“It was incredibly important,” Mrs. Lamont said. “It created the atmosphere! The summer was cold, so cold. Even here, they had snow in New York—in June! Cold, with the ash up there in the atmosphere, blocking the sun, creating a haze...a fog.”
She stared wide-eyed at Quinn as she repeated the word. “Fog. Like that in my house.”
And like that at the police station, Quinn thought.
Danni placed her hand on Hattie’s where it lay on the white sheets. “Hattie, that may mean something. But it’s going to take some digging to figure things out.”
Hattie looked at Danni approvingly. “You do believe me!” she whispered. “The police think I’m a doddering old woman.”
“That’s not true, Hattie,” Quinn said. “Although they do believe a magician might be the killer.”
“Hattie?” she said haughtily.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lamont.”
He’d just heard Danni call her by her given name! What the hell had he done to the old witch—other than save her life?
“Danielle and I have had time to become friends, and not just acquaintances,” she informed him.
“Of course. I’ll remember that in the future.”
“Am I in danger now, young man?”
“I don’t believe so. The killer wanted the painting. He’s got it. As far as we can tell, anyway. It was in a storage room next to the gallery?”
“Yes, that’s where it is. Or was, if what you’re saying is true.”
“Mrs. Lamont, I really wouldn’t lie to you.”
“And you think that whoever—whatever—killed Bryson Arnold was after the painting and the painting only and that I’m not in danger?”
“Yes, I believe the painting was the reason for the break-in and Mr. Arnold’s death,” Quinn told her.
“Interesting. So why is there a policeman standing in the doorway?” Hattie Lamont asked.
Quinn turned around and saw that a young officer had arrived. Danni looked curiously at Quinn. He tried to return a look that said they needed every precaution. She seemed to understand.
“Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn walked to the door to shake the officer’s hand.
“Connor Gray, sir,” the young man said. “Detective Larue gave orders that I was to let you know when I got here. I’ll be relieved by Officer Bill Downing at 8:00 a.m. Mrs. Lamont will have one of us in the hallway at all times.”
Quinn thanked him and gestured at Danni.
“We’re leaving?” she asked.
“It’s midnight,” he pointed out.
“Oh!” She was clearly surprised that so much time had passed. She smiled at Hattie Lamont with real affection; as Hattie had said, a genuine relationship had grown between the two of them that afternoon. Maybe Danni was looking for the mother who’d died when she was very young and maybe Hattie was looking for the daughter she’d never had.
Hattie Lamont raised a magisterial hand. “Go home and get some sleep. I hope I can sleep, too—although I’m sure they’ll give me a sedative. Now, go. And...thank you. Thank you for coming here and staying with me.”
Danni glanced at Quinn. “I’ll be back in the morning. We’ll see how you’re doing then, and you can figure out what you want to do,” she told Mrs. Lamont.
“I’ll be quite all right.” Hattie Lamont nodded firmly. “I’m a tough old bird,” she said, as if she knew the same words had recently passed his lips. But she smiled at him as she spoke.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Quinn said. Danni impulsively kissed the old woman on the forehead and came around to the door. Quinn placed a hand at the small of her back. “Good night, Mrs. Lamont.”
“Good night,” the woman responded. “Oh, and, Mr. Quinn.”
“Yes?”
“You may call me Hattie now, if you wish. And I shall call you?”
Quinn laughed. “Quinn, Hattie. Just Quinn. That’s what everyone calls me.”
“Fine, then. Sleep well.”
Smiling, Quinn urged Danni out of the room.
* * *
When they reached The Cheshire Cat, Royal Street was quiet except for the dimly heard sounds of revelry on Bourbon Street. Danni barely heard the noise; she’d lived there since she was born. The Cheshire Cat itself was dark except for the night-lights. She and Quinn let themselves in via the courtyard.
Wolf was waiting when she opened the door, thumping his massive tail, eager to greet them both.
“So?”
She was startled by Billie; he was standing a few feet back in the dark, waiting for them, as well.
