Let the Dead Sleep

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 the shop, so you’re the one she needs to trust. You need to go and get the statue. But you don’t have to deal with this alone. I’ll be there.”

Taken aback, she was still angry, but he saw sudden recognition in her smoldering gaze, along with shock and resentment.

Maybe 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.”