, and treats maids and anyone doing a menial task as if they’re no better than slaves. He’s talked about running for public office.”
“How could he be elected if he’s an ass—and everyone knows it?” Quinn asked.
“Politics, I guess. Make the voters think he’s the lesser of two evils?”
“I don’t doubt that Eyes is in on this. But...I’m trying to figure out how he’d even know about the bust or where he’d get the idea that this object would help him create a political campaign. Besides, he’s really dirty. Wouldn’t the cops be able to come up with something against him?”
“As far as I know, that’s been the problem for years. The cops don’t have anything on him. He pays his bodyguards, security goons, really well. They protect him. Whenever anything around him smacks of the illegal, one of his employees has taken the rap. Not a single one has ever turned on him.”
“But now people are dying,” Quinn said.
“The dead don’t talk, do they? Not on the witness stand, anyway.”
Quinn had to agree with that.
He left the rectory and drove to the police station to check in on Sam.
Larue assured him that the man was doing well, happily playing cards, checkers and chess with the various officers watching over him.
“They tell me he’s a heck of a chess player,” Larue said. “So, where are you going from here?”
“I’m just planning to observe humanity.”
Larue looked down with a shudder. “Try not to make your...observing illegal, will you?”
“I’ll try not to,” Quinn said, grinning. “But you do know that’s why I quit the force.”
“Quinn—”
“I’ll stay on the right side of the law!” Quinn told him. “Did you get anything from the guy who was shot in the leg the other night?”
“Sure. He’s still in the hospital, howling. His description of the shooter is ‘Big guy. I think he was white. Might’ve been mixed. Probably around thirty. Maybe forty. He had hair. No, he was balding a little. He was wearing a hoodie. Maybe it was a long-sleeved tee.’”
“And no one saw anyone racing away from the cemetery, either, right?”
Larue shook his head. “Thing is, if you’re part of the criminal element in certain areas, there are all kinds of holes you can crawl into. We find them eventually—and more holes pop up. You can’t go knocking on every door in the city. Well, you could, but we don’t have the manpower. I do have detectives crawling the streets. Watching. Listening.”
Quinn thanked him and left.
Outside, he looked at his watch. He hadn’t wanted to call or waken Danni yet; it had been a late night. He smiled, wondering how she was doing with Wolf—and how Wolf was doing with her.
He hoped she hadn’t fed him too much junk.
He headed over to the Central Business District. He could eat, and if he found the right restaurant, he might run into a few of those who worked—in one way or another—for Eyes.
* * *
When Danni woke, she showered quickly and hurried down to take the dog out to the courtyard. She made herself coffee and was in the kitchen when Jane came to join her.
She knew Jane often seemed strange to people who came into the shop. They sold some of the weirdest things in the world, along with antiques, art and more typical collectibles, but Jane was the preppiest-looking person in the world. An aging preppie... Today she wore a blue dress with a Peter Pan collar, little black pumps, and her hair was pulled back in a neat bun. She sent Danni a troubled frown. “You bought a dog?” she asked. “I know you miss your father, but buying a dog that size...you might have given it a bit more thought.”
“Oh, he’s not mine—and don’t be afraid of him. He belongs to that man. Michael Quinn. He was in the other day.” She gave Jane a rueful smile. “He’s my guard dog, I guess, for the moment.”
Jane nodded. “I’m not that much of an animal person. But he’s sitting very nicely by your feet. Hello, boy,” she said.
The dog stared at Jane with his wolfish eyes. Jane didn’t try to pet him.
“Well, it is your shop,” Jane murmured. She looked at Danni worriedly. “I read about all the bad things that’ve been happening and I haven’t seen much of you, lately. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Jane.”
“But you need a monster dog to protect you?”
“I really like the dog!”
“Okay,” Jane said. She shivered, making Danni think of a nervous terrier, but managed to speak bravely. “If you need me, need my help, you know I’m here.”
“Of course, Jane. Thank you!”
“I believe Mrs. Simon’s daughter is in town. There was a little piece about her in the paper. Anyway, I was checking up on the place before locking the doors last night and I peeked in your studio. That painting you did of Gladys is wonderful. So beautiful and elegant. I was thinking...maybe you’d like to give it to her daughter.”
