“What?”
“As if the great gates were a toothed mouth...and they were waiting to consume you. Danni, I’m afraid. I don’t like this.”
“Oh, Natasha, I don’t like it, either. But we have to find the painting. You know that.”
Natasha nodded fitfully. “Yes, yes, but...you must hear me out every time I have something to say to you. And I want you to go see Father Ryan tomorrow. I want him to give you a blessing and I...I brought you this.”
She slipped a medal over her head and handed it to Danni, who studied it. She’d expected a voodoo talisman, but what the priestess had given her was a Saint Jude medallion.
“Saint Jude.” Danni raised her eyebrows. “The patron saint of lost causes?”
“Can’t hurt,” Natasha said, getting to her feet. “I’m heading back to the shop. I just felt I needed to see you right away.”
“Thank you. And, Natasha, please don’t worry about me. Yes, the painting was created at a castle in Switzerland, but it’s in New Orleans now. Six people are dead because of it, and we need to find it—before it really does disappear.”
Natasha was silent. “The evil in the painting may go way back, Danni.”
“Yes, but the painting itself is here.”
Natasha held out her hands. “I see what I see.”
“I know, and thank you again. You’re a wonderful friend.”
“Yes, I am,” Natasha said, allowing herself a small smile.
Natasha walked to the door, but once she reached it, she paused. “Don’t you even think of leaving this city without me.”
“I’m not thinking about leaving the city at all.”
“You will be,” Natasha said. Then, with a swish of her colorful dress, she was gone.
Chapter Nine
QUINN RETURNED TO the shop on Royal Street just as Bo Ray and Danni were locking up. He was glad to see that they’d started making dinner before closing and that the food was almost on the table.
He was famished. “Anything new?” Danni asked him.
“We’re going to leave as soon as we’ve eaten—pay a visit to Dr. Hubert.”
Danni nodded, and he realized she seemed a little agitated.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do you know something?”
“I’ll just put plates and the casserole on the table,” Bo Ray said. “Don’t mind me.”
Danni rolled her eyes. “Bo Ray, I’ve told you everything.”
“Yes.” Bo Ray turned to Quinn. “She’s getting her copy of that blasted painting delivered sometime tonight.”
“That’s good, Bo Ray. We can study it when it’s here.”
Quinn noticed Bo Ray’s sardonic expression and smiled. “As far as I know, it’s only the real deal that causes trouble. Not a copy.”
“Yeah, great. But I’d rather not take any chances. Now you two are going to leave—and I don’t even have the damned dog here!”
“I taught you how to shoot,” Quinn pointed out. “And we’ll be a phone call away. If anything scares you, get the hell out and run up to Bourbon Street. There’s always a cop.”
“Yeah,” Bo Ray muttered. “I’m going to shoot a frickin’ painting!”
“I can call and have them not deliver it until morning,” Danni offered.
“You don’t need to do that. But I’m not unwrapping it,” Bo Ray insisted.
“No, you shouldn’t. Anyway, you won’t be here that long. I’m sure Billie will be switching places with you soon,” Danni said.
“Battle-ax Lamont is actually starting to look good!” Bo Ray grumbled.
“The casserole smells delicious,” Quinn said, changing the subject.
That remark visibly brightened Bo Ray’s spirits. He’d been simmering meat and vegetables in the Crock-Pot all day; it had taken him a few minutes to throw the ingredients in a pan and top them with mashed potatoes and a sprinkling of Parmesan to provide a perfect crust.