“Billie! You scared me!”
“Sorry. We’ve been sitting in the kitchen, Bo Ray and me. Hate to call you when you’re at a hospital, but we haven’t heard from either of you in a while now,” Billie explained. “So?”
“Got any food?” Quinn asked, looking up. He’d gotten down on the floor to give Wolf a thorough scratching.
“We never don’t ‘got’ food,” Billie told Quinn. “I’ll ‘rustle’ some up, as you might put it, but we know hardly anything about what happened today,” he said sternly.
“I called you,” Danni protested.
“That was hours ago!”
“I feel like I reek of blood,” Quinn murmured.
“I’ll fill Billie and Bo Ray in, especially since we don’t have much more to tell them,” Danni said. “You go shower and change.”
Quinn shot her a grateful glance and went running up the stairs to the second floor and her room. Billie grabbed her arm—as if he was afraid she’d follow.
“In here, Miss Cafferty, if you will!”
Grinning, Danni followed him into the kitchen. Bo Ray was at the table, reading the paper she still had delivered; they all seemed to like their news in the old-fashioned form—on paper.
“Danni, you okay?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m fine. And I’d love a coffee, even if it is after midnight.”
“Gotcha,” Billie said, hopping up and switching on their “pod” machine. He knew she liked a special pecan blend and he set about fixing her a cup. Wolf came to rest at her feet. She felt his cold nose and reached down to give him a pat.
She told Billie and Bo Ray everything she knew while Billie reheated their dinner, some kind of chicken and dumplings he’d whipped up. She thought it odd that while the man might have come with her dad from Scotland years before, he’d embraced the New Orleans tradition of throwing hot sauce into everything. Thankfully, he’d decided not to dump an entire bottle into the chicken and dumplings.
“One day a slaughter, and the next night a man killed,” Bo Ray mused. “Do you think it’ll stop now? The person who wanted the painting apparently has the painting. Wouldn’t that mean he’d stop killing to get it?”
A reasonable question, the same one Hattie had asked. But...
“I don’t think the person who has the painting is the one who did the killing,” Quinn said from the doorway.
“What do you mean?”
“That the killer is somehow...not really human.”
“The painting is doing the killing?” Bo Ray demanded.
“My turn for a shower,” Danni interrupted, checking her watch. She’d felt herself growing more tired the longer she sat there. Now it was after one in the morning—early by NOLA standards, perhaps, but it seemed late to her tonight.
She fled up the stairs to shower while Quinn told Billie and Bo Ray everything that had happened while he was at the house.
She meant to shower quickly. She felt exactly as Quinn had described—as though she bore the scent of blood. She hadn’t been in the room with Bryson Arnold’s body like he had, but she was anxious to wash off all residue of the day.
At last she pulled back the shower curtain...and had to swallow a scream. Quinn was standing there, naked, holding a towel for her.
She started to say something. He looked at her, and just shook his head.
She stepped into his arms and he wrapped the tow
el around her. His mouth found hers. They kissed standing there for a moment, until she didn’t need the towel anymore and it dropped to the floor. With their lips still pressed together, they staggered into her bedroom and paused. Moonbeams peeked through slits in the curtains, bathing their bodies in ethereal light. Then they fell onto the bed. She relished the feel of his lips as they moved over her body, igniting her skin and the muscles beneath.
She’d thought she was tired. She was tired.
But now she was exhilarated. The entire world was good again.
That night, they made love without ever speaking. They indulged in hot searing kisses before their lips moved on to other erogenous zones, only to meet again. At last they lay quietly together. Danni became aware of the air conditioner’s hum; she could even hear distant music and laughter from Bourbon Street. She wanted to drift off in his arms, in the slivers of moonlight that still touched the room.
But she whispered, “Where do we go from here?”
He pulled her more tightly against him. “To sleep,” he told her.
“But—”
“Sleep,” he said. “Right now, I don’t know where we go. All I do know is that we have to find the painting.”
