“Yeah, I’d only just dropped my bags at the house when he called. When we’re off the street, I’ll explain.”
She heard the gravity in his voice. “Okay. Want to go to the shop?”
“I was on my way,” he told her. She liked his awkward smile. “I drove back into the city and acted like a nice normal human being, thinking I wouldn’t bolt over and scream your name like a character out of a movie. But what were you up to? Did I stop you from doing something?”
“I was just at my friend’s gallery down the street—Image Me This,” she said.
He glanced past her shoulder. “Ah, being an artist!” he teased.
“I do that now and then.”
“Anything interesting there?”
“Very interesting. He has a number of pieces on display by local artists, and a remarkable giclée reproduction that’s never been licensed before.”
He was still looking at the gallery. Maybe he wasn’t in any rush to tell her about this latest instance of man’s inhumanity to man.
“Giclée?” he asked.
Danni explained, adding, “Giclée comes from gicleur, the French word for nozzle or spray. The term came about in the early nineties when certain specialized printers were developed. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I can show Niles and Mason that you didn’t dump me, leaving me with the dog to soothe my broken heart.”
“You’re the one who thought we needed to take it slow.”
“And you agreed.” Danni hesitated a moment. “I still feel that way, except...”
“Except?”
“I’m not sure yet. You’re here now. I’m glad. And I’m darned happy to go back into that gallery with you.”
“Should I fawn all over you?” he asked.
“No, you should act normal!”
He reached out and took her hand and they headed across the street. Danni smiled, a sense of well-being washing over her.
Along with another chill.
Quinn was back.
And already...he’d been called in on something.
But she was pleased to walk into the gallery with Quinn. It had grown busier since she’d left. Of course, it was a Saturday morning in spring, a beautiful season in the city. A time when tourists loved to come. But spring-breakers tended to hang out more on Bourbon Street than in the galleries on Royal. However, Niles ran his business well and managed to attract a number of them.
Danni walked Quinn over to the Hubert giclée, Wolf trotting politely beside them. Quinn paused, frowning as he studied it. “It’s a beautiful piece. I don’t quite get...oh.”
His frown deepened as he saw the image within the image, saw the weapons, saw how the children played.
“Wow.” He turned to Danni.
She smiled in response. “There’s a fascinating history to the real painting. Hubert was part of a very bohemian crowd in the early 1800s. He was friends with Byron, Shelley and crew. I don’t know if you recall, but Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after she, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and another man, Dr. Polidori, spent part of an exceptionally overcast, cold summer together in Switzerland. Anyway, it was dark and gloomy and they read old German ghost stories and came up with their own. They went to visit Henry Sebastian Hubert, the artist, and talked him into joining their game. But while they’d describe a scenario with words, he’d do it with paint.”
“The guy was obviously talented.”
“He was, but he died soon after painting this.”
“He might’ve been one sick puppy, too, psychologically speaking. How did he die?”
“He was found in a tower room in the medieval castle he’d rented, staring at the painting—this painting—dead. He’d taken poison,” Danni told him. “Or...some believe he’d been given poison. No one could ever prove it either way.”
“Hmm. He might’ve been a victim of depression. Or he might have had more enemies than he realized. Or—another possibility—he might have overdone the drugs and alcohol. What do you think?”
“I’ve taken a lot of art history in my day but I never had a class in which anyone could explain the mysteries of the human mind. And if scientists could figure that out—well, the pharmaceutical companies might go out of business!”
Quinn frowned again as he looked at the painting, angling to one side.
“What?” Danni asked.
“Hubert,” he said. “I suppose it’s a common enough name.”
“I’d say so.”
“French in origin?”
“Probably,” Danni said. “Hubert was an English citizen. His father was an Englishman. His mother was Norwegian. But even by then, names could be deceptive. The French lived in England, the English lived in France, and had for centuries. Plus, people vacationed all over. Why the interest in the name?”
Quinn raised one shoulder in a shrug. “This sounds funny, of course, because we all wish there wasn’t any need for medical examiners, but my favorite M.E. in the city is named Hubert. You’ve met him.”