The meal was as delicious as it smelled. While they ate, Danni told them both what she’d read in the book and about Natasha’s visit. She explained that she’d looked at the giclée again, getting a better sense of the characters in it, including the chess pieces and dolls. “So, in that story I read in the Millicent Smith book, the artist had a friend who paid him to do the painting. He—the friend, a local cobbler—seems to have used his own blood. Then the artist died and there was murder and mayhem. The artist was dug up and burned and his ashes scattered but there was more killing. Turned out that the friend had ‘awakened’ or ‘activated’ the painting with more of his own blood. He was caught, executed and his ashes were strewn among rocks. The painting was destroyed and the killing stopped. The image was of two knights dueling. According to Smith, they represented the artist and his friend—although I don’t quite get why the artist would show himself being killed. But it comes down to what people will do for money, I guess.” She took a moment to savor a mouthful of the casserole. “One thing that scares me is the fact that the Hubert painting is full of people. Eleven of them. I’m almost positive the chess pieces and decapitated dolls are victims.”
Bo Ray shuddered. “I plan to turn on every light in this place. And your giclée is going straight to the basement and I’m locking the basement door. You two had better not be out too late!”
“Bo Ray, nothing here is worth anyone’s life. If you get scared, do what Quinn said—call us and leave immediately,” Danni told him.
“Painted with blood,” Quinn mused, obviously caught up with his own thoughts. Frowning, he looked at Danni. “When I first went to the Garcia house, I found a small glass container. It had been washed out, but there was some kind of red residue in it. That vial disappeared, along with the other items when the ‘fog’ was in the evidence room. I’m thinking it might have been...blood.”
“There would’ve been blood on the painting already,” Danni said.
“Yes, but...well, we don’t know yet. Whoever broke in might have done it in order to add more blood to the painting.”
“To wake the dead? The dead in that painting?” Danni murmured.
“It’s gone now,” Quinn said. “We may never know with certainty. But I’m going to surmise that I’m right...”
When they’d finished eating, Quinn was even more anxious to get to Hubert’s residence.
“Hey, not to worry. I’ll get the dishes,” Bo Ray said.
Danni laughed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
They escaped with Bo Ray still muttering to himself and reached the Hubert residence at eight-thirty—just in time to find Dr. Hubert out in his yard, despite the fact that it had grown dark.
He was planting a sign that read The Henry Hubert Painting Is Not Here! No Interviews, No Loitering—and Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law. At the bottom, an addition had been scrawled: Or Shot!
Getting out of the car, Quinn noticed that there were cars parked up and down the street in the Irish Channel neighborhood.
Ron Hubert seemed almost unfamiliar without his lab coat. He was wearing a tailored shirt and jeans. His hair was ruffled and he resembled a disgruntled modern-day Beethoven. He saw Quinn and Danni and waved them in.
“The media got hold of the information that the police are looking for a killer who stole the painting. Naturally, the reporters just had to do their research and discover that a descendant of the artist lives in the city. I won’t even answer my phone anymore, unless I can identify the person trying to reach me. Come in, come in! If I can do anything to help you get that painting back...” He shook his head. “People are dying over the blasted thing.”
He led them into his house, a handsome structure probably built in the late 1800s. He’d been expecting them; there was a large box of documents on the dining room table along with a tea service and a plate of cookies.
“I figured you’d already eaten, but...”
“That’s very sweet of you, Dr. Hubert,” Danni said.
“Ron. You’re in my home, young lady. And
at this moment, I’m fonder of my first name than my last!”
“So the news is out?” Quinn asked. “I haven’t been paying attention to TV, the internet or the radio. Much less a newspaper.”
“Larue gave a short press conference to quash the rumors that are flying around. They’ve been running it constantly on the local news and on the all-news networks. He told the public that the police believe ‘an armed and dangerous killer’ had attacked the Garcia home where the painting had been awaiting delivery to Mrs. Lamont. And that Mrs. Lamont’s home had been broken into and that Bryson Arnold was killed when the painting was stolen.” He sighed. “The city’s gone art-crazy. So the details about me and my connection to the damn painting... Well, you can imagine the sudden interest.”
“I’m sorry about that, Ron,” Quinn said.
“Well, let’s get on with this, shall we? That box there—” he pointed at it “—is filled with family papers. A lot of them are birth, marriage and death certificates. But you’ll find one piece of note. Hubert’s wife, Eloisa, kept a journal toward the end of her very long life. I haven’t read it myself, nor have I read any of the letters stuck inside it. But you might find that useful.”