Danni started; she’d forgotten all about the painting she’d been working on when the woman—whom she was sure she’d never seen before, unless it was in the society pages—had walked into the store. She forced a smile. “What a nice idea,” she said.
Jane smiled in return and went back out to the shop.
Danni drained her coffee, then walked through to her studio to look at the painting again. The resemblance to Gladys was uncanny. “I did see her picture somewhere,” she said aloud. “I must have. And she was a beautiful character to paint. So much kindness in her eyes and such strength in her cheekbones!”
At her side, Wolf stirred. She absently set a hand on his head.
She was more disturbed by the fact that she’d been painting Gladys when the woman walked into the store than by her night in the cemetery.
Jane had made a really nice suggestion, though. Danni had something of a name in the local art world, so the painting might be appreciated by someone who’d just lost her mother.
After losing her father.
Yes, she would give it to Cecelia Simon. That would also get the painting far away from her.
As she studied it, she felt her cell phone ringing in her pocket. She answered and heard Natasha’s voice.
“It’s Natasha. If you have a chance, take a walk down here.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“A friend came in, reminding me that I promised to officiate as priestess at a ceremony for my parish this evening. There were some people who followed—I can’t talk now. Come on by and I’ll try to explain why I believe you tw
o should come now...and tonight.”
“I’ll be right there,” Danni promised.
She decided that Wolf would like a walk and a little socializing. Natasha had said you two, and she probably wasn’t referring to Wolf. Natasha assumed that she was working with Quinn. Well, she was. She was somewhat surprised that she hadn’t heard from Quinn; she had his dog, after all.
She slipped out through the courtyard, Wolf at her heels.
Tourists abounded on the streets. Spring in New Orleans seemed to bring people in droves, although, to Danni’s mind, there was nothing wrong with winter in her city. It could get cold, but not like it did in the north. The weather was pleasant and the shops were decked out for the festive season—a beautiful time in the Crescent City.
She moved down Royal, pausing here and there as someone exclaimed over Wolf and she stopped to allow him the attention he deserved. Restaurants and bars seemed to be booming, which was a relief, since they depended on tourism to survive.
Jimmy Joe Justin was on the street and she found herself stopping again. Jimmy Joe was an incredibly talented man. He played several instruments—sometimes, a couple at once, such as the harmonica and guitar. He had a voice like honeyed silk and could sing jazz, pop, rock and show tunes. She’d told him once that he should have been appearing at the biggest venues in the country; he told her he loved the French Quarter and the people there, and did just fine with the money that piled up in his guitar case.
She threw in five dollars, then hurried on to Natasha’s shop.
When she arrived, Natasha was in the courtyard surrounded by a tour group. “Voodoo really has many names,” she was telling them. “Vodun, vaudin, vudu...and more. It’s a religion that brought roots from Africa to the New World when the slave trade came here and then it drew upon the Catholicism of the French and Spaniards who were often the masters at the time. In voodoo, there is a supreme being—God as so many know Him. But in voodoo, He is far away—or perhaps He’s really busy. We can all imagine that, with the state of the world today, yes?”
Laughter followed her words. Natasha went on to explain. “Like many Christians, we seek intervention through saints—many of the same saints. On our altars you see images of angels and saints. We are a flourishing religion. There are about eighty million worshippers worldwide. Men may be priests and women may be priestesses. Members join a parish, just as many Christians do. Those who are true believers do not practice petro—or the black form of voodoo that would do harm to others. We also believe the soul or spirit has two parts—ti-bon-ange and gros-bon-ange. We also believe the spirit lives on, but that there must be a ceremony a year and a day after a loved one has departed to see that both halves of the spirit are united. We do believe in possession by spirits, and we dance and sing to let them possess us so we may hear their messages. Most religions are very good—a positive voice. It’s what men do with them that can be bad. Don’t assume that what you see about voodoo in movies is true! If you were curious about Islam or Judaism or Christianity or any other religion, you’d ask someone who’s involved, who knows. So feel free to ask questions. We love to share our beliefs!”