Heather Graham - Let the Dead Sleep

Vincenzo appeared in another doorway and strode down the hall toward her.

“He spoke to me! He spoke and fell back...but he spoke!”

Vincenzo frowned and walked over to the bed. He laid a hand on Angus’s arm, then turned to face her. “Ms. Cafferty, I know this is a difficult time... I was trying...I...” He paused and shook his head. “Ms. Cafferty, he did not speak to you. He had passed when I left this room. I wanted to give you a few minutes alone with him before having him brought down to the morgue.”

“What?” Danni gaped at him blankly. “No, no,” she said. “My father sat up and spoke to me.”

Vincenzo looked at her pityingly. “He’s been gone for at least thirty minutes now, Ms. Cafferty. Feel his arm. He’s growing colder already. I’m so sorry, I can see how you loved him. But he’s what...almost ninety. He had a good life. And he was certainly loved.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. He talked to me. He sat upright and he spoke to me,” Danni protested.

Vincenzo wasn’t going to argue with her. He pursed his lips as if forcing himself to keep silent. “Is there someone you could call to be with you?” he asked. “I can see if we have a chaplain or a priest in the hospital.”

She frowned at him, shaking her head. “I haven’t lost my mind.”

“He’s gone, Ms. Cafferty. I’m so sorry, but your father has passed.”

Danni winced. She held back the tears that threatened and said with dignity, “I’m fine. I will stay with him a moment longer if that’s all right.”

He left. She sat at her father’s side, and when she took his hand then, she knew the truth—the mighty Scot who had filled her life with love and adventure was dead. Her tears came then in a river.

“Danni?”

She looked up.

Billie McDougall, tall and thin as a reed, a man who had seemed as old as her father but was twenty-odd years younger, stood in the door. He was accompanied by Jane Pearl, her father’s office manager, bookkeeper and sometime clerk. They were like family; they were her family now.

“Come, lass,” Billie said. “Come away now. Your father was old and tired, and he needs to sleep now and rest from the weary rigors of this world. He loved you, lass, and he was loved in return, and that is the true measure of any man’s life.”

“Danni, we’ll take you home. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea with a shot of Scotch or whiskey and it will help you through the night,” Jane said.

Billie walked in and stood over Angus’s body, his cap in hand. “I will continue in your place, my dear friend,” he said. And, to Danni’s ears, it was like a vow.

As if Billie, too, believed that Angus could still hear him.

Jane set her hands on Danni’s shoulders. “Come with us now, Danni. The doctor said you’ve been with the corp—that you’ve been with your father for over an hour. It’s time to take care of yourself, as he would have wanted.”

Jane had strong hands and arms for a woman. She could be forceful.

Danni moved to the door. But then she turned and came back to place a kiss on her father’s forehead and laid her head against his chest as she had so many times as a little girl. “I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you. You’ll live forever in my heart.”

He was growing colder; he was a corpse.

But he was her father.

“Let’s go now,” Jane urged.

“You will always be with me,” Danni told her father passionately as she was led out at last.

Billie remained, looking sadly down at his mentor, his friend and boss.

“Oh, Angus!” he said, anguish in his voice. “She doesn’t know yet, does she? I told you that you’d not live forever. Poor lass. Danni has not yet begun to know just how you will stay with her—just what you’ve left behind!”

Chapter One

IT WAS SPRING in New Orleans, a beautiful April day, and Angus Cafferty had been dead for three months the afternoon Michael Quinn followed the widow, Gladys Simon, to The Cheshire Cat, an antiques and curio store on Royal Street.

The house itself, now a shop, was one of the few buildings that had survived the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 that had destroyed 856 buildings—followed by the fire of 1794 that destroyed another 212. It was one of the only structures from the mid-1700s that remained on Royal Street. It had a two-storied facade, with an inner courtyard and balconies surrounding the building streetside. He knew the layout of the old building; the original parlor, study and dining rooms were set up as the shop’s display area, while the old pantry was Danielle Cafferty’s studio. The basement was not really a basement at all. This was New Orleans, and even on high ground, the basement was just the lowest level of the house. Six steps led up from the street, and courtyard entries led to the porches and the house. The shop’s basement was filled with treasures Angus had collected and kept away from the view of others. Upstairs, above the store, were the office and a small apartment used by the Cafferty family. Billie McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.

Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.

He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.

She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.

Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.

Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.

But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.

“You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”

Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”

“Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”

“Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”

“Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”

“Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”

“Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”

“You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.

“Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”