Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ been working until she’d heard Gladys Simon’s strident voice. Working idly on the finishing touches to a painting. She assumed she’d been inspired by a face she’d seen on the streets of New Orleans. Dignified, aging, attractive, intriguing. But her painting was almost an exact image of the woman who’d come into the shop.

      It doesn’t mean anything, she assured herself. It was just a resemblance. There were many such women in the South. Old-school, well-groomed and usually ruled by impeccable manners and propriety.

      But...

      She turned her thoughts to the man who’d been in the shop—as if he’d followed Gladys in, as if he’d known why she was coming. Yes, she’d seen him at the funeral. He’d interested her. He hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he’d kept his distance from the family and other mourners. It would be difficult, she imagined, for a man like that to really blend into a crowd. He had to be six foot four, and he seemed to be solidly built but not too heavily muscled. He had neatly cropped sandy hair and hazel eyes that seemed to marble to a piercing shade of gold.

      “Who is he?” she asked Billie.

      And if he knew my father so well, she wondered silently, feeling a familiar sense of loss and pain, why did my father never tell me about him?

      I was so blithely unaware! Completely focused on art...

      Billie looked uncomfortable. “He told you. His name is Michael Quinn. He’s a P.I. Used to be a cop with the NOPD, but he left the force to work for himself.”

      “So what?” she demanded. “He worked with my dad to track down stolen objects or something like that?” she asked.

      “Something like that,” Billie said, his gaze sliding from hers.

      “Hmmph! He’s rude,” Jane said, resting the cane she’d brought down on the bar counter. “Obnoxious. Like a crazy man. You should stay away from him!”

      “No, you should listen to him,” Billie insisted.

      Jane shook her head. “Report him to the police!”

      “Ah, Jane. You’ll argue with anything I suggest,” Billie said, aggravated.

      “Well, rude isn’t really the problem at the moment.” Danni sighed, looking at the two of them. They could bicker like a married couple; Billie didn’t really trust Jane, she thought. But both of them were excellent at their jobs, excellent at helping her run the business. She lowered her head. Most of the time, they were amusing when they were together.

      “Billie, sorry. I can’t just take the word of some guy who thinks he knew my father better than I did. I am going to call the police. I’m worried about that woman.”

      “Are you going to go and see about the bust?” Billie asked.

      “Maybe,” she replied. “But...I need to report this. If something happened to her—if she was so upset she walked into traffic—I’d never be able to live with myself.”

      Billie and Jane both stared at her. She called the operator rather than the emergency number and was put through to the right department. Billie and Jane watched as she gave the woman’s name and reported her strange behavior in the shop and then answered a zillion questions. Had the woman been armed? No. Had she threatened anyone? No. Had she mentioned suicide? No. But she had talked about a killer statue and sounded as if she needed some serious intervention.

      In the end, a public safety officer promised that Mrs. Simon’s state of mind would be investigated, and she hung up, feeling frustrated.

      Jane and Billie were still staring at her.

      “What?” she asked.

      “Your dad would’ve found out about the bust. He wouldn’t have ignored that poor lady,” Billie said.

      “You haven’t been on any buying trips since he died,” Jane added. “No, I wasn’t your father’s right hand—like Billie—but I knew him well and loved him. Maybe...” She looked pained as she spoke again. “Maybe you should listen to Billie.”

      “Will wonders never cease!” Billie muttered.

      Danni lifted her hands in a gesture that said nothing at all. It was still hard; she didn’t spend her days crying or moping, but she felt as if there was a huge hole in her life. Angus had expected her to be strong and independent. She’d gone away to school and gotten her own apartment and led a life separate from his.

      But he’d always been there. Once she was back in New Orleans, she’d seen him almost every day. She’d traveled with him extensively through the years.

      Seeing the sights—at his urging—while he did his buying and collecting. He had spoiled her, yes. But he’d also taught her to be courteous and caring. He’d never walked away from anyone who needed help, whether it was a confused tourist seeking directions or a homeless veteran or down-and-outer needing food and shelter—or a ride to detox.

      “I will go see the bust, okay? I’ll do what I can for Mrs. Simon.”

      Billie nodded. “That’s what your dad would want.”

      “I’m trying to keep his legacy alive,” she told the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...I was working. I’ll go at five. I’ll meet that obnoxious man and buy the stupid bust and hopefully make everyone happy, all right?”

      Neither spoke or moved.

      With a slight sound of impatience, she passed them by, thinking she’d return to her studio.

      But she didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to see the painting she’d almost finished, the character study that suddenly looked just like a real person.

      Mrs. Simon.

      Instead, she headed downstairs to the rooms that had been the most precious to her father. There were glass cases here and there—and boxes everywhere. A full suit of armor stood in one corner while in another an upright Victorian coffin held pride of place. It had never been used for a body but had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in business on Canal Street. A mannequin enjoyed eternal sleep behind the small window above the face, a style that was popular at the time. The wall displayed the death mask of an ancient Egyptian queen. One corner of the room held a horrifically screaming gorilla from a movie that was never completed and probably with good cause; the sign on the creature said From The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.

      She paused, glancing around. Other people, she thought, might find the basement creepy. She’d spent so much time working with her father that she’d learned to appreciate the delicate artistry put into so many of the items. The carving on the coffin, for instance, was the result of painstaking craft and labor.

      Light filtered in from the old glass panes just above ground level but it wasn’t enough for her that afternoon. Danni turned on the low-watt bulbs that helped protect the old pieces of art and artistry and sighed wistfully. Some people might suggest that her father haunted the rooms where his collections were kept.

      She wished he did.

      “Oh, Dad, if only you were here now!” she said softly.

      The book.

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