Waking the Dead Read online

  Quinn nodded; he could see what she meant.

  “We’ll be done here in a day or two. I left cards with the names of the best crime scene cleanup crews on the counter downstairs.”

  “Thanks, Gracie.”

  “You’re welcome, Quinn.”

  He hurried back downstairs. Hattie hadn’t returned yet, but Danni was standing in the parlor, pensively studying the room.

  She turned to face him. “I like her, Quinn. I really like her.”

  “Actually, I do, too,” he said.

  “Do you feel we should just move her to my place?”

  “No. She’d be close by, but you never know when some kind of activity might start up at the shop.”

  The shop had come under attack before.

  Danni frowned. “You’re right. Did you learn anything from the crime scene people?”

  “Grace said that from what they could piece together, it seemed as if someone other than the intruder had gotten behind the victim.”

  She stared into the fireplace. “So you’d think...you’d almost think that someone was stepping out of the painting and bringing a murder weapon along. Or,” she added, “we might think that.”

  “Yes.”

  “How else could it have happened?” she murmured. Then she shook her head. “Let’s say that Bryson Arnold purposely took this job because he somehow knew that Hattie was bidding on the painting. He was in collusion with the intruder. That’s a sound theory, supported by the footage from the house. It’s even possible that someone at the auction house was involved, at least to the extent of providing that information. Or it could be that someone heard her talking about it to a gallery owner somewhere. Hattie said she might have mentioned her interest in acquiring a Hubert painting in one of those conversations. Whoever came in knew that Hattie had bought the painting and he knew its history. Maybe Bryson didn’t. Or maybe he’d heard some kind of rumor about it—something we’d need to ferret out. I’m not convinced he was supposed to die. I think he took the initiative and did something that activated the painting, except that...” Her voice trailed off for a minute and she looked at Quinn. “Maybe the painting didn’t want him?”

  “One thing’s for sure—we need to learn more about the painting.”

  “From Dr. Hubert,” Danni said. “You suggested that before and I’ve been wanting to do it. He might have something.”

  “He might,” Quinn agreed. “But I don’t think he’s too proud of his association with the artist. Still, we can talk to him.”

  Hattie had come down. “If you would, Quinn, my suitcase is at the top of the stairs.”

  “I’ll get it,” he said immediately. They left Hattie’s house; the distance to Royal was so short it was almost ridiculous to drive. Danni unlocked the side door and they entered through the courtyard.

  Wolf always knew when someone was coming, and he was there to greet them. Seeing the massive dog, Hattie started.

  “My God!” she gasped, hanging back.

  “This is Wolf, Hattie. He won’t hurt you. In fact, he’d die for you once you’re his friend,” Quinn told her.

  For a moment, the older woman remained frozen. Then she said, “I guess I’d better be his friend, then. Hello...Wolf.”

  “Give him a pat,” Danni encouraged.

  Hattie did so, hesitantly at first. Wolf whined and thumped his tail.

  “He is quite friendly,” Hattie said. “He seems so easygoing.”

  “He’s as easy as a Bourbon Street hooker.” Quinn couldn’t resist the cheap joke.

  Danni rolled her eyes, but Hattie looked shocked. Then she grinned.

  “Hattie, we’ll see you in the kitchen after we grab Billie and Bo Ray. We’ll have you meet them one by one,” Danni said.

  “That would be lovely. Do you have any tea?”

  “Of course.” Danni glanced at Quinn.

  “You stay with Hattie. I’ll explain our situation to the guys.” He walked through the showroom, where Bo Ray was busy with a customer, while Billie stood behind the counter. Quinn walked over to him. Billie looked up, a little apprehensive. He was always aware of what could be required—or what could be at stake.

  “Billie, I need huge favors from you and Bo Ray.”

  “All right,” he said in a grudging voice. Quinn could tell that Billie already knew he wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  “We have Hattie Lamont in the kitchen,” he began.