“No object could cause so much horror....”
“There’s still a lot to learn about the history of this painting,” he said in a soft voice. “For now...”
She grew silent. She let his arms encircle her and decided that, for this night, she would enjoy the feel of his body against her own.
And she’d pray that the painting had taken its final toll. The painting—and whoever worked for it. Or with it.
She prayed that nothing would happen during the night.
* * *
When Danni woke in the morning, she found Quinn leaning up on one elbow, staring at her. “Anything?” she asked warily.
He shook his head. “I’d almost hoped I’d find you painting in the middle of the night,” he admitted.
“I didn’t...I didn’t sleepwalk.”
“No. I’m going down to study what you did the other night. And I guess we need to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. Before Hattie takes off on her own.”
“Seriously, though, why would anyone come after Hattie now? She doesn’t have the painting anymore. I’m sure the Garcia family died because the painting was in their house.”
“I don’t know, but legally she still owns it. That could make her a target,” Quinn said.
“Okay, let’s look at my painting and then get to the hospital.”
“In a minute.”
“A minute?”
“Well, a few minutes. We can’t take too much time, but there’s this very...romantic quality about morning. Especially when I’m just getting back in the swing of things with you.”
“Romantic?” she asked. “Really?”
He looked at her solemnly for a moment. “You know how I feel about you. I don’t think I can even describe it. So, if I’m away from you...all I’m doing is dreaming about you....”
“We’d better be fast,” she whispered.
“You don’t often hear that from a woman!” he said.
Within thirty minutes they were showered, dressed and downstairs. Danni was astonished that it was only eight and that Quinn had woken so easily, since the night before had been late.
But now he seemed to be on a mission.
He studied the painting she’d created herself—her nocturnal interpretation of the Hubert. But he didn’t say anything; he told her he was mulling it over. Bo Ray, eating cereal, was eager to know what he should be doing during the day.
“We keep the shop, son. That’s what we do. We keep the shop,” Billie told him, nodding to Danni as she and Quinn prepared to leave.
“Thanks. We’ll be in touch,” Danni promised.
Before they went out, she gave Wolf treats. Wolf accepted them but didn’t seem mollified. He didn’t like being left behind.
They arrived at the hospital just in time; Hattie Lamont was dressed—in yesterday’s clothes—and fuming that she needed to be released, but the doctor hadn’t signed an order yet.
“Thank God you’re here!” Hattie told Danni. “You can help me get out of here!”
“Hattie,” Quinn said, “maybe it would be best if you stayed another night.”
“Another night?” she challenged. “Hospitals, sir—when you’re not in need of medical care—are where they send old people to die. I am not checking out in that manner, yet, if you don’t mind!”
“Hattie, quite frankly, I think you’re far tougher than I am,” Quinn said. “But I don’t like the idea of you staying at your house alone or even in a hotel.”
“Has my house been destroyed?”
“No, the police were careful. Just the one room. You’ll need to get a special cleaning crew. There are actually specialists who’ll see that...”
“All the blood is cleaned up?” Hattie asked.
“Yes,” Quinn replied.
Hattie sat on the foot of the hospital bed. “I really prefer my own place. And I don’t—oh, it’s still so hard to believe that Bryson Arnold plotted against me! But there’s no one to plot against me now, and I have locks and alarms and cameras and...I want to go home!”
“I have an idea!” Danni said.
Quinn looked at her skeptically.
“Hattie, I have two wonderful employees. Bo Ray is young and industrious and I’d trust him with my life. Billie was with my father back in Scotland, before he came to the States. They can take turns staying with you.”
“Billie came with your dad from Scotland, eh?” Hattie snorted in a rather inelegant manner. “He must be even older than I am. He must be older than dirt!”
