Let the Dead Sleep

Let the Dead Sleep
Heather Graham

An object of desire? Or of fear?It was stolen from a New Orleans grave—the centuries-old bust of an evil man, a demonic man. It’s an object desired by collectors and by those with wickedness in their hearts. One day, its current owner shows up at Danni Cafferty’s antiques shop on Royal Street, the shop she inherited from her father.But before Danni can buy the statue, it disappears, the owner is found dead…and Danni discovers that she’s inherited much more than she realized. In the store is a book filled with secret writing: instructions for defeating evil entities. She’d dismissed it as a curiosity…until the arrival of this statue, with its long history of evil and even longer trail of death.Michael Quinn, former cop and now private investigator, is a man with an unusual past. He believes that doing the right thing isn’t a job — it’s a way of life. And the right thing to do is find and destroy this object weighted with malevolent powers.He and Danni are drawn together in their search for the missing statue, following it through sultry New Orleans nights to hidden places in the French Quarter and secret ceremonies on abandoned plantations. Cafferty and Quinn already know that trust in others can be misplaced, that love can be temporary.And yet their connection is primal. Mesmerizing. They also know that their story won’t end when this case is closed and the dead rest in peace once again.

An object of desire? or of fear?

It was stolen from a New Orleans grave—the centuries-old bust of an evil man, a demonic man. It’s an object desired by collectors—and by those with wickedness in their hearts.

One day, its current owner shows up at Danni Cafferty’s antiques shop on Royal Street, the shop she inherited from her father. But before Danni can buy the statue, it disappears, the owner is found dead…and Danni discovers that she’s inherited much more than she realized. In the store is a book filled with secret writing: instructions for defeating evil entities. She’d dismissed it as a curiosity...until the arrival of this statue, with its long history of evil and even longer trail of death.

Michael Quinn, former cop and now private investigator, is a man with an unusual past. He believes that doing the right thing isn’t a job—it’s a way of life. And the right thing to do is find and destroy this object weighted with malevolent powers. He and Danni are drawn together in their search for the missing statue, following it through sultry New Orleans nights to hidden places in the French Quarter and secret ceremonies on abandoned plantations.

Cafferty and Quinn already know that trust in others can be misplaced, that love can be temporary. And yet their connection is primal. Mesmerizing. They also know that their story won’t end when this case is closed and the dead rest in peace once again.

Let the Dead Sleep

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

To those who live in and out of the Big Easy and have helped make Writers for New Orleans a true benefit for this beautiful and historic city:

Marvin Andrade; Beti Basile; Molly Bolden; Zach Bolden; Camille Burgin; Tina Callais; Dionne Cherie Charlet; Beth Ciotta; Teresa Davant; Jezabel DeLuna; Rich Devin; Corrine De Winter; Keith Donato; Pam Ebel; Paula Eykelhof; Nick Genovese; Paula and Mike Hardin; Patty Harrison; Jennifer Hughes; Pamela Kopfler; Harley Jane Kozak; Cindy Krempel; Kay Levine; Veronika Levine; Kathy Love; Lisa Mannetti; Debra Maas; Erin McCarthy; Ginger McSween; James, Bonnie and Helen Moore; Stacey, Kaylyn, Scott and Joshua Perry; Kathleen Pickering; Jason, Shayne, Derek, Zhenia, Bryee-Annon and Chynna Pozzessere; “Suzie Q” Quiroz; Kevin Richard; Debbie Richardson; Helen Rosburg; Bobby Rosello; Dave Simms; Alexandra Sokoloff; Mary Stella; Lance Taubold; Jo Templeton; Mary Walkley; Greg Varricchio; Sheila Vincent; Leslie Wainger; Pat Walker; Adam Wilson; F. Paul Wilson; all the hard workers at the Hotel Monteleone; and everyone at The Vampire Boutique and Fifi Mahoney’s…

And the amazing Connie Perry!