  “In our kitchen? Ah, the woman is frightened—and therefore slumming?”

  “They haven’t finished with her house. I don’t want her at a hotel or away from...well, away from protection.”

  “She’s not staying here!” Billie protested.

  “No, I think she should stay at my house,” Quinn said.

  “It’s your house, your choice.”

  “I need you and Bo Ray to take turns staying with her.”

  “You want us to babysit a society dragon?”

  “Billie, I swear, she’s not so bad. Come on back and meet her. We’ll leave Bo Ray to handle the shop, then I’ll let you go and bring him in.”

  Billie agreed, obviously unhappy. He and Quinn nodded to Bo Ray, who was extolling the virtues of one of their local jewelry designers to a friendly-looking middle-aged couple, and Bo Ray nodded in return. He knew the shop was in his hands.

  Billie muttered as they walked through the shop and into the private area downstairs. “Favor. Hmph. Favor. You know it’s in m’blood to do as you and Danni ask. Favor, indeed.”

  But before they could reach the kitchen, they heard a scream.

  A scream of pure terror.

  Quinn could only describe it as déjà vu.

  Chapter Eight

  THE SOUND CAME from Danni’s studio.

  Quinn rushed in that direction. He threw the door open; Danni’s nocturnal rendition of the Hubert painting remained on the easel in all its gory splendor. Hattie Lamont was standing in front of it.

  Danni was already there, striding toward the trembling woman. She took Hattie in her arms and turned to Quinn with apologetic eyes. “She was sitting in the kitchen...I was making tea and talking, and she wandered in here!”

  “Hattie, it’s a painting. Just a painting,” Quinn said.

  “A horrible painting! Lord, it’s evil!” Hattie looked at Danni, her eyes wide. “You...you created this.”

  “I guess I was trying to figure out what lies beneath the surface of the Hubert,” Danni said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you’d left the kitchen and come here.”

  Hattie seemed to give herself a mental shake as she stood there, very dignified. “Of course, well...”

  “I’m sorry,” Danni said again. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—I’m okay,” Hattie whispered. “I was so startled...and yet it does reveal exactly what’s going on in the Hubert, doesn’t it? But this doesn’t deceive as much. The color draws you to it, and then you see what it really is—ghastly.”

  “It’s only a copy, a different perception of what Hubert was showing, Hattie.” Before anyone else could say anything, Wolf started barking and Bo Ray burst into the room. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine,” Quinn quickly assured him.

  “If we have any customers, tell them a friend was just startled,” Danni told him.

  “Yeah, of course,” Bo Ray said.

  “Oh—this is Hattie Lamont. Hattie, Bo Ray Tompkins.” Once polite greetings were exchanged, Bo Ray returned to the shop.

  Wolf whined and set his nose on Hattie’s hand. She leaned down to pat the dog. “How embarrassing! In any event, I’m completely recovered. I’ll have that tea now if I may.”

  As if nothing had happened, she sailed out of the studio.

  They all went into the kitchen, and Danni seated Hattie at the table in front of a steaming cup of tea.

  Hattie didn’t rise; she studied Billie like a queen inspecting a subject. Then she turned to Quinn, frowning. “That man is going to protect me? I’m sorry, bu
t he looks like an escapee from a sixties rock band!”

  “And you look like you think your shite smells like roses!” Billie snapped in return.

  “Hey!” Danni protested. “Both of you! We’re all after the same thing here.”

  After she’d made introductions, Hattie looked at Quinn. “So, is this Mr. William McDougall going to act as my butler?”

  “Now, that’s it! I’m no one’s butler!” Billie insisted.

  “No, he’s going to be your companion and your guard,” Quinn said firmly.

  “Society! Och. Only if she remembers her manners!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Hattie said, rising to her feet.

  “Mrs. Lamont, I will be polite and courteous at all times—if you are capable of doing the same.” Billie drew himself up with great dignity.

  “Capable!”