“I’m sure I will,” Danni said, sorting through the papers in the box. Quinn knew she was forcing herself to be careful with everything she handled, despite her eagerness to get to the journal.
She lifted it reverently out of the box; it was yellowed and there were loose pages, as well as the letters placed within it. She saw that the handwriting was small and cramped, the ink faded in places, making it difficult to read.
Danni looked up at Hubert. “I’ll go through this very carefully. But the way it’s written...it’ll take some time. Did you ever hear anything about your great-great-whatever-grandfather painting with...blood?”
Hubert stiffened. He drew in a breath. “Yes.”
“What did you hear?” Quinn asked. He thought about the things Danni had told him—starting with the story in Millicent Smith’s book. The book.
With another long, deep sigh, Hubert sat down, joining them at the table. “First I heard of it was when I was kid. This was in Minneapolis. You know how cruel kids can be to other kids. Anyway, there was a brief piece in a local paper around Halloween, and my family was mentioned—because of the connection to the Hubert painting. The article was about supposedly haunted works of art. Someone called me the devil’s child and, after that, various kids started calling me demon boy. I was probably about ten at the time. I socked the hell out of that kid. My mother was called in and rather than yell at me, when we got home she sat me down and we talked. She told me about the painter. To some people, he was brilliant. But certain people liked to think the worst, especially at Halloween. It was really just sad, she told me. Henry Sebastian Hubert had desperately wanted to be with the popular crowd. He’d begun making a name for himself, but he practically hero-worshipped Lord Byron, and when he got into their storytelling game, he wanted to go all out.”
“That fits with what I’ve read,” Danni remarked.
Hubert nodded. “My mother did a lot of research on this, although she was a Hubert by marriage, not by birth. According to her, Henry had written in a journal—long ago lost—that his butler, who came with the place, had worked for a total hedonist before him. Apparently this butler was a guy who believed that blood was the essence of everything.... So Hubert mixed blood into his paints. That’s the first I ever heard of it. I was horrified, of course.”
“Then he did use blood,” Danni breathed.
“How did it go at school after you got into trouble?” Quinn asked.
Hubert grinned wickedly. “Even though I’d been called to the principal’s office, I won the fight. The boys left me alone after that. It boosted my standing at the school. And as the years went by, I forgot about the whole situation and so did everyone else.” He paused. “Although it might be more accurate to say I willed myself to forget.”
He poured tea for them. “Have a cookie, Danni.”
Quinn was pretty sure Danni was too engrossed in the journal to want a cookie.
She politely took one, anyway, glancing at Quinn.
Then she turned back to Hubert. “From something I’ve read, I gather your ancestor was buried in the crypt at the House of Guillaume on Lake Geneva, in Switzerland,” she said.
“And that I know is true.”
“Do you happen to know anything about the House of Guillaume now?” Quinn asked.
Once again, Hubert looked as if he didn’t want to speak.
“Ron?” Quinn pressed.
“Yes, I know about it!” Hubert snapped. “I own the damned thing!”
* * *
When Hubert escorted them to the door at last, Danni couldn’t help noticing that there were even more cars parked around his modest two-story home.
“Quinn,” she whispered. “He could be in trouble.”
“I don’t think tourists—or reporters—are going to go so far as to break into his house,” Quinn said.
Danni disagreed. “We can’t be sure of that. If nothing else, they’ll drive him crazy. Especially the snooping journalists.”
“Okay, maybe you’re right.” Quinn tapped at the door to get Hubert back outside while he dialed Jake Larue.
“He’s asking for a cop to come out here,” Danni explained when Hubert opened the door.
“Not a bad idea. Thank you,” Hubert said. “I should’ve thought of that myself.”
Quinn spoke briefly with Larue and then closed his phone. “Jake’s going to send a patrol car out here right away,” he told Hubert. “It’ll sit in front of your house. That should work a little better than your sign, although I do love your final threat. That’s a lot more direct than legal action,” he said with a laugh.