“That’s right!” Danni said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” It was her turn to shrug. “But there are Quinns and Caffertys all over, too, and we don’t know about the majority of them. If we are related it’s from hundreds of years ago.”
“I’m just curious,” Quinn said. “I left Hubert a little while ago. Now I’m seeing a painting by a different Hubert.”
“Odd coincidence, I guess.”
“Michael Quinn!” Niles seemed to float across the room as he came toward them. He squinted at Danni, as if unconvinced that she’d told him the truth before. “You’re back in town. Lovely. Are you here for long?”
“I’m not sure, but I always come back. New Orleans is home. I have a house in the Garden District, Niles.”
“Yes, of course, I’d forgotten,” Niles said. “But you’re here now. In my gallery. What do you think? Isn’t the giclée just incredible?”
“Yes,” Quinn murmured. “Incredible...”
“I told Danni I’m saving one for her. I’ll get it wrapped up for you tonight, Danni.”
“Uh, thanks. That’s great,” Danni said. She didn’t want to decline the giclée; it was beyond doubt a piece by a famous—and infamous—artist. And it was decidedly unique. Unusual.
It was also creepy, and she had enough creepy in her life.
But Niles was beaming, so glad he could provide her with such a treasure, and she had no intention of hurting his feelings.
“How do you tell a copy from the real thing?” Quinn asked.
“For one thing,” Danni replied, “Copies likes this—giclées—are numbered. The one on the wall is number 480 out of 2000.”
“Yes, it’s like buying a print—except better,” Niles crowed.
“I see. More or less,” Quinn said. “No, I do understand, and a copy would work just fine for me. Sadly, I don’t know that much about art.”
“Well, copies of all kinds are fine. Ah, but to have the real thing...” He sighed. “Well, anyway, I don’t. Someone rich does. Hey, enough about other artists! When she’s ready, Danni will do another show here,” Niles told Quinn.
“Let’s hope,” Quinn said, meeting her eyes, “that she’ll be ready soon.”
They left after exchanging goodbyes with Niles and walked down Royal Street toward The Cheshire Cat, Danni’s shop and home. Although she’d gone away for college and at various times had her own apartment, she’d moved back into her childhood home for good when her father died.
And when she discovered exactly what he’d kept in the basement.
She and Billie had recently restructured the shop area of the eighteenth-century house. She’d created a beautiful life-size image of a banshee for a jewelry line she was selling for a friend, and it was near the entry, with its various Celtic designs. She’d also added shelving for her “Gargoyles!” collection. Naturally she offered the customary New Orleans souvenirs—Saints T-shirts, beads and gris-gris bags and a line of “Voodoo for Love!” voo
doo dolls that were adorable. You pricked the cloth body with a little needle that tattooed a kiss onto it for luck, love, happiness....
But some things in the store had stayed the same—the replicated King Tut mask, for one, the cardboard cutouts of Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Vincent Price as Dr. Phibes and a few other pieces. Mostly, she sold specialty items, including antiques. The store was always spotlessly clean, slightly Goth, slightly vampire-themed—and as much fun and as intriguing as she could make it. When buyers stopped in, they could spend a dollar for a few plastic beads or a fortune for real art, antique pieces or jewelry. Danni’s father—cast by the fates from the Highlands of Scotland to New Orleans—loved his adopted city. Shops should be different and unusual, he believed. Places people wanted to come back to, just like they wanted to come back to Bourbon Street for revelry, Frenchman Street for great local music, Jackson Square for art....
The Cheshire Cat was special, Danni thought. Her father had purchased the building when he’d fallen in love with her mother. The place had been a home in the early 1700s, one of the only structures to survive the fires that had nearly destroyed the city later in the century. It still had a courtyard and the typical U or horseshoe shape of so many New Orleans homes and she loved every inch of it.
When she and Quinn entered, Billie was sitting behind the counter, actually a glass display case for jewelry. He’d been reading but when the door opened and he saw Quinn, he jumped to his feet, hurrying around. “Quinn, you’re back, man!” After years in the United States, Billie’s Scots brogue remained strong.
