Waking the Dead Page 9

  She was slim, yes, although Danni wouldn’t call her “skinny.” Her hair was iron-gray and perfectly coifed. Danni had heard that a personal trainer went to her house daily and that she was obsessed by fitness, especially with regard to diet. Maybe that was natural; her husband had enjoyed his money, so the story went, by consuming huge quantities of red meat and fried food and bourbon—and then died of a heart attack.

  The woman opened the door a little farther, staring out at Danni, who still stood by the gate.

  “Danielle Cafferty?” she asked.

  They’d met briefly at an art show. Danni was surprised that Hattie remembered her. However, the woman had actually purchased a piece of her art. Maybe that was why.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lamont. May I speak with you for a minute?”

  The woman studied her. “It’s about the Hubert, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Danni said honestly. “I promise I won’t take much of your time.”

  Hattie hesitated a minute longer. Then she hit a buzzer by the door. The white picket gate swung open.

  Danni heard Quinn’s intake of breath and realized he was standing behind one of the massive old trees on Esplanade, far too close to the house.

  She ignored the sound, hoping Hattie Lamont hadn’t heard it.

  Danni walked into the house.

  It rivaled—or surpassed—the finest mansions she’d seen. All her life she’d lived in New Orleans, but the opulence of this house was new to her. Antebellum furniture in perfect condition adorned the entry hallway, and exceptionally fine prints of the city, old and new, lined the walls.

  “Come into the parlor,” Hattie said.

  Danni followed her through a doorway to the right. The parlor was grand and all done in white; the most glorious thing was the one piece of color—a mahogany grand piano set toward the rear of the room. In days gone by, Danni imagined, belles had danced the night away here.

  She hoped to see the Hubert. It wasn’t in this room.

  “Sit down, please. I can have Arnold get you some tea. Hot or cold? I assume you like it swimming with sugar?”

  “No, thank you. And, actually, I don’t like sugar in it at all.”

  “I thought that was a Southern thing.”

  “Sweet tea? Yes, ma’am. I just don’t happen to like it.”

  “But you are from here, are you not? Your painting has a lovely local quality.”

  “Yes, I am from New Orleans,” Danni said.

  Hattie pursed her lips. Danni felt slightly guilty, as if she should’ve liked sweet tea.

  “Trying to watch the calories, you know,” she said, hoping that would appeal to Hattie’s obsession with staying fit.

  Hattie nodded. “Yes, yes, very good. Most people in this country eat too much sugar and far too much fat.”

  And none of that’s going to matter if you keep that painting in your house! Danni thought.

  “So, you’re here about the Hubert, as well. I’m not ready to show it. I’ve begun preparing a special place for it in the gallery upstairs, but I’m not quite finished. And, as it seems you know, I’ve had a very trying day with the police trying to take my painting from me!”

  “Who delivered it?” Danni asked.

  “Well, a delivery man, of course! My butler took possession, and he’s already worked with a sketch artist.” She spoke righteously and with extreme annoyance.

  “Mrs. Lamont, do you understand what happened?” Danni asked.

  The woman looked at her with shrewd eyes. “I was told about the murders. Absolutely horrible. Beyond horrible. One can only be glad that the children weren’t home. But while the murdered man might have worked for the delivery company, he didn’t have my painting at his house. That’s because it’s here, in my house. It arrived this morning just as it was supposed to. Arnold signed for it. I have it. Period.”

  “And you’re certain it’s...the original painting?” Danni asked. She’d studied art history, and she knew there were forgeries that even the most renowned experts had difficulty recognizing. Sometimes, in a case such as this one, paint and canvas needed to be analyzed for aging.

  Hattie Lamont leaned forward. “You think I spend what I spend on art—and know nothing about it?”

  “Of course not!” Danni said immediately. “But, Mrs. Lamont, are you aware of the terrible history of that painting?”