This story is also dedicated to the memory of Kate Duffy, brilliant editor and friend to so many. She was there at the beginning. She believed that in creating this conference, we could be a nice drop in a massive bucket. I still hear her voice in my mind so often, and smile, knowing exactly what she would have to say in so many situations.

And, finally, I offer it in memory of my one and only sister, Victoria Jane Graham Davant, who loved New Orleans and showed me the magic of the city.

Contents

Prologue (#u9f7cb881-7fff-5291-9c3b-07854efb3ec3)

Chapter One (#uafaed5ea-b33d-50e1-98e6-ca54e2192f82)

Chapter Two (#udac95367-f2b6-59a9-9b2f-5ab648ddc548)

Chapter Three (#u4ca7b20a-e1dc-551f-b0cc-fd5611005a80)

Chapter Four (#u5bf6e805-74b9-5e29-839d-b38e27bbcd28)

Chapter Five (#u6a135f93-68eb-557e-a2d4-507edc5575b3)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

“THIS IS IT, Ms. Cafferty,” Dr. Vincenzo said quietly. He cleared his throat. “We’ll, ah, leave you alone to say your goodbyes.”

Danielle Cafferty stared at Vincenzo, feeling too bewildered and stunned to cry. Until this morning she’d convinced herself that her father would live forever. He was a big man, hearty and robust, the perfect example of a he-man Highlander, rugged as the Scottish terrain that had bred him. But then the call had come from Billie McDougall that Angus Cafferty was in the hospital. His heart was giving out.

Vincenzo stared back at her awkwardly. Surely, as head of an esteemed cardiac unit, he’d dealt with other situations like this. But he hesitated, then touched her hand gently and left, followed by his sympathetic nurse.

So she understood that it was a matter of time. Her father had fallen into a coma an hour ago and now...

She sat in the hospital chair by his bed, holding his hand. She stroked the back of it, fighting tears, feeling as if her head were the size of a melon—dull, aching and hollow. “Hey, I still believe in you,” she told him. “I’ve always believed in you. You’ve been such an amazing father with your tall tales and stories—I feel like I know my mother, and Mom died when I was four. New Orleans is home, but you’ve taken me to places around the world. Now, come on, you can survive this! We’ve been through all these years together and weathered so many storms...right, Dad?”

Her father didn’t answer.

She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. The television was on with the volume low; she listened to ads for the year’s new cars and the newscaster interviewing a businessman, Brandt Shumaker, about his plans to go into politics. A local blues group came on and she listened to the music for a minute and said, “Good group, Dad. When you’re better, we’ll go see them.”

Her father didn’t reply.

She had to keep talking. “I bought a new print last week. A Blue Dog print. I don’t know what it is, but I love them. My work’s completely different, but of course that’s true for most artists. We all have our individual visions....”

She was speaking inanely. Anything. She refused to accept that his life was slipping away.

And then...

Angus Cafferty sat bolt upright, gazing at her. His snow-white hair was mussed and wild; his sky-blue eyes settled on her intently.

“Lass, so late, too late! I should have spoken to you about this so many times, so long ago. I’d thought...I’d thought I’d wait until you got to the age of thirty, never thinking this could come so quick upon me. Just a few more years...just a few to leave you in a normal life, to know innocence—I was a fool. I have let you down, but you hear me now, Danni, please, hear me now! You mustn’t sell the shop. You must never sell the shop. It’s our lot in life, that’s what it is, and one that matters in a manner most dire. Ah, girl, what have I done? Wanting all to be safe and serene for you....” His Scottish burr, somewhat softened by his many years in the American South, was suddenly strong again. His words were filled with passion. He leaned toward her, gripping her hand so hard that it hurt, but he was alive and touching her and she couldn’t cry out.

“No, Dad, don’t worry, I’ll never sell the store. It’s your store. You’ll get better, I can see that now. You’ll come home and—”