“The two at the table,” Hattie continued, “are Solange and Gérard Rastira, children of an Italian nobleman who often visited Guillaume. After a time, they disappeared, and it was discovered that they’d amused themselves in a particularly horrendous way. The boy would tell unwary peasants that his sister was hurt—then club the peasants to death when they came to give aid.”
“You’re saying,” Quinn said, “that every face in that painting is part of the evil within it?”
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
He found a chair at the kitchen table and sank into it.
“Can that be true?” he asked.
Danni nudged Eloisa’s journal toward him. “A lot of the details are corroborated here,” she said, “but it seems that after buying the castle from Herman Guillaume—son of the despot who’d owned it before Hubert rented it for the summer of 1816—Eloisa continued to see him. I think they were in love. He told her something about his past—and his father.”
“Who else is in there?” he asked.
“It’s hard to know about the suits of armor,” Danni said.
“Well,” Hattie began, “I did learn that, aside from Henry’s butler, Raoul Messine—inherited from Guillaume!—Henry had a groom and someone called ‘the keeper of the keys.’ They were also, by the way, original employees of Alain Guillaume. When all those horrible things were being done at the castle, they must have known. There were even rumors that Guillaume’s servants went out and procured women and children for him to torture.”
Quinn felt a sick tightening in his gut. It all explained so much. The killing at the Garcia house—so many people, killed in so many different ways.
Slashed, bludgeoned, shot...
“How do we end this?” he asked. “We still don’t have the real Ghosts in the Mind—and we don’t know who in this city ‘awakened’ the dead in that painting. And how on earth do we find the graves of all these people?”
He didn’t know why he’d bothered to ask the question; he was pretty sure he already knew.
He looked at Danni. “We can chase the painting all over the city. Or...”
“Or?”
“I know what he’s thinking,” Hattie murmured. “These people...they were all with him at the castle. The child he took in...the children of the Italian nobleman. The woman he was sleeping with. The others... I don’t think we have all of them yet, but...”
“But?” Danni echoed, dread in her voice.
“It would make sense that they’re still at the castle. We must’ve passed every interment in that crypt. There’s only one thing to do. Return to the House of Guillaume.”
Chapter Seventeen
NATASHA ARRIVED SOON after Quinn got home. She’d left Jez to close up for the day and came after another visit with her friend Cosby Tournier.
Billie and Bo Ray were closing The Cheshire Cat, and Hattie had gone upstairs to handle the travel arrangements again; she was good at it, as they all knew and as she’d informed them.
“There’s got to be some reason for la chimère, the woman who disappears in the fog,” Natasha announced, bursting into the kitchen and setting her bag on the table. She frowned at all the notes spread out there. “After talking with Cosby today, I believe there is a woman involved.”
Quinn glanced at Danni. “There’s always a woman involved...somehow,” he said.
Danni rolled her eyes. “Ah, but there’s just one woman,” she said. “We won’t count the girl.”
“What are you talking about?” Natasha asked.
“We know who she is,” Danni told her. “Or at least we think we do.” She showed Natasha the people they’d aligned with faces in the painting. “We’re assuming that the suits of armor cover Alain Guillaume’s other servants—the groom and the keeper of the keys,” Danni said. “So, we have the children, the woman, the suits of armor—and I believe that Hubert himself was the husband with the pistol at his back—the man with his face turned away. That leaves the butler and the two officials at the door—and the man in the portrait above the fireplace.”
“I thought he was supposed to be the original Guillaume?” Natasha asked.
“We’re not sure. We also aren’t sure if blood was used for every character,” Quinn said. “Danni suggested that Hubert might have...might have dug up the dead—these dead people, Mimette and so on—and used their skin or rotting flesh in some kind of paint mix.”
Natasha shuddered. “I didn’t feel we were done here.”
“Messine,” Quinn said suddenly. “The butler... Is the butler—”
“Yes! That must be right,” Danni agreed. “That would be natural! And Messine worked for Alain Guillaume before he worked for Hubert, so Hubert could very well have heard rumors—or worse—about him.”
Natasha pulled out her cell phone. She said, “I’m just letting Jez know that he’s going to be watching Wolf again. He’ll be thrilled. He loves the dog. Have you told Father Ryan we’re leaving again?”
“Yes, he knows, and so does Ron.”
“Hattie’s up in my dad’s room, making arrangements,” Danni said.
“So, we’re definitely going.” Natasha took a seat at the table. “I felt it, I’m afraid.”
“I believe it’s the best thing we can do,” Quinn said. “We haven’t found the painting. Although we might have a lead on the person involved at this end—thanks to the blood on Michel Dumont’s knife.”
“When do we go back to Switzerland?” Natasha asked.
“We won’t be able to leave until tomorrow night—unless Hattie just ups and buys us a jet,” Quinn said.
“She did suggest it, I think,” Danni murmured.
Natasha smiled. “Well, if we have to do all this travelling, it’s great that the woman’s so generous and that—”
“The woman is fond of living,” Hattie cut in, coming back to the kitchen. “We’re all set. We leave at 8:00 p.m. tomorrow.”