He pumped Quinn’s hand, stood awkwardly for a minute, then threw both arms around him. Then he quickly stepped back, his expression anxious. “Oh. Oh?”
Danni understood the way Billie looked at Quinn. He was glad to see him; he was afraid to see him. While they’d had some quiet times over the past months, if Quinn was here, something could be going on. And, given that Larue had already called him, something was....
“I got back last night. Finished in Texas,” Quinn said. “I came in really late so I went straight to my house.”
“Everything all right?” Billie asked.
“It was last night. But this morning...bad scene in the city. A family massacred.”
“Oh,” Billie said. “Oh.” His shoulders slumped. “I haven’t seen the news today.”
“It might have been a domestic situation,” Quinn added.
Billie was obviously skeptical. “Domestic, eh?” He turned to Danni. “Bo Ray took a breather—he’s gone to pick up some groceries. As soon as he’s back, I say we walk over to Natasha’s and after that, we get Quinn to tell us what went on at the ‘domestic’ situation.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. They could just have called Natasha, but it would be better to see her. “Sounds like a plan, Billie. But I say we meet here after seven, when the shop closes. If Bo Ray’s buying groceries, we can whip up something to eat and I’ll tell you what I know—which might be a little more than I know now. I’m due at autopsy. I didn’t realize I’d spent so much time looking at art.”
“Looking at art?” Billie repeated.
“One piece in particular. It’s a very...unusual piece,” Danni said. “But we’re getting a copy. It’s a giclée.”
“A what?”
“An ink-jet copy—almost as good as the original.” Quinn winked at Danni. She doubted he’d been familiar with giclée prints until that day.
Billie just shook his head. Danni smiled. She loved Billie; he’d been devoted to her father. He was devoted to her now. And to The Cheshire Cat.
“It’s a pity we looked at art for so long.” Quinn said, his lips twitching with humor—and a secret message meant only for her.
She grinned wickedly, indulging him. “Go. We’ll see you back here.”
He nodded, turned to leave the shop. As he did, he nearly bumped into Bo Ray Tompkins, a young man who now worked at the shop as a clerk and bookkeeper. He’d been a suspect in their first investigation. Now, he was clean of drugs and grateful, and a reliable member of their staff.
Bo Ray was excited to see Quinn, too. He almost dropped the grocery bags he was carrying. Quinn grabbed and saved one and they all wound up on the counter.
“Quinn!”
Bo Ray said the word with such adulation that Danni had to laugh. He hadn’t even noticed she was there.
“Bo Ray, great to see you!” Quinn said. “Things are going well?”
Bo Ray looked over at Danni. “You bet—Danni’s the best. And Billie, too, of course! Hey, I’ll have a Scottish accent myself in a few more weeks!”
Quinn laughed. “See you all tonight,” he said, and headed out.
“He’s really back!” Bo Ray said, delighted. Clean-shaven, his hair still on the long side, his clothing clean and neat, Bo Ray was darned good-looking. He was excellent with their customers, too, charming them easily. Danni’s philosophy—which had also been her father’s—was that they did far more business by making people like the shop than they did by trying to sell things every minute. That way, people remembered the place; if they weren’t ready to buy, they came back. If they just wanted to look, they were welcome. “Ohhh!” he said, his mouth a circle. “Does that mean...”
“It means he finished working in Texas, but there’s been a murder here—several murders, a family—and he’s going into autopsy.”
“Ohhh,” Bo Ray said again.
“Maybe not ‘ohhh,’” Danni said. “Bad things happen in any big city. Drug deals go wrong and we sure as hell haven’t stamped out domestic violence. Anyway, I’ll get Natasha over for dinner tonight. Then we’ll talk.”
“And we’re just... We’re just supposed to keep working until then? Keep the shop open? Smile and greet customers? Act like nothing’s happened?” Bo Ray asked.
“Exactly,” Billie said, clapping a hand on Bo Ray’s shoulder. “Now, get the groceries into the kitchen. You’re messin’ with the gargoyles here!”
