“Thanks,” Danni murmured.
“I was told she was very anxious when you two had to be parted. That’s a good sign,” the nurse said.
Danni drew her chair close to the bed. She took Hattie’s hand in her own and held it. The woman’s eyes didn’t change, although Danni thought she felt Hattie’s hand grip hers for a moment. It might have been an involuntary twitch...or it might have meant that Hattie knew she was there.
When the nurse left them, Danni tried speaking to Hattie. “I’m here with you.” She paused. “I’m sure you know about Mr. Arnold, your butler. I’m so sorry about his death. But you were there, Mrs. Lamont, you were in the house. You saw or heard something. But I’m here with you now. You’re in the hospital. And you’re all right.”
The woman didn’t look at her. She still didn’t blink. She didn’t move.
Danni kept talking, but Mrs. Lamont didn’t seem to hear. After a while, she leaned her forehead on the edge of the bed. It had to be very late; she was exhausted.
She must have dozed because she was suddenly aware of being touched. She felt gentle fingers on her hair.
She raised her head and saw Hattie gazing at her with something like tenderness.
“Mrs. Lamont?” Danni said.
“It’s so kind of you to be here. I—I don’t really understand where I’ve been, but I know you’ve stayed with me.”
Danni swallowed. “Mrs. Lamont, do you remember...”
She nodded sadly. “Bryson is dead. He’d only been with me for about six months. Clara, my housekeeper who’d been with me for years, became very weak. I put her in a beautiful home with a private nurse and then...then I hired a young man who’d act as a real butler. We became close. Bryson. My dear Bryson is dead. He...is dead. It killed him. I saw...it. And it killed him.”
* * *
One of Jake Larue’s men was brilliant with computers, and he quickly figured out the monitoring system Hattie Lamont had in her house and on her grounds.
There was a camera in every single room, except the bathrooms. Recordings were kept for a week, and then recycled. Mrs. Lamont never came or went from her bathroom without being totally clothed and respectable.
It took the computer officer some time to go through the footage of the front steps, the back, the sides of the house and all the rooms. But he finally found what they were looking for. First, however, there was a lot of fast-motion footage of the butler preparing food, speaking with Hattie, preparing more food and going on errands. There was also a lot of Hattie at her desk in the downstairs study, checking her plants outside, and sleeping.
Quinn saw Danni in the house with the woman, in the parlor. He saw how earnestly Danni had spoken with her.
He saw Danni leave. The butler locked the front door and started up the stairs. Mrs. Lamont sat in the parlor studying the business card Danni had given her. Then she rose, tucked it in a pocket and walked upstairs, too. She went to her bedroom.
“Bring up Mrs. Lamont’s room, please,” Larue said.
Mrs. Lamont’s beautifully appointed bedroom popped onto the screen. Hattie lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, as if she just wanted to rest for a few minutes.
“Could you bring up the back of the house during these same minutes?” Quinn asked.
The screen went gray, and then another image appeared. The backyard wasn’t big; it was easy for the camera to encompass what was there. A charming back porch led out to a small but well-manicured lawn.
Suddenly, there was nothing.
“What happened here?” Quinn asked.
“It’s not the computer. Someone did something to the camera,” the officer told him. “The lens is...dead.”
“Was it shot out?” Larue wondered.
“I think I would’ve heard a shot,” Quinn said.
“Paintball,” the officer explained. “That’s a popular method of knocking out cameras these days. We can check.”
“I’ll send an officer.” Larue reached for his cell.
“Go through every room in the house until you find the butler,” Quinn said.
The officer did. They finally saw Bryson Arnold in a small room next to what seemed to be a climate-controlled storage room. He walked toward the rear, and then apparently remembered the camera. He bent down, moving surreptitiously around.
Again, the screen went blank.
“I’m willing to bet something was just thrown over the camera,” Larue murmured.
“Now what?” the officer asked.
“Someone else is in the house. Check out the back entry, the kitchen, the central hall,” Quinn said.