  “Listen,” Quinn said impatiently, “the two of you don’t need to become best friends. You just have to watch out for...anything. We’ll bring Wolf to the house, as well.”

  Billie nodded curtly. “Right. I’ll go and pack. When does Bo Ray spell me?”

  “We’ll do one day on and one day off. Does that suit you?”

  Billie nodded again.

  “Hattie?” Quinn asked.

  “I believe, if I value my life, I’m at your mercy, Quinn,” Hattie replied. “I shall be quite delighted to have Mr. McDougall as my...companion.”

  “So, let’s head over to the Garden District now,” Quinn suggested.

  “I’ll stay with Bo Ray and, uh, bring him up to speed,” Danni said.

  “Okay.” Quinn wasn’t sure what, but he sensed that she had something she needed to do.

  Then he guessed what it was; she was going to go down and study the book her father, Angus, had left her—along with his other “collectibles.”

  Billie took a few minutes to pack a small bag. There was no reason to worry about Wolf; Quinn always kept food at his house. Wolf had originally been his; actually, he and Angus Cafferty had been responsible for taking in the one-time police dog—a wolf-shepherd mix—when he’d been seriously injured during a case in Texas.

  Quinn had grown up in the Garden District home and eventually purchased it from his parents. He’d been what he could only call a reprobate for so long that it had been a matter of pride for them all when he’d made the money and insisted on paying for the home. His parents had cried.

  Dying had been the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  Hattie sat silently beside Quinn as he drove, with Wolf and Billie in the back.

  “It really is a gorgeous part of the city,” Hattie remarked, gazing around.

  “Yes, ma’am, I think so, too,” Quinn said.

  She was just as pleased when they reached his house.

  Together with Billie, he inspected the place. Everything was as it should be. “There’s one room downstairs that’s set up as a bedroom,” Quinn told her. “I’m going to have Billie sleep there. Wolf will keep guard in the parlor, and there’s a nice guest room upstairs. I think you’ll be comfortable there.”

  Hattie nodded. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be just fine. Any minute now, Billie and I are going to turn on the TV and enjoy another cup of tea, while we watch an entertaining musical.” She frowned. “You do have Netflix, young man?”

  Quinn said he did.

  When Billie let out a groan, Quinn held back his grin. For a minute there, Billie reminded him of Lurch—the butler in the old Addams Family television show.

  “Don’t worry,” Hattie said, addressing Billie. “I do know how to brew tea. In fact, I’ll be happy to make you a cup right now.”

  “Lovely,” Billie said politely. “I’ll turn on the telly.”

  Quinn left them, sure that they’d get along well enough; frankly, they had no choice. At the door, he spoke to Wolf. “Watch out for them, boy. Okay?”

  The dog barked. Quinn had always believed that Wolf knew he’d saved his life, and had given him unstinting loyalty ever since. When the vet had suggested Wolf be put down because of the difficult and lengthy care he’d need, Quinn, with Angus Cafferty’s support, had decided to take him on.

  He’d never made a better decision.

  Back in his car, he called Danni. She answered on the second ring. He told her that his household seemed in order.

  “Poor Billie!”

  “He’ll manage.”

  “I’ve gotten accustomed to having Wolf at my feet.”

  “We’ll manage, too, for a few days, anyway,” he said. “Are you in the basement?”

  “I am,” she answered. “I’m reading. It’s slow going. How about you?”

  “I’m stopping in at the morgue,” he said. “I want to see if we can catch Doc Hubert tonight. Pay him a visit.”

  “Sounds good.

  Quinn hung up and drove to the morgue.

  He knew what—or rather, who—Dr. Hubert would be working on.

  * * *

  The massive volume she’d inherited from Angus, written by someone named Millicent Smith—during or soon after the witchcraft trials in Salem—read like a strange cookbook.

  Except that the “recipes” were all related to bizarre occurrences in history, objects around which strange events had taken place, or people who’d shown extraordinary behavior, both good and bad.

