Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham
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money and genteel living, slow breezes and gracious hospitality.
He banged on the door and pressed the buzzer urgently.
It was opened by the battle-ax of a housekeeper.
“You again,” she said. Her name was Bertie. He knew that from trying to go through her to speak with Gladys before. He’d begun this quest as soon as he’d learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.
“Bertie, it’s imperative that I talk to Mrs. Simon. I think I can help her. You must know that her mind is unbalanced by grief. I can help her. I swear to you, I can.”
“She’s in mourning,” Bertie said. “And she doesn’t need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husband’s behalf or any such thing.” Bertie wagged a finger at him. “I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I don’t care if you were a cop or if you’ve become a big hero—I heard enough ’bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Bertie, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your employer,” Quinn said, tempted to grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and push her out of his way. “She’s nearly unhinged. She needs help.”
“Not from the likes of you. You get out of here, Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said.
It really was a matter of life and death; still, he didn’t want to force the woman to move if he didn’t have to. One thing he’d say for Bertie—she knew his old reputation and could clearly see his size, but her loyalty to Gladys kept her from giving an inch.
“How about you just ask her if she’ll see me? Tell her it’s about the bust.”
Bertie stiffened. She looked at him and either decided that Gladys was in such bad shape that even he might help or that he might be ready to physically set her aside.
“Fine, you can come in,” she snapped.
She opened the door, and he entered the foyer with its elegant stained glass. He saw the central stairway leading up to the rooms above and balcony from which Hank Simon had thrown himself to his death. Bertie wouldn’t glance in that direction. She stared straight at him and indicated the room to his right. “Go on into the parlor and stay there!” she said firmly.
He nodded and walked in. She followed him, closing the heavy double doors as if that would assure he didn’t wander around the house.
Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil War–era owners flanked the mantel. The furniture in the room was an eye-pleasing collection of different decades and styles. The chairs were richly upholstered and the room’s central piece—a grand piano—was polished to a magnificent shine.
He sat restlessly in one of the wingback chairs. Bertie was taking way too long.
He stood and walked around the room, feeling a sense of dread, of impending doom. He was ready to break through the doors and burst up the stairs when Bertie reappeared, a look of total consternation on her face.
“You’ll have to come back.”
“That’s what Gladys said?” Quinn demanded.
Bertie hesitated. “I can’t find Mrs. Simon,” she said.
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?”
Bertie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I mean, she isn’t here. I can’t find her. So you’ll have to come back.”
He shook his head. “Her car is in the drive. She was in the Quarter less than an hour ago and now she’s here—at least her car is. I was right on her heels. She hasn’t gone back out, so she’s here somewhere.”
“Well, she’s not!”
He approached the woman, speaking in a reasonable voice. “Bertie, listen. You don’t know me. All you know about is an old reputation. I’m here to help Gladys—I swear it. We have to search for her. She’s not in her right mind.”
Bertie’s lashes fell over her eyes and she looked downward quickly; she did know that he was speaking the truth.
She looked up at him again. “I have no idea where she is. She’d gone up to her room. Now, she isn’t there.”
“Which room?” he asked.
“Up the stairs, go down the balcony, first door to your left.”
He hurried past her and took the stairs two at a time.
Walking along the balcony, he saw that he was passing the spot where Hank Simon must have hurled himself from the upper level to the floor beneath, breaking his neck. An accident? No...
“Gladys! Gladys, where are you?” he called. “I’ll get the bust out of here right now! Gladys!”
No reply. He dashed into the woman’s room.
Genteel, pleasant, charming. There was a white knit cover on the bed and the pillows were plumped high. An old-fashioned dressing table stood on one side of the room, while a more masculine set of drawers, matching in wood and design, stood against the far wall. White chintz curtains covered the window that overlooked the courtyard. Oils portraying different aspects of Jackson Square and the river graced the walls.
“Gladys?”
The breeze ruffled the curtains. Nothing more.
“Mr. Quinn!”
Bertie hadn’t followed him up the stairs. Her voice wasn’t panicked, nor did it sound relieved. He walked back out to the balcony that looked over the foyer below and leaned against the rail.
It was solid.
Bertie was standing just inside the entry, but she wasn’t alone.
Danni Cafferty had arrived.
“We may be too late,” he said.
Bertie let out a gasp.
Danni frowned, gazing up at him with her deep blue eyes. “Too late?”
“Bertie, go through the rooms downstairs. Look in every closet,” Quinn said. “You—” he pointed at Danni “—get up here with me and start going through all the rooms on the second floor. Bathrooms, storerooms, closets, you name it.”
“Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said indignantly. “Mrs. Simon doesn’t make a habit of hiding in the closet!”
“Just do it!”
Bertie was worried; that much was obvious. She pursed her lips, not happy taking orders from him but willing at that moment to do anything.
Danni, still frowning, made her way up the stairs. He ignored her and returned to the room Gladys had shared with her husband.
He checked in her bathroom and the huge walk-in closet that had probably been another room or a nursery at one time. He peered under the bed. Then he hesitated, studying the open window. Dreading what he might find, he walked to it, stepped out on the inner courtyard balcony and glanced down.
He sighed in relief. There was no broken body on the patio stones below. He inhaled. Had the woman slipped out the back and gone for a stroll?
Danni came in. “I’ve been in a study, two guest rooms, a sewing room and an office and there are no more rooms. I opened every closet door—and checked the other two bathrooms. There’s no one here.”
“It’s all wrong,” he muttered.
“Why are you so sure of that?” she asked.
“I’ve seen what the bust can do,” he told her. And he had. He’d seen the madness in Vic and he knew what Vic had done.
“The bust is just an object!”
He brushed past her. There was a garage on the other side of the courtyard with an apartment above it. There had to be some kind of entry via the