“There he is!” The officer pointed at the screen.
There was indeed a man in the house. He wore black pants and a black sweatshirt, the hood pulled low. It was impossible to see his face.
“There’s our killer,” Larue said.
Quinn wasn’t sure if the hooded man was actually the one who’d carried out the killing. He didn’t look like someone who could wield a large knife with enough power to nearly sever a head. But he moved up the steps and marched straight to the gallery.
A moment later, Bryson Arnold joined him there, a large, wrapped painting in his hands. He greeted the other man tersely and ripped open the packaging.
Then the screen changed again. It didn’t go blank. It fogged over with a gray mist so thick they couldn’t see a thing.
And every bit of footage the computer expert went through after that—of every room in the house—showed nothing but what appeared to be heavy gray fog.
* * *
Danni called Quinn to tell him that Hattie was speaking—that she seemed to have recovered her senses completely. He didn’t answer his phone. She left a message; she was sure the nursing staff had been told to call the police, so she didn’t try Larue’s number. Instead, she returned her attention to Hattie.
“Hattie, try to describe ‘it’ for me again,” Danni said. “Think carefully and tell me everything that happened after I left.”
Hattie was definitely herself again. She gave Danni an impatient look. “I can only tell you what I saw. My story isn’t going to change.”
“I know, but...please. Humor me.”
“I was tired, so I went up to my room to rest before dinner. I prefer to eat at about eight-thirty. That’s what I’m used to. My husband didn’t come home until seven or seven-thirty most nights, so we always dined at eight-thirty.”
“That was very caring of you,” Danni said, willing herself to be patient.
“And smart,” Hattie said, a bit smugly.
“So you went to lie down and rest.”
Hattie nodded. “Then...I heard a commotion. As if...as if there were several people in my house. I was stunned and appalled. Bryson Arnold was a perfect employee—he never let anyone in without my say-so!”
“But there was something going on.”
She nodded again. “In the gallery. The door was closed. I opened it and then...” She winced. A shudder made its way through her body. “Then I saw it. The thing. The darkness...like a form, but not a form. It reminded me of a banyan tree with roots everywhere. Or maybe it was more than one thing. Or trying to become more. It was pulsing and moving and—”
“And then what?”
“And then I heard a screeching sound, and suddenly in the midst of all that darkness, I saw Bryson and he yelled at me. He...well, he shouted. He shouted one word. Run.” She took a breath. “And I tried to run but I couldn’t. I can’t describe my terror. I felt a sense of fear unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t breathe. I stood there for a moment and then in all that darkness...I saw red. Blood. It was blood flying from Bryson’s throat and it seemed brilliant against the darkness that flooded...everything. I...screamed. And I fell. And then I crawled until I reached a door and I went in and...I don’t remember anything after that. Sometime later, I’m not sure when, I realized I was still alive. That I was here. And you were with me.”
&n
bsp; “Mrs. Lamont, did Bryson have the Hubert painting out?” Danni asked.
The older woman smiled. “After all this, call me Hattie. And I don’t know if he had the painting out or not. There was so much...fog. It was like one of those days when you can’t see where you’re going because the fog is so thick. I don’t even remember Bryson’s face. I just remember the blood because the color seemed so ridiculously bright against that fog.”
Danni was silent. She wondered what—if anything—Quinn and Larue had found at the house.
“Do you think Bryson had taken the painting out of its packaging?” Danni asked.
“Why?”
“Maybe he wanted to see it?”
“He never asked me. I know what you said about not unwrapping it, but he knew that I wanted the lighting fixed before it was hung. That I was waiting for some workers who were due tomorrow. If he’d really wanted to see the painting, he would’ve asked me.”
“Was there anyone else in your house?”
“Besides it?”
“Yes.”
Hattie shook her head. “If there was, I wasn’t aware of it. All I really remember is lying down, then hearing the noise and getting up. I was stupid, I suppose. I mean, even if it was just an art thief, I might’ve been shot! I should have snuck down the stairs and gotten out.”