“Larue has a rush on the DNA. Top priority,” Quinn said.
“How are we finding the bodies?” Natasha asked.
“The Guillaume servants were interred at the castle,” Danni replied. “So that part’s easy. And if Guillaume brought in the children and then killed them—which he must have, since they disappeared—then they’re in the crypt, too.”
“Let’s hope we’re that lucky,” Natasha said. “One down...ten to go. If you’re right.”
Danni laid her head on her arms. “I’m positive I’m right. I’ve looked at that damn painting so often, I can see it with my eyes closed. I’m afraid I’ll never get it out of my mind.”
Natasha nodded sympathetically. “Well, then, I’m off,” she said. “I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow night.”
“I guess I should do something about dinner,” Danni said, rising.
“We’ll order in,” Quinn told her. “Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Danni returned her attention to the notes while Quinn asked Hattie, Billie and Bo Ray what they’d like to eat.
She thought she had it nearly all figured out. The children, the woman, the man. The butler and the men in the suits of armor. The officials at the door were still a mystery; they had to be friends of Guillaume’s. One might well be the Italian nobleman who’d fathered the two murderous children, Solange and Gérard Rastira.
“Hattie, would you mind looking up ‘Rastira’ again? See what you can find out about the father.”
“Quinn, meat and vegetables, please,” Hattie said in response to his question about dinner, “and I don’t care what kind. Fish would be lovely.” Hattie resumed her seat at the computer.
“Danni?” Quinn asked.
“Whatever you order for Hattie is fine.”
“You’re brilliant, Danni!” Hattie was looking at her across the table. “I’m reading straight from an article on Antonio Rastira! It’s unproven, but he was rumored to have been interred at the castle. Some people said he killed himself because of his children. Regardless of how he perished, there was a
secret ceremony at the castle—according to this long-dead and very obscure art historian, anyway—presided over by Guillaume. The historian heard about it through village gossip. Apparently there were servants at the castle who weren’t included in the ceremony but still knew something was going on.”
“And when we’re there, I suppose, we’ll have to find the original Guillaume,” Danni murmured.
“He should be at the far end of the crypt, near the wall where we found Hubert,” Quinn said. “The interments started there, and the crypt grew out as more people died.”
Danni nodded. “You’re right. I’m going to keep reading. Maybe Herman told Eloisa more about his father’s wicked dealings.”
Quinn stopped beside her, setting a hand softly on her hair. “Someone else can read, if you like, Danni.”
She looked up. “I’m on a mission,” she told him. “I want to continue.”
“All right, then. I guess I’ll be helpful and place our dinner orders.” He glanced at the takeout brochure. “But I’m going to call Ron first.”
“Bo Ray and I can pick him up and then get dinner,” Billie offered.
Quinn thanked him, then took out his cell.
Quinn walked around while he was talking to Ron, but Danni hardly noticed him; she’d become engrossed in Eloisa Hubert’s journal again.
She had to skim several pages about a new restaurant that Eloisa and Guillaume had tried in Kensington.
Immediately after that, she found what she was searching for.
Tonight the poor man bared more of his soul to me. He told me about waking up and hearing a woman scream. He wandered into the hall. There was a man there, dragging a half-naked woman back into a room; the man paused, staring at him. Then Herman saw his father come from behind the other man. His father had laughed. “Ah, we should bring the little bugger in—he needs a taste of what it is to be a man! My son, what you have yet to learn!” Later, my poor dear Herman heard the woman screaming again. The next day his father’s visitor was gone and so was the woman. That week, there was much bustling about the castle. There was to be a “ceremony” for Count Fabre Clairmonte; alas, the poor fellow had apparently drunk himself silly and fallen from the tower. Herman told me all this, controlling his sobs, for while he didn’t share his father’s wretched tastes, he would not cry, for he believed that crying did not befit a man. My heart ached for him. I promised him once more that no one would ever live at the castle again.
Danni raised her eyes to Hattie. “Fabre Clairemont,” she said. “Check him out, please. His name is in the journal.”
“Yes...yes.” Hattie began keying in the name.
She looked up at Danni and nodded slowly.
Meanwhile Billie and Bo Ray went to retrieve Ron Hubert from work and pick up their food. Danni and Hattie organized their notes.
When Ron arrived, he didn’t object to a second trip across the Atlantic in a matter of days, but he wasn’t happy about it, either. He seemed weary and depressed. “Imagine,” he said. “It actually felt like a relief to autopsy a man who died pathetically of a drug overdose today. I am becoming numb. To have had such...an obscene ancestor weighs on me now like a dozen anchors.”
“Ron, my dear man!” Hattie protested. “You mustn’t feel that way. From what Danni and I have discovered, Henry Hubert himself wasn’t cruel. He lived at that dreadful castle. The place was imbued with the cruelty of that horrible Alain Guillaume—a man who truly was obscene. I don’t believe your ancestor had much of a chance once he walked in.”
Ron Hubert smiled at her. “Well, thank you for that. It helps a little.”
Danni went back to the journal, trying to hide a smile of her own. Hattie, she thought, was older than Ron Hubert, but she was in beautiful shape and they seemed to get on very well.
