Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham
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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 her credit, took a deep breath and refused to reply, shaking her head with sorrow instead. “Let us help you. Let us get you someone who can help you.”
Gladys whirled around, starting for the door.
“Mrs. Simon, if it’s so awful, why didn’t you just get rid of it?” Danni demanded.
Gladys stopped abruptly. She slowly turned around and walked toward her. “Don’t you think I tried? I threw it in the trash, and it was back in the study the next day. I dropped it in a Dumpster on Bourbon Street, and it was back the next day. I buried it—and it was back!”
She was delusional—or so she obviously appeared to Danielle Cafferty.
“Mrs. Simon, really, you need to calm down,” Danni said. “We’ll go over and see the statue. Give me an address and we’ll come this evening. We close at seven.”
A sigh of sheer relief escaped Gladys and she dug into her handbag for a card, which she handed to Danni. “Thank you...thank you. You’ve saved my life!”
“It’s just a bust...a statue...whatever, Mrs. Simon. Please relax. Everything will be fine.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gladys breathed.
And then she was gone.
Danni picked up the store’s old-fashioned phone. She started dialing as Jane came the rest of the way down the stairs.
“You all right, Danni?” Jane didn’t hide her concern.
“Of course. But I’m worried about that poor woman.”
“Who are you calling?” Billie asked.
“The police,” Danni said. “Someone needs to help that woman—perhaps see that she’s committed. She’s—”
It was time for Quinn to make his move and he did so swiftly, setting his thumb down on the disconnect button before she could dial three digits.
Danni stared at him in total indignation. “What the hell? Who are you—what do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t call the police just yet. Listen to me. The woman really needs your help. Ask Billie,” Quinn said. “I can try to follow her and get the damned thing, but I’ve already tried to see her and talk to her. She knows about your father and