  She searched for references to killer paintings, but she found nothing. The book could be frustrating; sometimes, it took a lot of searching to come up with what she needed.

  Sighing loudly, she sat back. Maybe she should bring the book into the modern age—scan the pages and enter them into a computer. That way, she could use the “find” function when she was looking for something specific.

  Leaving the book for the moment, she turned to the computer, wondering if she’d been using the wrong key words when she’d tried Google earlier. She’d focused on Hubert and suddenly realized that she hadn’t done the obvious—she hadn’t looked up haunted paintings.

  There was a plethora of relevant sites. She felt like a fool; she should’ve used the right search words from the beginning.

  But checking one website after the next, she still couldn’t find anything about Ghosts in the Mind.

  She’d been so elated at what she’d felt would be a breakthrough. Now, nothing.

  She thought about the year the painting had been executed. Leaning back, she tried to imagine Lake Geneva and the creepy castle Hubert had rented for the summer. She was certain he’d used the House of Guillaume as the backdrop for Ghosts in the Mind. And she wondered, yet again, whether the characters in the painting meant anything. Had he, at some point in his life, known evil children? Really evil children—like the ones in Children of the Corn?

  She turned back to the book. “The answers are in there, aren’t they? You’re a powerful book. I just haven’t learned the right way to read you.”

  The book had to be read under a special light. Her father had told her about it as he lay dying, but she hadn’t understood. She’d had to learn exactly what he’d meant when the bust of Pietro Miro had suddenly appeared in her life.

  When Quinn had appeared in her life.

  Odd. It hadn’t been that long ago, but she could barely remember when she hadn’t known Quinn.

  Or wanted him. Even when he infuriated her.

  “Okay, so you’re not ready to tell me?” she asked the book. “I’m obviously going about something the wrong way.”

  Danni went to her studio next, determined to study the painting she’d done in her sleep. She tried to recognize the differences between the original and her nocturnal painting, tried to work out what her mind wanted to show her but couldn’t express except through the brush.

  The real Hubert was so subtle. The painting changed, depending on the distance and angle from which it was seen—perhaps even the person by whom it was seen. It was all about perspective. Her own painting was tempting because of the vivid colors, but the ugliness was revealed as soon as the viewer came close.


  Danni assumed that her sleepwalk painting had to do with things she saw or suspected in her subconscious mind. But those truths hadn’t emerged yet, hadn’t entered her conscious mind. Studying the picture, she saw that she’d captured the Hubert characters—every one of them.

  She found herself looking at the children. No one ever wanted to believe that children could be evil. And yet, most serial killers showed strange traits when they were children. They liked to torture family pets and other animals.

  Some started killing at very young ages.

  While the great majority of children were innocent and adults tended to protect them, these children, the ones in the painting, were definitely different. But in reality, how evil could the child on the floor, playing with the guillotine, have been?

  She didn’t think she’d ever heard of a two-or three-year-old killer!

  So where was the true evil in the painting? Was it the husband? Or the wife? She was well aware that women could be as malicious and evil as men.

  She backed away. In the original Hubert, the evil within was insidious...it snuck up on you. Even when you had the right perspective, it took a moment to realize what you were looking at.

  In her version, you were drawn in by the color, you came closer, and wham!

  She walked up to the painting, and then walked away. Then she moved closer again.

  The color, especially the red, so rich, so deep and dark.

  Dark, rich, deep red. The color of blood once it was spilled.

  She hurried out of the studio, heading down to her father’s office in the basement again. Bo Ray called out to her. “Danni? You okay?”

  “Yep, I’m fine!” she called back.

  She sat behind the desk once more, placing the book beneath the special light. She began to flip through the pages.

  She didn’t look for haunted paintings. She wouldn’t find the Hubert, since it was painted more than a century after the book’s publication. But she might find information about such works.

  She looked for paintings created with blood.