Danni laughed. “Children, play nicely. I’m leaving now to drop in on Natasha.” Wolf barked. She could swear the dog understood her words. Wolf loved Natasha and the courtyard at her shop.
“Oh, Wolf, I’m sorry. I want you to stay here and help the boys, okay?”
Wolf whined; he not only loved Natasha, he took his role as Danni’s bodyguard seriously.
She stroked his head and slipped out the door, leaving the dog with Billie and Bo Ray.
Danni walked down to St. Ann and then up toward Bourbon to Natasha’s shop.
* * *
Quinn was taken directly back to the largest autopsy room at the morgue. Ron Hubert was already at work. The doctor’s assistant offered Quinn a gown and mask—suggesting he’d definitely need the mask—and led him in.
The five bodies had been cleaned and prepped and were in a row on scoured steel autopsy tables. The scent of disinfectant was heavy in the air, but it didn’t dispel the metallic scent of blood. The smell of decomposition already sat beneath that of the chemicals.
Hubert, his face protected by a full-cover plastic mask, stood by the body of James A. Garcia. The Y incision had been made and Hubert was recording his findings in an even, modulated tone that was picked up by the hanging microphone above the body. He reached into the pocket of his white medical jacket to switch off the procedural recording as he saw Quinn walk into the room.
“You got here fast,” he said.
“No time like the present,” Quinn remarked. “Anything?”
“Well, as you can see, I’ve just begun the preliminaries. Jackson and Coe, two of my assistants, have bathed and prepped the bodies and so far I’ve made a few observations. Strange, my friend, strange indeed. I feel as if I’ve been cast into a gruesome version of the board game Clue. Follow me, and I’ll explain,” Hubert said.
He stopped in front of another gurney. “Andrea Garcia, I believe, was the first to be attacked. She was in the kitchen—and it’s my contention that she was assaulted by a machete or a sword.
The blade was long and broad. There are no defensive wounds on her hands or arms so I don’t think the poor woman had the slightest idea that she was about to be attacked.”
He moved on. “This was Maggie Santander. Since she was viciously bludgeoned to death, we see very little of her face. Oddly, I’m almost certain that both women died first. Usually, a murderer like this would dispatch the men immediately, wanting to disable the stronger of the victims so they wouldn’t have to tackle them in a fight. What she was struck with I don’t know—a heavy object. I haven’t found splinters or metal chips or any telltale sign of the weapon used.”
Quinn felt his jaw tighten; what had been done to the grandmother was gut-wrenching. She really had no face. “Luckily, my boy,” Hubert said, “I believe she died instantly. The blunt force crushed her skull and bone shards went into the brain. However,” he said, moving again, “her husband died the most easily—a single gunshot dead-center to the head. No bullet in him or found at the scene, according to the police. But I still say he was lucky. He probably never knew what hit him.”
“Small mercies,” Quinn said.
“In this situation? Yes.” Hubert walked on to the next table. The woman lying there was pale and ashen; her lips were a sickly shade of blue. Hubert opened one of her eyes. “Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, the bruising around the neck. As we’d ascertained at the scene, this young woman was strangled and with great force. But I’ve looked at the bruising with a microscope. She was manually strangled, but there’s no indication whether the killer was left-or right-handed. As you saw at the house, it appears that she walked into the midst of the carnage and was caught before she could escape. Now, let’s return to Mr. Garcia.”
Hubert went back to the first body. “Here’s where it’s curious. Mr. Garcia was right-handed. It almost looks as if the wounds were self-inflicted. See how the cuts are on the left side of the body? And the deeper wounds, the stab wounds, are all toward the left. Even where his throat is slit. It could indicate that the man took a knife or a similar blade himself and swept it across his own throat in a left-to-right motion. There was also a great deal of blood on his right hand. However, at that point, he would’ve instantly lost so much blood that I estimate death would have occurred in under a minute—certainly not enough time to stash the weapon. And, of course, he couldn’t have gone far,” Hubert added dryly.