“I don’t even own a gun,” Hubert admitted.
“Probably a good thing.” Quinn was still smiling. “Okay, Danni, we’ll go back inside while we wait for the car to get here. Oh, and I do own a gun,” Quinn reminded him. “And I’m licensed to carry it.”
“Come in, come in,” Hubert said.
They went in, but Quinn hung by the door, looking out the little peephole now and then. “So, you’re a Swiss citizen?”
Hubert nodded. “My parents were and I am, too.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
“Right after his death, Hubert was all the rage. The Swiss were particularly fond of him, don’t ask me why. He was posthumously granted Swiss citizenship. My family kept it up ever since. I know my parents went over once when I was a child.... I’ve never been there myself, but my mother felt it was very special that we retain dual citizenship. And I guess I never sold the castle out of deference to my parents—and I never needed to sell it for financial reasons.” He shrugged. “I’m the last surviving descendant, sad to say, since I don’t have any siblings or even cousins. Anyway, Danni will find all the information in the papers there. We—the Hubert family—have owned the property since shortly after Hubert’s death. He’d rented it, but his widow bought it from the son of the previous owner. She never did a thing with it. Every few years she had cleaning staff in and ordered that the integrity of the building be maintained. My parents did even less than those before them...and I haven’t done a damned thing. Except I carry an insurance policy, just in case some idiot tourist goes in and gets himself hurt or killed.”
Danni felt a creeping sensation crawl up her spine. She knew Quinn was already planning their trip to Switzerland.
He looked at her, just as the thought entered her mind.
“Your passport is up to date, right?”
“Yes,” she said dully.
Quinn walked over to where Ron Hubert had taken a seat in his parlor. “Ron, you know I’m going to the castle, don’t you? We’re going to the castle. I’d like your permission to dig up your ancestor.”
Ron Hubert shuddered visibly. He was an M.E.; he dealt with dead bodies all the time. Finally he look
ed up at Quinn. “I’m a scientist, remember? A dead body is a dead body. I don’t believe in supernatural phenomena. But as to your request—don’t we need more than my permission?”
“Not the way we’re going to do it,” Quinn said wryly.
“Ah.”
“You’re the only one I’m worried about.”
“So we’re going to do illegal things. In a foreign country.”
“Probably, but don’t worry—I don’t intend to announce what we’re doing, not to anyone. Humor me? Give me your blessing to travel to the House of Guillaume.”
“You want to dig up my ancestor’s bones and burn them and scatter the ashes somewhere?”
“That’s the gist of it, yes,” he said.
Danni heard a small sound escape her lips. Both men turned to her. “The way we see it, Ron, that would work. Except...”
“Except what?” Quinn frowned.
“What if he wasn’t painting with his own blood?”
“Whose blood would he have used?” Quinn asked.
“Well, you’d imagine he’d have started with his own, at least,” Hubert said. “It would be right at hand, so to speak. Prick a finger and you’ve got blood.”
“That’s logical,” Danni put in.
“But it goes further than that,” Quinn said. “You told us the cut on Bryson Arnold’s thumb was self-inflicted. So that must be how the painting is ‘activated,’ as you called it. Maybe he touched it up with blood?”
“That falls in line with what we’ve seen so far,” Danni said.
“And it’s out there somewhere—in the city of New Orleans.” Quinn gestured at the window.
“If you were to destroy the painting, wouldn’t that be good enough?” Hubert asked.
“Possibly,” Danni replied. “I just don’t know where we’d begin to look for it.”
“Follow the blood,” Quinn said morosely.
* * *
They went straight to Father Ryan’s rectory when they left Dr. Hubert’s house. They’d carefully placed the box containing the Hubert family papers in the trunk of Quinn’s car.
Father Ryan was evidently expecting them.
“Natasha called me,” he explained. “Said you were going to Ron’s and would be dropping by here when you were done.”