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“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!” voodoo 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.
Quinn stared at him. “So?” he asked.
“So, I’m the medical examiner. You’re the investigator.”
“What you’re telling me is basically impossible. And yet based on what you’ve said—and what we discovered at the house—it looks like James Garcia got hold of a machete or a sword and sliced his wife to pieces in the kitchen. Then he moved around the house, dripping blood, found a heavy object and killed his mother-in-law with it, then found a gun and shot his father-in-law. After that, he headed downstairs, and strangled Maria Orr. Then he walked down the hall and stabbed himself several times before cutting his own throat and dying.” Quinn shook his head. “Pretty damned impossible. I don’t buy it.”
“Me, neither.”
“So, there had to be someone else there.”
“That’s what I’m assuming. Especially since there are no weapons.”
“So, someone went to the house with weapons, gave them to James Garcia, who murdered his family and committed suicide, and then took the weapons away?” Quinn asked cynically.
“That’s how it seems.” Hubert sighed deeply. “But, as I told you, I’m the medical examiner. You’re the investigator.”
“Has Larue been here yet?”
“He’s due anytime.”
Quinn felt a chill seep slowly into him. There was obviously something not right about the situation; Larue had known that immediately and that was why he’d called Quinn.
“Are you waiting for him?” Hubert asked.
“No. There’s not much point. I’m sure he’s working on backgrounds, but I don’t think this is about drugs, or a family feud or anything...”
“Ordinary?”
Quinn felt his brow furrow as he studied the bodies, then glanced back at Hubert. “Odd. You see a macabre game of Clue. I saw a strange painting this morning—or a copy of it—that this brings to mind.”
“Oh,” Hubert said. “Yeah. The Henry Sebastian Hubert. Ghosts in the Mind.”
“You know the painting?” Quinn asked.
“Of course.”
“Of course?”
“Believe it or not, I do enjoy art,” Hubert said. “But that’s not why I know that particular painting.”
“You are a descendant?” Quinn said.
“Sure am,” Hubert said, grimacing.
“But...”
“I don’t know how many ‘greats’ I am. The man was as bohemian as his friends. He had a wife he left in London. She had a child. That child had a child—you know how it goes. Anyway, my grandfather came to Minnesota and that’s where I lived until I came here. But, yes, I’m a descendant. And I’m sure of my facts because my mother was something of a family historian.”
“Now that’s a bizarre coincidence!”
“What’s really bizarre is that you saw the painting—or a copy of it. Hubert was talented but became obscure. I guess there’s been a revival of interest in his work, especially that piece. It has a long tangled history.”
“I heard some of it, and tangled is an understatement,” Quinn said. “Did you know there’s a copy—a giclée—at a shop on Royal Street?”
“Interesting. I’ll have to go by and see it. But right now I have a lot of work to do. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
Quinn shook his head slowly. “No, not now, thanks, Doc. I’ll see Larue later and find out what he’s learned so we can decide how we’re going to pursue this.”
Hubert nodded grimly. “Get this bastard—whether he killed the family, which is the most likely, or forced Garcia to kill them. He’s evil. Totally, heinously evil. Get him.”
Quinn left, stripping off his gown and mask. But as he hurried down to the street and his car, he found his mind twitching in different directions.
A game of Clue.
A painting of domestic bliss that wasn’t.
And someone—something—evil and alive in the city he loved.
Chapter Three
NATASHA, ALSO REFERRED to as Mistress LaBelle, was a renowned voodoo priestess in the Quarter. Danni had known her as long as she could remember—and loved her like a wonderful, eccentric aunt for every one of those years.
These days she realized that Natasha had more than just an understanding of people. Natasha’s faith was strong. She knew that spirits traveled in the world—and everything wasn’t plainly visible for the eye to see.
But Natasha also lived in the real world. Her shop was filled with wonders. The scent of incense flowed throughout; there were handcrafted masks on display, along with other artwork, jewelry and all kinds of gris-gris, since Mistress LaBelle catered to tourists, as well as the devout of her flock.
Natasha had a trusted wingman—Jeziah, who was at the counter when Danni entered the shop. He looked up when the door opened. As a few tourists clustered in a corner, choosing a mask, Jeziah smiled at her.
Jeziah was often quiet and stoic but he saw everything that went on around him. Danni knew that he gave his total loyalty to Natasha; Jez, she thought, could have done anything in life. He was intelligent and compassionate. He was also striking, his skin a beautiful dark shade and his eyes a brilliant green. Jeziah moved fluidly and with purpose and seemed able to converse on any subject. He was a good friend to have.
“She’s waiting for you,” Jez told her before she’d come even two feet into the store.
“You’re kidding me,” Danni said.