  “The artist died. Yes, very sad. But musicians and artists tend to be tortured souls. Look at the fine performers who’ve died in the past few years. All due to excess. Of drugs and alcohol. Poisons. Overindulgence. It’s our greatest killer,” Hattie said sternly.

  Danni tried again. “It’s not just the artist who died, Mrs. Lamont.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the copies she’d made at the library earlier. “Death—no, murder, brutal murder—follows this painting wherever it goes. Mrs. Lamont, the French museum didn’t even want the painting back!”

  “My dear girl!” Hattie said. “The museum knew what it could make on the painting. That’s why it went up for auction. I’m not afraid of ghosts, Ms. Cafferty. There are far too many people I long to see, and they don’t come back. And I’m certainly not frightened by ghost stories—or history, even when it concerns ruffians and bombings and Nazis!”

  Danni realized that she needed to proceed carefully. “Mrs. Lamont, you’re an incredible asset to the city,” she began. “You’ve done so many wonderful things. But what if there was the slightest chance that there could be something about this painting that attracted the worst kinds of people? Something that brought death, murder, evil... Wouldn’t you want it out of your house?”

  “Did the police send you?” Hattie asked irritably.

  “No, I’m here on my own.”

  Hattie sat back, studying her. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quiet. “I didn’t stay married to my husband all those years by being young and beautiful, Danielle Cafferty. I read the papers, watch the news. I am no one’s fool—and I know about you. You were involved in that cult mess or whatever went on. You are working with the police.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m acquainted with a few of them, of course. I know what happened this morning and I know—I know—that painting is somehow involved,” she said flatly.

  Hattie smiled. “Look around you. I have cameras everywhere in this house. If anyone tries to gain entry through a window or door, an alarm goes off that could wake people in China. You don’t imagine that no one’s ever tried to break in, do you? If evil people are a part of this, bring them on. I live my life hoping never to hurt another person. But, my dear, I am no doormat. I’m a crack shot. My husband taught me that if you’re going to pull a gun, be prepared to use it. And if you’re going to shoot, shoot to kill.”

  Danni felt a sense of respect for Hattie Lamont, and she didn’t want the police to find this woman the way they’d found the Garcia family—viciously murdered.

  “I wish you’d reconsider, Mrs. Lamont. That painting is...frightening.”

  She was surprised when Hattie leaned forward again and patted her on the knee. “You’re a lovely young woman, Danielle Cafferty. I can tell how earnest you are, and that you’re here because you think you can help me. But don’t let this facade fool you. I’m a tough old broad.”

  Danni smiled, remembering Quinn’s description of her as a “skinny old broad” and her own objection to it. She liked the woman more and more.

  “I believe you,” she said. “But I’m not sure you really understand what you’re up against.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Like I said, death has accompanied that painting every step of the way. I know that five people were just murdered. I also know that we can’t always see everything that’s evil in this world.”

  Hattie Lamont took in her words without betraying any emotion. Then she shook her head. “You’re passionate and sincere, Ms. Cafferty. But you don’t get where my husband got—and yes, I take some of the credit—without watching what you can see, and watching
it with a wary eye. No one—and I mean no one—is taking that painting from me without a court order. But, be assured, I am listening to you.”

  The woman was stubborn. She obviously considered her word on the subject final. But Danni couldn’t just leave; she couldn’t abandon Hattie to what she was sure would come, even if she didn’t grasp it herself and couldn’t possibly explain it.

  She reached into her pocket and took out one of her business cards. She handed it to Hattie Lamont and said, “This is my card. I want to be honest with you. I think you actually met a man named Michael Quinn earlier—before you had your butler slam the door on him. We...work together sometimes. You may think we’re out to take something from you. We’re not. I know how rich you are. I know you can do and have whatever you want. We don’t care. From the bottom of my heart, I swear we’re trying to help you. If you won’t let us take the painting, at least keep this card. It has my number on it and Quinn’s. If anything happens—anything that makes you at all nervous—call one of us. Please.”