Danni decided not to mention that she could’ve grabbed her cell or a bedside phone and called the police or the numbers on the business card.
Hattie seemed to read her mind. “I said I behaved stupidly, didn’t I? But do you know how preposterous this all sounds?”
“Of course. But...you seem to be doing very well,” Danni said.
“And Bryson is dead.”
Danni started at the light knock on the door. It opened, although neither she nor Hattie had spoken.
Quinn had come; Jake Larue was with him.
Larue said, “Mrs. Lamont, I don’t think you need to shed too many tears for Bryson. Still, I wouldn’t have wished such an end on anyone.”
“Not shed tears for Bryson!” she retorted. “The man was quite extraordinary—and an excellent butler!”
Quinn sat in the chair across from Danni, while Larue took a position at the end of the bed.
“Mrs. Lamont,” Quinn began. “We have reason to believe that Bryson Arnold was in league with an intruder who entered your house by the rear door.”
“The alarm would’ve gone off!”
“Not if Bryson reset it,” Quinn said gently. “And not if he knew your schedule and planned a time for someone to meet him. We have footage of Mr. Arnold in your storage room, Mrs. Lamont. We believe he was taking out the Hubert—and that he’d arranged to steal it and sell it to another man.”
Hattie Lamont sat up straighter in her bed and stared at Quinn in disbelief. “No, no, that couldn’t be. Bryson was trustworthy.”
“Unfortunately not,” Quinn went on. “We also have reason to believe he lied about signing for the package and invented a description for the police artist.”
“No...” Hattie gasped, shaking her head wildly. “Surely not.”
“How long had he been with you?” Larue asked.
“Well...not that long, but—”
“Did he happen to come into your employ after you found out about the Hubert going up for auction?”
“About six months ago and...yes!” Hattie’s eyes widened and her face paled. “Yes, I’d just called the auction house. I suppose I’d mentioned in a few of the galleries I visited that I’d heard about it and was interested. I’d been interviewing people during that time and he...” She sank back onto the bed. “Bryson Arnold came into my employ then, yes. Our previous butler, Clancy, died about a month before I hired Bryson. I needed someone, and Bryson seemed perfect.” Some emotion dimmed her eyes. “There’s no fool like old fool, is there? Money and age. People will take advantage of them every time, won’t they?” She seemed to ask the question of herself rather than those gathered around her.
Danni had to argue with that. “Mrs. Lamont—Hattie—Mr. Arnold might have genuinely cared for you. Perhaps he’d made a bargain he couldn’t get out of. You said he told you to run. He realized he was in trouble himself, and he told you to run.”
“His partner killed him,” Larue said.
Hattie frowned at Larue. “His partner? I didn’t see another man in there. Don’t be ridiculous. One man couldn’t have caused the fog. And whatever it was came out of that fog. No partner killed Bryson Arnold!”
“Then who did?” Larue asked, confused. “What do you mean by it? We saw the footage at your house. The back camera was blacked out, but apparently, no one thought of the inside cameras, not at first, anyway. We saw a man in black jeans and a black hoodie come into your house and go up the stairs. He had to have killed Bryson Arnold.”
“No,” Hattie insisted stubbornly. “No, he certainly did not!”
“Then who did?” Larue demanded again.
“I told you. It killed him. The thing in the fog. The thing forming there...the thing the fog was trying to become.” She wagged a finger at Larue. “Do not tell me I’m suffering from any form of shock or dementia, Detective. I’m telling you, and I will swear until my dying day, that it—the thing in the fog—killed him!”
Chapter Seven
OTHER THAN HATTIE Lamont’s insistence on what most people would consider a delusion, she seemed to be in good health. The hospital staff, however, wanted to keep her overnight for observation. That was fine with Larue; he wasn’t done with her house and he didn’t think it was safe for her to go home, anyway.
For one thing, she no longer had a butler.
