Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.

      Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.

      He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.

      She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.

      Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.

      Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.

      But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.

      “You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”

      Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”

      “Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”

      “Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”

      “Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”

      “Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”

      “Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”

      “You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.

      “Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”

      By then, the woman’s frantic tone had drawn the new owner from her studio in the back of the store.

      Quinn had watched her on the day of Angus Cafferty’s funeral. He had chosen not to approach her then; he had kept his distance when Cafferty was laid to rest in the Scottish vault at the old cemetery—the “City of the Dead,” where he had long stated he would go when the time came. There’d been a piper at the grave site, but Cafferty was accompanied by the traditional New Orleans jazz band and a crowd of friends to his final resting place. He’d been loved by many in the city. Of course, a tourist or two—or ten or twenty—fascinated by the ritual, had joined in, as well. The vaults in the cemetery didn’t allow for the immediate grouping around the grave that was customary at in-ground burials, so he’d been able to hover on the edges of the crowd, paying his own respects from afar.

      There was no doubt that the man’s daughter had been devastated. And there was no doubt that she was old Angus’s daughter—she had his startling dark blue eyes and sculpted features, finer and slimmer, but still a face that spoke of her parentage. Her hair was a rich auburn, brushing her shoulders, a color that might well have been Angus’s once—when he’d had pigment in his hair. Despite her grief, she hadn’t seemed fragile or broken, which gave him hope. Though she was slim, she was a good five-nine and might just possess some of the old man’s inner strength.

      As she walked to the front of the shop, she was frowning slightly, obviously perplexed by the commotion. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved tailored shirt and somehow appeared casual and yet naturally elegant. She moved with an innate grace.

      Gladys heard her coming and turned to her. “You—you’re the owner?”

      “Yes, I’m Danni Cafferty. May I help you?”

      “Oh, yes, you certainly may. I know your father was intrigued by historic objects. I never met him but I read that his shop acquired the most unusual and...historic objects,” she repeated. “You must come and take the bust.”

      “Mrs. Simon, we don’t just take anything.”

      “It’s priceless! You must take it.”

      “Mrs. Simon, I didn’t say we wouldn’t buy it. It’s that we don’t take things.” Danni looked at the woman, assessing her with a smile. “I can’t believe this is such an emergency that—”

      “The bust killed my husband!” Gladys Simon broke in.

      Danni raised perfectly arched brows. “Do you mean that...that it was used to strike him? If that’s the case, the bust might well be evidence—”

      “No!” Mrs. Simon cried. “You are not your father!”

      Danni seemed to freeze, calling on reserves of hard-fought control and dignity. “No, Mrs. Simon, I am not my father. But if you wish to bring this bust in—”

      “No! I won’t touch it. You must come and get it.”

      Danni mulled that over for a minute, as if she was still fighting for control. Quinn noted that Gladys Simon’s shrill voice had alerted Jane, and the bookkeeper was coming hesitantly down the stairs, one of Angus Cafferty’s ebony nineteenth-century gentleman’s canes in her hands. A good match for Billie—although the two weren’t romantically linked—Jane was slim and straight with iron-gray hair knotted at her nape and gold-rimmed spectacles. She’d been with Angus for the past two years or so, and though she hadn’t been a confidant in the way Billie had, she was fiercely loyal to the Cafferty family.

      Jane was ready for whatever danger threatened, but seeing Gladys, her slim frame and near-hysteria, she held her place on the stairs, watching Danni to see if she was needed.

      “Mrs. Simon, I’m sorry,” Danni said. “You’re suffering from terrible grief, and I have a lot of empathy for you. But we’re not equipped to handle the psychological stages of that pain. We’re a curio and collectibles shop and—”

      “Yes! You must take the bust.”

      Danni glanced at Billie, who was following the conversation with unabashed interest.

      “Mrs. Simon,” she said gently. “Is there someone we can call? A close friend, a relative? Perhaps a minister or a priest?”

      “I need you to take the statue!” Mrs. Simon said. Then she raged at Danni. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl!”

      Danni stiffened at the insult but, to СКАЧАТЬ