  Hattie accepted the card. She glanced at it and then back at Danni. “I have to say, you sound a little crazy. Maybe you’ve been in this city too long. Too much voodoo.”

  “For some people, Mrs. Lamont—good people—voodoo is a very real religion. I don’t practice it, but I have friends who do. And...I’m not crazy.”

  Hattie Lamont sighed. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. But I like you, child. Come on up. We’ll unwrap the Hubert together.”

  Danni stared at her. “You haven’t unwrapped it yet?”

  Hattie Lamont waved a hand. “Oh, the police wanted the wrapping. They said there was blood on it. I told them they were wrong—and to get a warrant!”

  Danni realized she wanted to see the painting in the worst way. The original Hubert! Ghosts in the Mind.

  She was an artist. As an artist...

  But she shook her head. “Mrs. Lamont, if you haven’t unwrapped the painting yet, I’m begging you—don’t. Don’t unwrap it.”

  Hattie Lamont frowned at her curiously. “You don’t want to see it?”

  “I do. A part of me is dying to see it. To study his every brushstroke. But I know better. I’ve seen things.... So, don’t unwrap the painting, okay? Let me leave you this information. Please read it. And don’t unwrap the painting, at least until you’ve read what I’ve given you. You...you don’t know what you might unleash. And, again, the card. It has my number and Quinn’s. Call if you need us.”

  Hattie Lamont was obviously listening to her. “I’ll keep the card. I do think you’re—well, a bit misguided. But, as I said, I like you, and I like your work.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “You’re not trying to sell me another painting, are you?”

  “No, I’m not!” Hattie smiled. Danni thought it was sad that the woman had no children, by either birth or adoption. Sad because she was such a smart, compassionate and self-possessed person whose outlook on life would have been a wonderful legacy.

  Hattie stood up; there was finality in her movements. Danni wasn’t going to change her mind.

  Only circumstances would.

  Danni hoped those circumstances wouldn’t leave Hattie Lamont dead.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I don’t know how to convince you that the painting—well, frankly, the painting should be destroyed. I’m not telling you to destroy it. But I wish you’d get it out of your house. I like you, too, and I don’t want bad things to happen to you.”

  Hattie was watching her with an inscrutable expression.

  “I won’t give up the painting,” she said quietly, “but I’ll wait another day or two before I open it. As for your card...as I said, I’ll hang on to it, although I doubt I’ll ever need to use it.”

  “Thank you. And please, keep it—and your cell phone, of course!—nearby. Just for a few days. If you never need to call us, I’ll be delighted,” Danni said. As she spoke, the butler returned to the room.

  He was there to escort her out. How Mrs. Lamont had summoned him so silently, she didn’t know.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Danni said.

  Mrs. Lamont nodded.

  The butler led her to the front door, down the porch steps and out to the street. He hurried back to the house, but Danni didn’t stay to watch him. Dusk had come while she was inside, but she still hurried down the street, hoping Quinn wouldn’t accost her in front of Mrs. Lamont’s house.

  He caught up with her by the corner, clasping her arm. “You don’t have the painting,” he said, clearly disappointed.

  “No, I don’t have the painting.” The woman would never have let her walk out with the painting in a thousand years. The most Danni had hoped for was that Mrs. Lamont might have allowed the police to take it.

  “But does Mrs. Lamont have the painting? You didn’t get me in there.”

  “Quinn, I barely got in there.”

  “But when you did, you should’ve gotten me in!”

  “Hey! I did my best with her. You couldn’t even get through the front door. I did, and there are times when you can’t change the fact that most people think logically and deal with what they see as real.”

  “I would’ve made her see what’s real.”

  Danni tried to control her temper. “And what would you have done—beaten it into her?”

  He looked down, gritting his teeth. Danni left him there and walked to her car. She’d forgotten he could be so damned stubborn. No less stubborn, in fact, than Mrs. Lamont herself.