“The lady is in great shape,” he told Quinn outside the room. “But, still, at her age...and with what’s just happened, well...she’s better off here. Tomorrow...we’ll have to figure out what to do. I can’t keep her out of her home. But I’m not sure she should be alone.”
“What do you think of her story?” Quinn asked.
Larue twisted his lips wryly. “If I hadn’t seen all the fog in the footage at the police station, I’d say she was crazy as a loon.” He paused, shrugged. “Quinn, do you suppose there might be a magician involved? Someone who knows how to create fog and illusions and all that?”
Quinn realized that Larue wanted him to say yes. He wanted a normal explanation for what had happened. Or at least something that could pass for normal under these very bizarre circumstances.
“Sure,” Quinn said, not believing it for a second. “That’s a possibility.”
“What the hell else is there?” Larue lifted a hand. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m headed back to the Lamont house. See if you—or Danni—can get Mrs. Lamont to leave town. Maybe she has relatives somewhere. Hey, maybe she could take a cruise.”
“You think someone might still want to hurt her?” Quinn asked.
Larue was thoughtful. “Who knows? You could be right, and it all has to do with that wretched painting. There are hours of recorded footage on that house. I’ll make some of my guys sit down and watch every second of it. In any case, it looks like the butler was in on it with whoever was in the house. And whoever that was seems to have disappeared with the painting. When we’ve gone through all the footage from the security cameras, we can verify that he left with it.” He was quiet for a minute. “Maybe the killing will stop and we’ll have a chance to find the thief. You know, maybe he’s happy now that he’s got the painting.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think you’re going to get Mrs. Lamont out of town,” Quinn said. “She’s the most stubborn old bird I’ve ever come across. Are you going to have someone on guard duty here tonight?” If Larue didn’t, he knew Danni would insist on staying. But she needed to sleep—or, at the very least, be in her own home.
That was where she’d sleepwalk and paint again—if it happened a second time. Perhaps her vision might give them more clues.
And, selfishly, that was where they’d be together.
Larue nodded.
“Yeah, I’d be remiss if I didn’t watch out for Mrs. Lamont.” He took out his phone and made arrangements for an around-the-clock guard.
“You want to wait until an officer gets here?”
“Of course,” Quinn said, relieved.
Larue left him then, hurrying down the hallway, and Quinn walked back into Mrs. Lamont’s room. The older woman, who was deep in conversation with Danni, watched him closely as he came back in and took a seat.
He looked from Mrs. Lamont to Danni, arching his brows in silent question.
“We were just discussing the painting,” Danni told him.
“Oh?” he murmured politely.
Hattie Lamont was still staring at him. She smiled suddenly. “Danni’s been telling me that you’re actually a decent young man, Michael Quinn.”
“I’m trying,” he said.
“Hmph!” Her remark evidently referred to the life he’d been known to lead years before. Not a good one, he had to admit, although he’d never intentionally hurt anyone and the damage he’d done had been mostly to himself.
“I was trying to save you,” he said.
She nodded. “Obviously I can see that now. And I’m trying to fill in any gaps I can regarding that painting. I’ve always wanted one of Hubert’s works, and this was my opportunity—his most famous painting yet! I love the entire era, and the history of this work especially. Can you imagine what it was like that summer? I think about what the sky must have been like. Mount Tambora erupting in the Dutch East Indies and creating climate change! It shows us just how fragile our earth is. And I love imagining what it was like for Mary Shelley growing up—I mean, her mother was the feminist of her day! Even though she died soon after Mary was born, her published works made her famous. She espoused equal rights and women’s suffrage, far ahead of her time. And later, Mary would’ve known about many of the experiments being done with electricity—and with the dead. I’m not losing you, am I, Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn glanced at Danni, who was trying to hide a grin. He smiled at Hattie Lamont. “I’ll try to follow along, Mrs. Lamont. I’ve read Frankenstein, the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley,” he said. “I do admit I’m not really up on the eruption of Mount Tambora, though.”