The Dead Play On. Heather Graham
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why did you say he did when we talked this afternoon?” Danni asked.
“I never said that. I said he was on the phone with Larue and then he left,” Billie called from the kitchen doorway. “You just assumed he was going to the station.”
“Then where did he go?” she asked.
“Wherever he went, he had to leave quickly,” Billie said. “And I don’t ask the man for a schedule when he leaves the house, just as I don’t ask you. When he’s ready, he tells me. Which is after he tells you, most of the time, so I guess we’ll both know soon enough.”
“You’re right. I just hope he gets back while the food is still warm,” she said.
“We do own that thing called a microwave,” Billie said.
“Ah, but is it Scottish?” she murmured drily.
“I heard that!” Billie called back.
Danni grinned, walking around the counter to take the stool behind it. Wolf followed her and curled up at her feet.
She glanced at the computer; they’d had a busy enough day for a Thursday. Billie had sold a number of the handmade fleur-de-lis necklaces one of the local vendors had started making. They were delicate and beautiful, and while only gold-or silver-plated, they sold for almost a hundred dollars because of the work involved. She was glad to see that people still valued craftsmanship.
She noticed, too, that he’d also sold several of her own watercolors of the French Quarter. While the shop—and other matters—tended to take up a lot of her time, she had majored in art and actually had something of a local following. She loved visual art, and her favorite medium to work with was either watercolors or oils on canvas. Despite the fact their last case had involved a long-dead artist and a painting, she was determined not to lose her passion for her art.
The bell over the door gave off its pleasant little tinkling sound, and she looked up.
It was the sax player.
In fact, the sax was in his hand, its case in the other.
“Hello,” she said, frowning slightly. He had followed her here, she thought. Still, it was early evening. There was still light in the sky and plenty of people out and about on Royal Street, many of them seeking restaurants and bars, but some of them shopping, as well.
And Wolf—though he had risen—didn’t seem to expect any danger. Wolf, she had learned, had a wonderful ability to sense whether people were trustworthy or not.
He even wagged his tail slightly. Everything had to be all right.
The door closed behind the sax player. For a moment he looked around the shop. Danni—as her father had—mixed souvenirs and affordable trinkets in with real antiques and collectibles. There was another “collectible” area in the house, in the basement, where she kept items too powerful and dangerous to be sold or even shown. Of course, the basement wasn’t really a basement; the “ground” floor was actually built up above the street, and you had to climb a few stairs to get to it.
She loved the shop, just as her father had. She had grown up loving it. She had a couple of real medieval suits of armor as display pieces, along with the work of a number of local artists besides herself, both new and antique jewelry, busts, a few nineteenth-century vampire hunting sets, flags, weapons and more. She knew she was good at creating wonderful window displays and that the shop was as much a gallery as a showroom, to the point that sometimes people came just to look around rather than buy. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. It was obviously less than ideal if they didn’t buy, but having such wonderful word-of-mouth reviews had to be good.
“May I help you?” she asked as the man continued to stand just inside the door, looking around the room.
He met her eyes at last. “Danni? Danni Cafferty?”
“Yes,” she said. “Forgive me, but...do I know you?”
He nodded. “You may not remember me. I’m Tyler Anderson. I was a few years ahead of you in high school.”
“Tyler—yes!” She remembered him now. She hadn’t thought of him in years. He’d graduated before her, and she hadn’t seen him since. But she remembered. He’d been part of what a number of the magnet-school music students—who had been “adopted” by a Garden District school during the aftermath of Katrina—had called the Survivor Set. As an art student, she’d been dragged in as something of an honorary member.
It was good to see him again, and she smiled. He really was a beautiful man—he always had been. Almost like a golden god with hazel eyes.
She walked around the counter. “I haven’t seen you in forever! It’s wonderful that you found me. How have you been?”
“Fine...good. Mostly,” he said awkwardly.
“I heard you playing earlier,” she said. “You’re incredible. You always were, but now...wow. You’re really good.”
“Not that good.”
“No, trust me. I just heard you, and you are.”
He shook his head impatiently. “No, no, I...” He paused, looking around the store. “Is anyone else here?”
“Well, Billie—you remember Billie—is in the kitchen. And Quinn is due home soon.”
“Quinn... Michael Quinn? The Michael Quinn we knew back in school?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two married?”
“No, no. I mean, one day. Maybe. He lives here. Mostly. Not always.” Danni stopped speaking; she was never sure how to describe her complex relationship with Quinn. But then again, she didn’t really have to explain. She added lamely, “We’re together. A couple.”
“So is it true?”
“Is what true?” she asked carefully.
“That he was a cop and then became a private investigator. And you guys look into things that are...different. Bad things, odd things.”
Danni shrugged uneasily. “I try to collect things that people think may be evil or haunted in some way. You know how people can be. Superstitious.”
“Is it just superstition?” he asked.
“People can be wonderful or evil. I think we both know that. But things are just...things. Why? What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Murder. I think my friend was murdered—and that the saxophone he left me is haunted.”
She stared at him and murmured, “Okay. Can you...?”
“Do you remember Arnie Watson?” he asked quietly.
She did. She remembered his incredible talent, and she remembered seeing a piece written about him by a local columnist just a week or so ago. He’d died on the streets after coming home from the Middle East. After he’d survived three deployments. Somehow that seemed to compound the tragedy of his death.
“Yes,” she said.
“Arnie was the best,” Tyler said passionately. “An amazing man and an amazing friend.”
“I believe you,” she said then paused, remembering what she had read. He had died of a drug overdose. So sad, and such a waste of a good man.
What was even more tragic was that so many soldiers came home only to die by their own hands, their minds haunted by the demons of war.
“He died of an overdose, didn’t he?” she asked.
“Damn you, it wasn’t suicide!” Tyler said.
“I never said anything about suicide.”
“And it wasn’t an accident. He was murdered. You have to believe me.”
“I’m