Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham

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      “The alarm,” she said dismissively.

      “Was it set today?”

      “Well, no, not once Mrs. Simon went out,” Bertie said.

      “See? We’ll set it and the house will be fine. You shouldn’t be here.”

      “I agree,” Larue told her. “Ms. Hyson, both your employers are dead. I didn’t know them, but I knew of them. You’ll be taken care of in their will, I’d bet. But in the meantime, I think that being here could be harmful to your health.”

      Danni walked into the foyer then, and Bertie studied her for a long moment.

      “But the danger is gone, isn’t it? The bust is gone.” She wagged a finger at Danni. “I knew that thing was evil. It was...like the eyes watched you all the time, followed you wherever you went. It was creepy. I hated being in the room with it. I didn’t dust the study when it was in there, not after that first time. Why, it made the whole room feel...dirty. But...it’s gone now. And Miss Cissy—Cecelia Simon—she’ll be coming here now that her mother has...passed. I have to keep the place for her. Poor dear, she’s just gone back to Baton Rouge after her dad died. Oh, Lord, I’m going to have to call Miss Cissy and tell her that...that her poor mama...”

      Bertie broke into tears again.

      Danni went to sit next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Bertie. Detective Larue will call Cecelia. You just have to be ready to comfort her.”

      Bertie wiped her eyes and looked at Larue hopefully. “Detective, you must call that poor young woman and tell her. She’ll come right back, and I’ll be waiting for her. I will not leave when the daughter of the house is coming home.”

      Larue turned to Quinn, and Quinn shrugged. He was pretty sure Bertie was right; there was no intruder here anymore—and no evil, either.

      He didn’t say he believed the thief was the one in danger now.

      “I’ll have someone on duty at the door, Ms. Hyson. We’ll watch the house for twenty-four hours, until Miss Simon returns, and through the next night, at least,” Larue said.

      “That’s kind of you, Detective,” Bertie told him gratefully.

      “You through here?” Larue asked Quinn.

      “Yes.” Quinn knelt down in front of Bertie and pulled a card from his wallet. “The number is my cell. If you’re afraid—if anyone bothers you—call me. And if Cecelia wants to talk to me, please have her call.”

      He was astonished when a big tear slid down the woman’s face and she reached out to touch his cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t see that fine spark in you, Mr. Quinn. I just saw the past. Thank you.”

      “Hey, that’s okay...you were a good friend to Gladys, a really good friend.” He stood, but Danni still sat next to the woman, comforting her. A moment later she rose, too.

      “I’m so sorry,” she said.

      Bertie nodded tearfully.

      Danni walked toward the foyer and the door to exit, with Quinn behind her.

      He thought she’d leave straightaway, that she would’ve had her fill of him and the Simon house.

      But she waited on the sidewalk. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

      There were officers nearby. He hated explaining himself—or trying to explain himself—especially in front of others.

      “Michael Quinn,” he began, but she cut him off.

      “Michael Quinn, yes. Big high school football hero, and then you went on to quarterback for the state and suddenly you disappeared— Oh, yes, after being in the papers time and again for your escapades.”

      “I was a college kid,” he said. “But what you read was true.”

      “Was?”

      “I learned my lesson the hard way.”

      “Oh?”

      “I died.”

      She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest, staring at him. “You’re a dead man?” she asked dryly.

      “I was resuscitated,” he said, shrugging. She didn’t need his whole story just now; she sure as hell wouldn’t believe his whole story even if he told her.

      “It changes your perspective on life,” he said.

      “How did you know my father?”

      “He helped on some of my cases.”

      “Yes, right—you’re a P.I.,” she said. Her tone was still cool and skeptical.

      He wondered whether to feel sorry for her and try to tell her more about what she apparently didn’t know...or obey his instinct to walk away.

      “Gladys Simon is dead,” he said. “Maybe the fates couldn’t be stopped—and maybe you’re to blame, and maybe I’m to blame. It doesn’t matter. She’s past being helped. But that bust is out there. I have to find it.”

      “The bust is a thing,” Danni said. “Yes, it was stolen. Yes, it belongs to the estate. But it’s a thing. Just a thing.”

      “You really have no idea what your father did, do you?” Quinn asked her.

      “I gather he helped the police at times,” she said. “And no, I didn’t know. And although I guess it would be to the estate’s benefit if the bust was found, it can’t be that important. It was stolen to begin with, right?”

      “It’s got quite the history. The bust dates back to the Italian Renaissance. I know some of the background, but not all of it. It graced the tomb of a contemporary of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s. It remained there, bringing bad luck to the family, or so I’ve read—until World War II, when it was stolen. According to oral history, it was taken by a supporter of Mussolini who gave it to a German general as a gift. Both men committed suicide. Naturally, it was suggested that they did this because the war crimes they’d carried out were horrendous—and they were afraid that if they were taken in the night by the Russian forces, they’d be tortured before they were killed. From there, the bust supposedly wound up with Hitler himself. After the war, it found its way into the home of a Soviet KGB officer, after which it disappeared until it was unearthed by an American sculptor who smuggled it into the United States. He went on to become a serial killer. His name was Herman Abernathy and he drained the blood of five women in order to make perfect statues of them. The bust went up at an auction house when his estate was sold to pay for his defense and it was bought by a New Orleans entrepreneur and voodoo practitioner. He didn’t buy it for his own estate. He had it placed in the cemetery over the tomb of a family known to have practiced white magic. I assume he believed that the dead who were powerful in the ways of good could control the evil in the statue. Then came the summer of storms, the bust disappeared and people started winding up dead.”

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