  He quickly caught up with her again and fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s getting dark. Hell, it is dark. Twilight is now...shadow.”

  “I tried.”

  “But, Danni, we have to get that painting.”

  “I know that! Remember, I am my father’s daughter. Quinn, I’m trying as hard as I can. If we end up in jail—or get shot by a home owner!—we’re not going to be any help to anyone.”

  “Danni, I saw the Garcia house. And come on. You know I don’t beat up old ladies! It’s just that...” He inhaled sharply, holding his breath for a minute. “You didn’t see the Garcia house, and I’m glad. No one should’ve had to see it—ever.”

  She stopped. They were at the corner of Esplanade and Bourbon. She had walked farther than she’d thought.

  As he spoke, her frustration had faded. Quinn was so passionate. But she had no idea what to say, what to do. She searched her mind for an answer, glancing at the old buildings on Esplanade, the grand and the not-so-grand. Even those, like the Lamont house, that were impeccably kept and probably worth millions were close together; Esplanade had been “the” place to build at one time.

  Quinn was still staring at her, his eyes intense.

  “Yes, she has the painting,” she told him. “And she’s not giving it up. I’m not sure what else we can do.”

  Quinn let out a long sigh. “All right. Larue’s been trying to get a warrant but it’s difficult when we can’t prove the packages were in the Garcia house or the evidence room. The records we have only show that the shipping company had them—and they don’t explain how any of the packages were delivered. Larue won’t drop this. I’d try to break in but you’re right—I’d just get arrested. Well, I may still try to break in—”

  “Quinn!”

  “She’ll end up dead if we don’t get that painting,” he said starkly.

  “She did take a card with our cell numbers.”

  “And it’s probably in the trash.”

  “She liked me, Quinn.”

  “Good.”

  “So maybe our numbers aren’t in the trash.”

  “She didn’t like me.”

  “You came at her like a bulldozer.”

  “I’m trying to save her life!”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t see that—it makes no logical sense to her. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your charm one day,” Danni told him. “On the other hand, do you think maybe we’re wrong? I mean, wrong about the painting itself creating all t
he violence?”

  “Like I said, I saw Garcia’s house. You learned about the painting and its history. Put those facts together.”

  Danni nodded. “What I mean is that maybe the painting needs to be activated. The history of Hubert’s painting doesn’t come with dozens of senseless murders on a yearly basis. When it was covered and in storage, decades or more went by without any kind of incident. So, either the evil in the painting arises under certain circumstances, or it’s...activated somehow. Or maybe both...”

  “You think James Garcia or someone in his family activated the painting?” Quinn asked.

  “Not necessarily. Possibly. What I’m trying to say is that it might have been James Garcia or a member of his family—or someone who was in his house.”

  Quinn studied her thoughtfully and almost smiled at her garbled explanation. “Hmm. But it was the strangest crime scene I’ve ever encountered. For one thing, there weren’t the blood trails you’d expect.”

  A group of tourists from one of the bars crossed the street to the corner where Danni and Quinn were standing. They were cheerfully singing “Red Solo Cup” despite the fact that their drinks were in white plastic cups. Danni slipped her arm in Quinn’s, and they moved to the side of the road. A young man gave them a sloppy grimace of apology as he brushed by her.

  “Sorry!”

  She felt Quinn tense, ready to defend her. She didn’t need to be defended—not right now, anyway.

  She stepped in front of him and spoke to the young man.

  “It’s fine. But just as a matter of self-preservation, you might want to look when you cross the street. You know, for cars,” Danni said.

  “We didn’t look?” the inebriated young man asked, his expression stricken. One of the girls in the group of four fell against him.

  “Charlie, we need to get back to the hotel,” she said.

  “We need to get back to the hotel,” Charlie agreed. He frowned suddenly and went still, gazing down the street. Danni thought he’d drifted off.