Waking the Dead. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ three of her four children at very early ages—it was all very sad and tragic.”

      Niles still didn’t seem convinced that anything was as sad as the death of an artist.

      “So, did someone just license the painting for giclée reproduction?” she asked Niles.

      “Like I was saying, the painting disappeared soon after Hubert died, reappeared in some kind of storage, in England, then ended up in a museum in France. It disappeared again during World War II.”

      “This sounds familiar. Wasn’t it stolen by the Nazis?”

      “Perfectly true!” Niles said excitedly. “It seems an old Nazi war criminal died in Brazil within the past year, and the painting was found wrapped and buried in a vault. The Brazilian government returned it to the French museum, but the museum’s having hard times and gratefully put it on the auction block. No one knows who purchased the original yet. These things can be so hush-hush and done through corporate names and all that. But the new owner authorized a gallery to make a copy, and from that copy, they were allowed to do a giclée limited edition of two thousand. And—” he lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a coconspirator “—there’s a rumor that the purchaser was from here—from NOLA! I was incredibly lucky. I scored a hundred of them for the gallery. I’ve already sold sixty-six.”

      Danni studied the copy of the painting again. It was as interesting, as rich, as complex, as the human/monster tale about Dr. Frankenstein’s creation.

      “Shall I save one for you?” Niles asked.

      Danni wasn’t sure. On the one hand, the giclée of the painting was beautiful. It was also terribly dark and seemed to be a warning regarding human nature. Did a man smile and offer a rose while thinking of murder? Were children innocently playing, already on the way to cruelty and a callous disregard for life?

      A lady in an elaborate feathered hat swept by to gain Niles’s attention; he excused himself to Danni, winking as he did so. “I’ll save one!” he promised.

      “Great. Lovely. I can keep it with the coffin and guillotine and shrunken heads down in Dad’s collection,” she muttered to herself.

      “Hey, Danni.”

      As she turned to leave, she almost crashed into Mason Bradley, Niles’s sometime-salesman and sometime-artist. Mason’s forte was restoration and he was very good at it. Like most artists, he worked on learning his own style by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.

      “Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.

      “Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”

      “I’m doing okay.”

      “I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.

      “Yes, Wolf.”

      “Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.

      She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”

      “I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”

      “I’m just fine, Mason.”

      “Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”

      “There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”

      Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”

      “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.

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