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“I agree. Oh! Mason, I’m seeing more and more of your cemetery prints out there! You’re doing great. The paintings are wonderful—and I’m delighted that the prints seem to be everywhere.”
“Yes, but the paintings themselves don’t always sell. People don’t necessarily want to pay for an original. So I’m still a struggling artist, you know how that goes,” Mason said. “But at least I’m not a starving artist.” He took her empty champagne glass. “I guess I should get back to selling. I know we’ll keep one of the Hubert giclées for you. Hey,” he told her, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “There’s a rumor that the collector who bought the piece is here—right here in New Orleans!”
“Niles mentioned that.”
“It’s such a unique object,” Mason said reverently. “Anyway, my dear friend, remember we love you, Niles and I. And don’t forget, if you need me, I’m here!”
“Thank you.” Danni smiled as Mason hurried away to attend to another customer and then found herself turning back to the giclée.
It was surpisingly difficult to tear herself away from Ghosts in the Mind. Determined, she finally did. Billie McDougall—her Icabod Crane/Riff Raff lookalike and helper in all things—had been running the store alone. Bo Ray Tomkins, their clerk, hadn’t been with them long, and generally worked on their bookkeeping and inventory, although he also assisted with sales when necessary. Billie didn’t care if he manned the counter on his own, but still, she’d been gone for a few hours.
Danni waved a goodbye to Mason, who returned the gesture, and stepped out onto Royal Street, Wolf at her heels. The sun shone down on handsome balconies, some still wearing their Mardi Gras apparel or banners and ribbons and signs. Some sported chairs and plants with vines that seemed to trickle down, adding to the faded elegance that was so much a part of the French Quarter.
But just as she started to head back to her own shop, Wolf began to bark frantically and pull at his leash. He was very well trained, but so excited she was afraid he’d drag her across the street.
“Wolf!”
Then she realized that a figure was standing there, watching her.
He was wearing a light casual coat, perfect for the spring weather. It hung nicely on his six-four frame. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, which hid his short sandy-blond hair and hazel eyes. But he smiled slowly, and she’d know that smile anywhere...just as she knew him.
Her heart quickened, and she felt exhilaration sweep through her.
She was deliriously happy to see him.
And yet...
His appearance made her tremble. Was he back because he lived here, because he wanted to see her?
Or was something about to happen?
Quinn.
Quinn had returned.
Chapter Two
DANNI MEANT TO greet Quinn with decorum. He’d been in Austin at the request of a friend in the police department there. She’d read what she could on the internet about the murder and spoken to him a few times on the phone, but they had determined that they weren’t going to call each other every day, that they were going to take it slowly as far as their relationship went. They were both well aware that they’d face difficult situations as time went by.
The hell with decorum.
“Quinn!” She shouted his name and barely checked the road for cars before she went streaking across it.
The dog beat her to him. Wolf knew not to jump, but maybe he’d decided the hell with decorum, too. On his hind legs, the dog was the size of the man. Quinn gave him loving affection, calling him an old mutt, and then became the master, ordering him to sit. Wolf seemed to understand that he’d been assigned to watch Danni; Quinn would always be his real master.
So the dog and I both just wait for him to come back, Danni thought.
When Quinn looked at her, she tried very hard not to smile, to let him make the first move.
Then she couldn’t resist anymore and threw herself into his arms. He caught her, lifted her, pulled her tight against him and met her with a kiss.
It was a decorous kiss, really.
However, some fool walking around them muttered, “Get a room!” And then someone else said, “Oh, Robbie, check that out!” and then a third person, presumably Robbie, said, “Hey, it’s New Orleans!” Someone else sniggered and added, “But Bourbon Street’s one over!”
Danni and Quinn listened, they laughed and they drew apart, still holding hands, looking each other up and down as if a few weeks could have changed the other and anxious to see that it hadn’t.
No harm had come to Quinn, Danni concluded. He was perfect or, at least, perfect to her, over six feet, and as muscular as an athlete. His hazel eyes were vibrant, so alive, so well set in the classic structure of his face. He had a great jaw—a really great jaw. Square, the kind that made him appear to be in control on every occasion. And yet he had sensuous lips and the ability to laugh. She smiled, remembering a time when she’d actively disliked him. But that had been right after her father had died—and before she’d known exactly what her father had left her.
She pulled away, studying him. “Texas?” she asked.
“Very strange,” he told her. “And sad.”
“But it was solved?”
He nodded. “But there was really nothing unusual about the situation. It looked like the guy had killed himself. He had a vial of sleeping pills and a bottle of beer at his side, and there was no forced entry—nothing to indicate anything other than suicide.”
“But you already knew it wasn’t suicide.”
“Yeah. The guy had been married for thirty years. Everyone thought that he and his wife were as happy as could be. They had a grown family, and husband and wife were both due to retire. But it turns out that he was the family dictator and had verbally abused them all for years. Still, the wife took it. But then he started using a cream for low testosterone and, apparently, the cream caused the wife to grow a beard. I guess that was the final straw for her. He was sitting around watching TV and yelled at her to get him a beer. She brought him a beer, all right, and filled it up with the sleeping pills. She did everything correctly, called the police, said she’d been asleep and she came out and found him and...” He stopped to take a breath. “And she killed a man who’d probably dominated her and in a way tortured her for most of her life—because she just couldn’t tolerate the hair on her face. Davy, the cop in Texas who called me, didn’t like it from the beginning but couldn’t prove she’d done it. When we did prove it, I don’t think he was particularly happy.”
“What’ll happen to her?” Danni asked.
Quinn shrugged. “Hopefully, the courts will take her life into consideration.”
“How did you prove it?”
“We went over and over the evidence. Her fingerprints were on the beer can, but of course they were on all the groceries in the house. Eventually, I simply asked her—and she broke down. It was probably a matter of timing, because Davy had questioned her repeatedly. When I asked, she was ready to confess. The woman wasn’t a career criminal or a psychopath. She just couldn’t take his abuse anymore.”
Danni nodded. She’d greeted him; now she stood on the street feeling a little awkward. “So, you’re home.”
His eyes touched hers. “You told me to go,” he reminded her softly. “You said we needed to make sure we were good at being apart.”
Danni lowered her head and nodded again.
I wasn’t good at it at all!
“So, yes, I went when a friend called. We solved the situation. I’m grateful, and I’m home. Except that I’d hardly gotten back before I was called in on a case here,” he said.
“Oh?” Danni asked. “By...Larue?” When he was a cop in the city, Quinn had been partnered with Jake Larue. She was well aware that Larue kept a lot of his thoughts and opinions to himself, but if there was some out-of-the-ordinary crime, he knew he didn’t have the special skills to comprehend what was behind it.
He did know, however, that there was something different about Quinn, and he was quick to call him when the situation warranted extra eyes—eyes that might see more deeply.
“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.
