When hed tried to call Gladys, shed refused to talk to him. When hed tried to see her at home, hed been put off by a protective housekeeper. He hadnt known that Hank Simon had the statue in time to try and see the man. In fact, he wouldnt even have learned about its existenceother than through vague references in art-history booksif it wasnt for the sniveling Vic Brown, incarcerated now with no bail while he awaited trial.
Vic had sold the bust to Hank Simon. Then, of course, Quinn had found out that Hank had died, which meant his wife now had it.
Vic had shot down three of his associates in the Chartres Street gang before being winged by the police himself. According to Vic, the bust had made him do it.
The newspaper had alerted him to the criminals planned defense. Visiting him in his cell had told Quinn that Vic seriously thought the bust had ordered him to shoot his friendsit was them or his own life. A self-defense plea might actually work for the poor bastard; Vics attorney, Anthony Everst, was trying to get Vic into a hospital unit. Not a bad call, since the dope dealer and petty crook was ranting in his cell about being damned now that he was no longer possessed.
Despite maneuvering more quickly than the law allowed when he finally cleared the Quarter, Quinn didnt catch up with Gladys on the road. But when he arrived, he saw that her car was in the driveway.
Apparently Gladys had gotten home without incident.
He left his car and hurried up the walkway to the porch of the beautiful old Victorian house where the Simonspillars of society, philanthropists in the extremehad lived. The house, he knew, had been in the Simon family since it was built just prior to the War Between the States. It spoke of old 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. Hed begun this quest as soon as hed learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.
Bertie, its 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.
Shes in mourning, Bertie said. And she doesnt need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husbands behalf or any such thing. Bertie wagged a finger at him. I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I dont care if you were a cop or if youve become a big heroI heard enough bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and thats 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. Shes 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 didnt want to force the woman to move if he didnt have to. One thing hed say for Bertieshe 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 shell see me? Tell her its 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 wouldnt 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 didnt wander around the house.
Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil Warera 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 rooms central piecea grand pianowas 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.
Youll have to come back.
Thats what Gladys said? Quinn demanded.
Bertie hesitated. I cant find Mrs. Simon, she said.
What do you mean, you cant find her?
Bertie crossed her arms over her ample chest. I mean, she isnt here. I cant find her. So youll 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 shes hereat least her car is. I was right on her heels. She hasnt gone back out, so shes here somewhere.
Well, shes not!
He approached the woman, speaking in a reasonable voice. Bertie, listen. You dont know me. All you know about is an old reputation. Im here to help GladysI swear it. We have to search for her. Shes not in her right mind.
Berties 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. Shed gone up to her room. Now, she isnt 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. Ill get the bust out of here right now! Gladys!
No reply. He dashed into the womans 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 hadnt followed him up the stairs. Her voice wasnt 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 wasnt 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 doesnt 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. Ive been in a study, two guest rooms, a sewing room and an office and there are no more rooms. I opened every closet doorand checked the other two bathrooms. Theres no one here.
Its all wrong, he muttered.
Why are you so sure of that? she asked.
Ive seen what the bust can do, he told her. And he had. Hed 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 bottom of the Uthe traditional design of the housethat surrounded the courtyard. He started down the hall but then paused, noting that the trapdoor to the attic wasnt completely closed.
He cursed, barely aware of Danni standing behind him, watching him as if he should be in a mental ward.
Quinn pulled down the stairs that led to the attic and quickly climbed up them.
At first, he could see nothing. The attic was lit only by a single dormer window and his eyes had to adjust.
Then he heard a scream of horror behind him. Danni had followed him up. She was pointing.
He blinked, and then he saw it. In the shadowed space that fell just to the side of the window, there was a body swinging from the rafters.
He rushed to it, lifting the slim form of Gladys Simon so that the rope around her neck could no longer strangle her. He held her, dug in his pocket for his knife and cut the thick cord, easing Gladys down to the wooden floor. He straddled her, desperate to perform CPR.
But hed been a copand hed been around.
Gladys was gone.
He kept up his efforts, anyway. He could be wrong....
