Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
Quinn, and he was quick to call him when the situation warranted extra eyes—eyes that might see more deeply.
“Yeah, I’d only just dropped my bags at the house when he called. When we’re off the street, I’ll explain.”
She heard the gravity in his voice. “Okay. Want to go to the shop?”
“I was on my way,” he told her. She liked his awkward smile. “I drove back into the city and acted like a nice normal human being, thinking I wouldn’t bolt over and scream your name like a character out of a movie. But what were you up to? Did I stop you from doing something?”
“I was just at my friend’s gallery down the street—Image Me This,” she said.
He glanced past her shoulder. “Ah, being an artist!” he teased.
“I do that now and then.”
“Anything interesting there?”
“Very interesting. He has a number of pieces on display by local artists, and a remarkable giclée reproduction that’s never been licensed before.”
He was still looking at the gallery. Maybe he wasn’t in any rush to tell her about this latest instance of man’s inhumanity to man.
“Giclée?” he asked.
Danni explained, adding, “Giclée comes from gicleur, the French word for nozzle or spray. The term came about in the early nineties when certain specialized printers were developed. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I can show Niles and Mason that you didn’t dump me, leaving me with the dog to soothe my broken heart.”
“You’re the one who thought we needed to take it slow.”
“And you agreed.” Danni hesitated a moment. “I still feel that way, except...”
“Except?”
“I’m not sure yet. You’re here now. I’m glad. And I’m darned happy to go back into that gallery with you.”
“Should I fawn all over you?” he asked.
“No, you should act normal!”
He reached out and took her hand and they headed across the street. Danni smiled, a sense of well-being washing over her.
Along with another chill.
Quinn was back.
And already...he’d been called in on something.
But she was pleased to walk into the gallery with Quinn. It had grown busier since she’d left. Of course, it was a Saturday morning in spring, a beautiful season in the city. A time when tourists loved to come. But spring-breakers tended to hang out more on Bourbon Street than in the galleries on Royal. However, Niles ran his business well and managed to attract a number of them.
Danni walked Quinn over to the Hubert giclée, Wolf trotting politely beside them. Quinn paused, frowning as he studied it. “It’s a beautiful piece. I don’t quite get...oh.”
His frown deepened as he saw the image within the image, saw the weapons, saw how the children played.
“Wow.” He turned to Danni.
She smiled in response. “There’s a fascinating history to the real painting. Hubert was part of a very bohemian crowd in the early 1800s. He was friends with Byron, Shelley and crew. I don’t know if you recall, but Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after she, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and another man, Dr. Polidori, spent part of an exceptionally overcast, cold summer together in Switzerland. Anyway, it was dark and gloomy and they read old German ghost stories and came up with their own. They went to visit Henry Sebastian Hubert, the artist, and talked him into joining their game. But while they’d describe a scenario with words, he’d do it with paint.”
“The guy was obviously talented.”
“He was, but he died soon after painting this.”
“He might’ve been one sick puppy, too, psychologically speaking. How did he die?”
“He was found in a tower room in the medieval castle he’d rented, staring at the painting—this painting—dead. He’d taken poison,” Danni told him. “Or...some believe he’d been given poison. No one could ever prove it either way.”
“Hmm. He might’ve been a victim of depression. Or he might have had more enemies than he realized. Or—another possibility—he might have overdone the drugs and alcohol. What do you think?”
“I’ve taken a lot of art history in my day but I never had a class in which anyone could explain the mysteries of the human mind. And if scientists could figure that out—well, the pharmaceutical companies might go out of business!”
Quinn frowned again as he looked at the painting, angling to one side.
“What?” Danni asked.
“Hubert,” he said. “I suppose it’s a common enough name.”
“I’d say so.”
“French in origin?”
“Probably,” Danni said. “Hubert was an English citizen. His father was an Englishman. His mother was Norwegian. But even by then, names could be deceptive. The French lived in England, the English lived in France, and had for centuries. Plus, people vacationed all over. Why the interest in the name?”
Quinn raised one shoulder in a shrug. “This sounds funny, of course, because we all wish there wasn’t any need for medical examiners, but my favorite M.E. in the city is named Hubert. You’ve met him.”
“That’s right!” Danni said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” It was her turn to shrug. “But there are Quinns and Caffertys all over, too, and we don’t know about the majority of them. If we are related it’s from hundreds of years ago.”
“I’m just curious,” Quinn said. “I left Hubert a little while ago. Now I’m seeing a painting by a different Hubert.”
“Odd coincidence, I guess.”
“Michael Quinn!” Niles seemed to float across the room as he came toward them. He squinted at Danni, as if unconvinced that she’d told him the truth before. “You’re back in town. Lovely. Are you here for long?”
“I’m not sure, but I always come back. New Orleans is home. I have a house in the Garden District, Niles.”
“Yes, of course, I’d forgotten,” Niles said. “But you’re here now. In my gallery. What do you think? Isn’t the giclée just incredible?”
“Yes,” Quinn murmured. “Incredible...”
“I told Danni I’m saving one for her. I’ll get it wrapped up for you tonight, Danni.”
“Uh, thanks. That’s great,” Danni said. She didn’t want to decline the giclée; it was beyond doubt a piece by a famous—and infamous—artist. And it was decidedly unique. Unusual.
It was also creepy, and she had enough creepy in her life.
But Niles was beaming, so glad he could provide her with such a treasure, and she had no intention of hurting his feelings.
“How do you tell a copy from the real thing?” Quinn asked.
“For one thing,” Danni replied, “Copies likes this—giclées—are numbered. The one on the wall is number 480 out of 2000.”
“Yes, it’s like buying a print—except better,” Niles crowed.
“I see. More or less,” Quinn said. “No, I do understand, and a copy would work just fine for me. Sadly, I don’t know that much about art.”
“Well, copies of all kinds are fine. Ah, but to have the real thing...” He sighed. “Well, anyway, I don’t. Someone rich