“Ouch! Don’t ever let Billie hear you say that,” Quinn teased. “I don’t know how old he is, Hattie. I wouldn’t dare ask him. He’s spry as a young chicken and mean as a hornet when something’s up.” Quinn turned to Danni. “Brilliant idea!” he said. “I think we—”
“Well, now, wait!” Hattie broke in. “I haven’t met these pillars of virtue yet.”
“That’s easily done,” Quinn said. “I’ll see about your discharge papers. Then we’ll head over to The Cheshire Cat and you can meet Billie and Bo Ray.”
Quinn left the room, moving with a sense of purpose.
“I haven’t approved this idea, you know,” the old woman muttered.
“Hattie, you shouldn’t be alone,” Danni said.
Hattie smiled wryly. “A week ago I would’ve dismissed your fears as if they were flies. Yesterday morning I would’ve done the same. Last evening, I did do the same.” She paused. “I’m not afraid often, Danni.”
“I realize that, Hattie.”
Quinn came back in. “Hattie, the crime scene technicians are giving your house another going-over. And the alarm and security camera people will need to be notified before everything’s back in order. But I’ve thought of another plan you may agree to.”
“And what is that, young man?”
“I have a house in the Garden District. It’s neat and clean, I swear. I’ve got a great housekeeper. I’m going to have you stay there, and Billie and Bo Ray can take turns doing guard duty. We’re also going to send over someone who’s even better at that—Wolf.”
“Who is this Wolf person?”
“We’ll introduce you,” Quinn said.
* * *
Crime scene tape still surrounded the mansion on Esplanade, but the officer at the door was expecting them. Hattie entered her house, glanced around and shuddered. “This has been my home for so long. I chose this house. I loved it. I restored it,” she said.
“They’ll be done soon enough. Then it can be the house you love again,” Quinn told her.
“I don’t know.” Hattie sounded forlorn. “I may never feel the same way about it. Well, I’ll just get some things and we can leave.”
As she went upstairs, she avoided looking into the room where Bryson Arnold had been kille
d.
Quinn left Danni downstairs and followed Hattie. As he did, he peered into the gallery. Grace Leon, small, wiry, with short graying curls and a confident manner, was head of the forensic unit still going through the room. He didn’t walk in, although he wasn’t sure what they still needed to cover. He didn’t intend to risk disturbing their work.
But Grace saw him. “Hey, Quinn.”
“Find anything, Grace?”
“Not much. Until whatever happened actually happened, it was spotless. There’s no dust. I saw the tapes, and the intruder/killer was wearing gloves, so I’m not expecting fingerprints. We’ve only made one little discovery so far—beyond the obvious, I mean. The blood.”
“What discovery is that?” he asked.
“A bit of mud that must have been caked on the intruder’s shoes.” She walked across the room to a cart and returned, holding an evidence bag.
“Can you piece together how Bryson Arnold died?” Quinn asked.
“Sure, come on in. We’ve tackled the floor already. Avoid the big pool of blood.”
“You know, Gracie, that’s something I don’t need to be told.”
“Follow me,” Grace said, as if she hadn’t heard his tongue-in-cheek comment. “First, our dead man entered dragging something along. Scraps of packaging were found on the floor. He stopped about here and started ripping up the packaging. You can see that by the little pieces of brown paper and bubble wrap, there—where we’ve put the markers. Then...it’s the oddest thing.”
“What?”
“I think he stopped and cut himself.”
“On purpose?” Quinn remembered Dr. Hubert’s comments from the night before.
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like. I think he used a box cutter to slice his own thumb,” Grace told him. “We found the box cutter with his blood on it, but there’s none of his blood on the remnants of packaging.”
“So, he cut his own hand. What then?”
“Hard to say. The body position is chalked out on the floor. Our intruder came in from that direction.” She pointed over her shoulder. “The body’s facing the other way. Our intruder should’ve been in front of him, but it looks like someone came up from behind and cut his throat from left to right, using a very sharp knife and considerable strength. The victim fell—you know where and how, since you were the one to find him. Looking at this room, you’d have thought more than two people were in it, that’s for sure,” Grace finished.