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he wasn’t handling this well.
“You...you were at my father’s funeral,” she said.
He nodded. “I was his friend. He was a good man. The best. And you’re doing him a real disservice if you don’t continue his work.”
“His work? His work was this shop and I’m keeping it open. Listen, I’m calling the police. That woman needs professional help—and I don’t believe you’re any more equipped to deal with her than I am,” she said.
“Billie?” Quinn turned to Angus’s long-time assistant.
Billie cleared his throat, looking at Danni. “Um, yeah, I don’t know how to explain it all, but your father would’ve gone out there and seen the statue.”
“Who is he?” she asked Billie, inclining her head toward Quinn.
“He is standing right here. I’m Quinn. Michael Quinn, private investigator.”
“And you’re investigating crazy ladies with statues?” she asked sarcastically.
“You should go see the bust, Danni,” Billie said.
“What’s the matter with both of you? If I don’t call the police, I’ll live with a guilty conscience forever. She’s deranged! She could be a danger to herself and others.”
Quinn stepped back. “By all means, then. Call the police. And maybe they can help her for a few hours—a few days. The danger will continue. I guarantee it.”
“Really? And you’re so sure of this...how?”
“Because I worked with your father on occasion.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you,” she told him.
“Um, I do,” Billie said. “I know him.”
“I’ve seen him with your father, too,” Jane murmured. “But I don’t think you should trust him.”
“She should trust him. Yes, she should!” Billie argued. “No offense, Jane, but you were never part of Angus’s real world. You’ve barely been around two years and you’re his bookkeeper, nothing more.”
“Well, I never!” Jane said.
“Jane is a wonderful employee and you will not stand here in my store and insult her!” Danni said indignantly.
“Angus trusted me implicitly,” Jane declared.
“Perhaps,” Quinn said with a shrug. “But that’s not important right now.”
Danni looked at him warily. “You should state your business, your relationship with my father and then leave the store.”
“I helped him. He helped me. I guess Angus wanted to protect you, his little princess,” Quinn said. “Well, it’s a shame and it’s sad and it’s probably too late.” He felt his anger growing, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t really her fault if her father had chosen not to share the depths of his life with her.
But she should have figured out that he wasn’t just a shopkeeper or a collector! How naive could she have been? On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t been that naive. Maybe she’d just been gone too much.
“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I was very close to my father!” she began. “Mrs. Simon is suffering and needs help but understand this—I am not trained or equipped to deal with mental illness, and I rather think you might have some problems in that area yourself—rather than being a person who’s capable of dealing with it!”
“Call the police, then. Like I said, maybe they can at least buy her a few hours.” Although Quinn ignored her insult, he felt his fingers knotting into fists. He had to get out of the shop. There was no chance he’d offer unprovoked violence to anyone but he didn’t want to break anything there. He studied her for a moment and added, “If you come up with some sense, meet me at the Simon house at five. At five—I don’t care if you’ve closed or not. Billie handles the shop, anyway. He doesn’t need you here.”
With that, Quinn turned.
As the door closed behind him, he found himself shaking with emotion.
And some of it was anger.
Some of it was fear. Not for himself. He’d long since learned that fear, in itself, wasn’t a bad thing. But a man’s reaction to fear could be very bad indeed.
He was afraid for the future. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Angus Cafferty.
* * *
Danni watched the stranger leave, puzzled and trembling inwardly with outrage, indignation, a painful sense of loss. And dread...
She’d 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