He vaguely heard Danni calling the police. And he felt her hand on his shoulder.
Shes dead, Danni said softly.
He knew it was true.
He sat back on his haunches, bitterly ruing the time it had taken to reach her. When Danni touched him again, he jerked away.
At that moment, he hated her as much as he hated himself.
* * *
Danni felt disjointed.
Horrified and disjointed. The morning had started out like any otherand now she was sitting in the parlor of an uptown home while police and paramedics moved in and out, listening to Bertie cry and Quinn speak with a detective in controlled tones. The way hed looked at her when hed given up on resuscitating Gladys had cut her to the core. She felt tremendous guilt, and anger that she should feel that way. She had come when hed told her to come. She couldnt have known the woman was going to commit suicide! And she had called the police, and theyd promised to send social services out to investigate.
She was still sitting herewaiting, as the police had askedfeeling as if the earth had tilted slightly off its axis.
She wanted to leave, to go home, forget the horror of seeing Gladys Simons body swaying in the shadows, forget shed seen the womans face when Quinn had brought her down.
Shed never forget it, though. Something was unalterably changed and she hated it.
What do you know about this?
She startled to awareness; the detectivea man named Jake Laruewas standing beside her, looking down at her.
She raised her hands. I dont know anything. I wish I did. Mrs. Simon came into my shop today, swearing that a bust her husband had bought had killed him. She was extremely agitated. I called the policenot the emergency line, she wasnt walking around with a knife or a gunand I was assured someone was going to see to her. Her words sounded defensive, like an excuse. They were an excuse.
Could she have said or done anything that would have saved the womans life?
Larue turned to Quinn, shaking his head. She was bereft. Her husband had just died. Youre trying to tell me she didnt kill herself?
No, I believe she might well have killed herself, but if anyone can answer that question for sure, itll be the medical examiner. We searched the house before we found her. The police response when Ms. Cafferty called in the death was excellentI think a cruiser was here in two or three minutes. No one was crawling around the house or the grounds. I didnt, however, get into the garage, Quinn said.
I have men searching the area now, but if she did kill herself, theres no reason to expect that someone was in the house.
But someone was in here, Quinn said with certainty.
Larue groaned. You just said she killed herself.
Yes, I believe she did.
Then why would anyone have been here? Larue asked, his eyes narrowed. Danni noted that he wasnt looking at Quinn as if he was crazy; instead, Larue looked as if he wanted to groan again, sink down in a chair and clamp his head between his hands. He held his ground, though, only a long breath escaping him as he stared at Quinn.
The bust is gone, Quinn told him.
The bust...the bust that supposedly killed Hank Simon? Larue asked skeptically.
Quinn nodded. Mrs. Simon was convinced it killed her husband.
And you think a bust killed her, too? Larue asked.
It doesnt matter what I think. What matters is what was in her head. If she believed the bust killed him, she might have believed it would kill her, Quinn said. He shrugged. Or worsemaybe she believed it would have some kind of dangerous effect on her...I dont know. I can only say she was acting very erratically and thats why I came here. Id seen her in the French Quarter, and to my deepest regret, it seems she was in a far worse frame of mind than Id imagined.
Larue sighed. Quinn, its going to get more and more complicated, isnt it? Every time youre involved
Wait! Quinn protested. Youre the one who asked me to check on Vic Brown and his raving about the bust, remember?
Im not publicizing the fact that I brought you in, you know, Larue reminded him.
Quinn grinned and nodded slightly.
We were partners once, Larue explained to Danni.
Hes a good cop, Quinn said. A really good cop.
And Quinn is a damned good investigator, but I am a cop and...well, police forces all over sometimes call on P.I.s. With Quinn, I know its cool because even if he doesnt make big bucks on a case like this, hes going to be okay financially.
Danni sensed that Quinn could feel her looking at him curiously. I have a trust fund from my grandmother, who managed to buy just the right stocks at the right time, he explained. So Im okay when I work on something that doesnt involve a paying client. Something Im interested in. And Im always available for Larue when he needs a little help.