Perhaps a romance was budding between them—or might, once this situation was over and they were no longer under stress.
They all ate and decided they’d make it an early night. Danni was glad of it. She was delighted to go to bed early.
Wolf, however, didn’t accompany her and Quinn up the stairs to take his position outside the bedroom door.
He curled up by the door to the courtyard, keeping sentinel there again.
Quinn shrugged. “He’s protecting the whole household tonight, I suppose.”
It felt good to close the door, to be alone. To have time together—except that they were both so exhausted, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
* * *
Quinn sensed it when Danni rose that night; he hadn’t been deeply asleep. He stirred when she moved, and then realized that she’d started to rise.
That she was sleepwalking.
He threw on his jeans and draped a blanket around her shoulders without waking her. Then he followed her as she walked down the stairs to the studio.
She removed the painting she’d really been working on—a view of Saint Louis Cathedral—from the easel and replaced it with a blank canvas.
Wolf came to join them, whining nervously.
“It’s all right, boy. Let her be,” Quinn said.
He watched Danni get out a palette and sit in front of her canvas, brush in hand. At first, he couldn’t tell what she was creating, her brush moved so quickly. She chose color after color, and eventually the painting began to emerge.
As it did, she went still.
He took the brush from her fingers and laid it on the palette. Then he turned her toward him and shook her gently. “Danni. Danni. Wake up.”
She did, and her eyes widened. She cringed, immediately grasping where she was and what she was doing. She didn’t look at the canvas.
“What...”
“It’s the painting.”
“The Hubert?” she asked in confusion.
“No. The one above the fireplace in Switzerland,” Quinn told her.
She finally looked at her rendering and shuddered.
“It’s not the original Guillaume,” she said. “Not the Guillaume who built the castle, the medieval patriarch as we’ve all thought. I think Alain put his own portrait there—he was that self-centered. A true psychopath believing his wants and needs mattered more than everyone and everything else. Herman was lucky to survive at all with a father like that. I think he would’ve killed his own son.” She paused for a few seconds. “I’m sure it’s him.”
“I hope so,” Quinn said.
“Why?”
“We know exactly where he is.” Quinn reached out for her. “Come on. Let’s go back to sleep. We’ll need whatever rest we can get.”
She rose and slid into his arms, and he began to lead her away. As they left the studio, Quinn bent to stroke Wolf. The dog still didn’t follow them upstairs but returned to his position by the door.
They stayed awake for hours, not speaking. Quinn just held her close.
The both dreaded a return to Switzerland.
Sometime during the night, he slept. He knew, because it took him a minute to register the fact that his cell phone was ringing.
He’d plugged it in on his side of the bed. He glanced over, about to apologize to Danni for waking her, but she wasn’t there. Then he remembered that she’d woken earlier, kissed him lightly and said she was going to make coffee.
Reaching over, he groaned aloud when he saw his caller ID.
Larue.
He had to answer it, of course.
“Hey,” he said into the receiver. He wondered if Larue could tell how much he feared more bad news.
“No, no bodies,” Larue said instantly. “I have something for you, though.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got him—got him dead to rights. We pulled a DNA match to the blood on Michel Dumont’s knife.”
“Well, go on! Tell me. Who the hell are we looking for?”
* * *
Danni wished she could have slept longer, as the rest of her household seemed to be doing.
It was too early to open the store. She wandered through, maki
ng sure everything was set for the day, but it was in perfect shape. Of course, Billie McDougall had run The Cheshire Cat with her father while she’d been blithely growing up, making her way through college, working at becoming an artist.
Now, with or without her participation, Billie—and Bo Ray, too—kept the shop in superb condition.
Wolf trailed her through the store.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was only eight-thirty. She’d showered, dressed, brewed coffee and checked the store.
She didn’t want to look at last night’s painting and she didn’t want to paint and she couldn’t bear the idea of picking up the giclée outside.
“How about a walk in the Quarter?” she asked Wolf. The morning was pleasant, a flawless midspring day. “Let’s see what our neighbors are doing with their windows, huh?”
Evidently Wolf agreed; he barked excitedly.
First Danni wandered down to the George Rodrigue Gallery. She loved Blue Dog—and every painting the artist did in this series. For a moment, she felt like an artist again. She studied the many paintings of Blue Dog on display, considering how Rodrigue had created the charm in every one of these images.
Eventually she moved on.
She came to Image Me This.
Niles Villiers hadn’t placed his last Hubert giclée in the window. His display was enchanting, filled with different paintings by different artists that took the viewer on a tour of the Quarter. It was an effective presentation, one that caused people to stop and study the windows—and it intrigued them into coming through the doors.
Wolf suddenly tugged at the leash, pulling her toward the entry.
“Wolf, it’s too early. This is New Orleans, remember? They’re not open yet.”
But Wolf seemed anxious to get inside. He ran to the door, dragging her with him.
“Wolf!” she chastised. Then she noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
She opened it more fully. “Niles—hey, Niles? Mason? Anyone in there?”
Wolf darted through the door. “Wolf! What’s the matter with you?” Danni demanded.