The Dead Play On

by Heather Graham

  “What do you mean, it’s not the sax?” Billie asked. “It has to be! I was playing like a pro.”

  “It’s amazing what the human mind will do,” Quinn told him. “You sounded great because you expected to sound great. But we saw Arnie Watson’s mom and dad last night. They never had Arnie’s special sax. It disappeared the night he died. And if we’re right—and I’d lay you odds we are—that the killer wants it, then obviously he doesn’t have it, either, which means it’s still out there somewhere. Anyway, after breakfast I’m going to head for the station. Larue is interviewing the three musicians who were attacked on the street. I want to be there for that. He’s going to call me with the time, but I’m up, so there’s no point in my waiting around here if the call doesn’t come.”

  Wolf padded over as if he’d understood what Quinn had said.

  “You’ll all be fine without me,” Quinn said. “Wolf will be here. No one gets past Wolf, right, boy?”

  He hunkered down and patted his dog. His dog. He’d rescued Wolf from the K-9 unit after he’d been so badly injured that they were going to put him down. But Quinn knew Wolf considered himself to be Danni’s dog now, and that was more than all right with Quinn. The hardest thing he’d been forced to learn was that while it was his instinct to protect Danni at all times, she was his partner. Didn’t mean he didn’t still want to protect her with his life, but it did mean he had to let her follow her own hunches and intuitions. But he was glad Wolf would also protect her with his life, because she had a way of plunging in on a hunch that meant she sometimes walked into dangerous situations.

  And sometimes dangerous situations found them.

  It was good to have a protector like Wolf.

  Bo Ray started to say something again, but Quinn lifted a hand and said, “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some rest.” He grabbed a waffle off the plate where they were cooling, chewing a mouthful as he poured his coffee into a to-go cup. “Let Danni know where I am,” he said.

  “Will do. And I’ll man the shop today,” Billie said.

  “Be careful,” Quinn said.

  “Not to worry. Wolf knows a bad guy when he sees one,” Billie said.

  Quinn waved and left. Larue’s call came through just as he reached the sidewalk. Larue was on his way to the station in the Quarter, and he told Quinn to head over whenever he was ready. They were set up to talk to the three musicians at 10:00 a.m.

  * * *

  Danni first woke with a sense of well-being. She stretched her arm out across the bed and then realized that Quinn was gone.

  Her sense of well-being vanished.

  She hurriedly showered and dressed then ran down to the kitchen. Billie was there, alone with Wolf, who was chowing down on a waffle. The dog wasn’t really supposed to have so much human food, but Billie swore that he never gave Wolf anything that would hurt him. And if she was being honest, she had to admit that she could never resist the giant hybrid herself. Wolf was ready to die for them at any time. How could you refuse to indulge a friend like that?

  “Quinn’s gone to the station to see Larue,” Billie said, taking a forkful of the eggs on his plate. “And Bo Ray is back up in bed. No worries, though. I figure I can keep an eye on the shop today.”

  “Thanks, Billie,” Danni said, grabbing a plate and helping herself to waffles and scrambled eggs. “Nice breakfast.”

  She tried not to grin as he grunted something about it not being Italian and chose not to rise to the bait.

  Billie finished before she did and went out to open the shop. She cleaned up in the kitchen, deciding to leave as soon as she was done to see Natasha Larouche, aka Madame LaBelle. Natasha was a voodoo priestess and a dear friend. She also owned a voodoo shop where she learned just about everything that was going on in the Quarter and the surrounding area.

  Once the kitchen was clean Danni walked out through the shop, Wolf at her heels. Billie was behind the counter with the newspaper. He hated reading anything on a tablet.

  “Your murder made the front page,” he told her.

  She walked to the counter and checked out the headline, which read Second Musician Murdered in Search for Valuable Sax.

  “It sounded as if Larue thought Arnie Watson was the first,” Billie said. “Wouldn’t that make three?”

  “It would. And I think Larue does believe now that the killings started with Arnie. But you know how the police think. The less the public knows about the details, the better. Makes it easier to ID the killer. And as far as the killer is aware, the official theory is that he’s looking for a certain expensive instrument.”

  Billie nodded. “Good to know. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

  Impulsively, she kissed his wrinkled cheek.

  Wolf followed her to the door. Natasha loved Wolf, and they usually talked in the courtyard at her place so he could hang out with them. Today, though, Danni wanted him on guard duty at The Cheshire Cat.

  “Gotta stay, boy,” she told him. “Watch over Billie for me.”

  He wagged his tail and whined but trotted obediently over to Billie and took up a position by the counter.

  The walk to Natasha’s was barely a couple of blocks. Danni had basically lived in the house on Royal her whole life other than college, but she’d never ceased to love its location. If she turned to her right and looked down the street, she could see the fabulously beautiful Cornstalk Hotel, built as a private home in the early eighteen hundreds and graced with a wrought-iron fence molded in the form of cornstalks, because the owner wanted his beloved wife to feel as if she were back at her home in the North. Nearby were the George Rodrigue Studios, where the shop was filled with the artist’s famous Blue Dog pictures. Though Rodrigue had passed away a few years ago, Danni thought his Blue Dog art would live forever.

  Her favorite wig shop was also on Royal, and she thought of the amazing pieces the stylists created, not only for everyday but for the elaborate costumes of Mardi Gras and the city’s other festivities, wigs that added two feet to the wearer’s height, wigs with whole ships on them, wigs to fulfill just about any fantasy. She could easily get to Community Coffee, her favorite. The jewelry and boutique shops were ever-changing but always fun. They all carried a lot of the same T-shirts and souvenirs, but every little boutique was also different and stamped with the personality of the owner. Hard to find in this day and age, she knew. Sometimes she could even hear the children’s laughter from a nearby school.

  And while the city boasted many voodoo and occult shops, each one was equally unique, and none more so than Natasha’s. Customers entered through a wood arch, and various magical items, amulets and beads and more, adorned the door. Entering, the visitor was treated to displays of gris-gris bags, an altar with its various offerings of pennies, pictures, pins and candles, and—the specialty here—carved African and Caribbean island masks. The outer gallery was large, and there were rooms in back for private readings. Natasha read palms, tea leaves, tarot cards... If it could be read, Natasha could read it. She was a deep believer in many spirits but one great power, and the ongoing battle, in the world as well as in the human heart and mind, between good and evil. Danni always thought how it was the people she knew who helped to make the world feel sane even when it wasn’t. Father Ryan was a Roman Catholic priest, but while he loved his church and his calling, he and Natasha were great friends. While the world might see them as drastically different, they saw each other as kindred spirits.

  The store had just opened, but those tourists who were early risers had already found the place. Natasha also had a local clientele—she was a voodoo priestess—but those in her flock knew that they were welcome at all hours, and that she was just a phone call, or a knock on the door, away.

  Danni didn’t see Natasha at first, but she did see her assistant, Jeziah, at the counter.

  Danni thought Jeziah was one of the most
beautiful people she had ever seen. Mixed race, he seemed to be made of gold. His eyes were neither green nor brown nor even hazel but a gleaming amber. He was tall and carried himself with an easy confidence that was attractive in itself. He was as loyal to Natasha as Billie was to her, and he—like Natasha—had been Danni’s friend for years.

  She smiled, walking toward him, and he asked her, “Where have you been? I have to say, Natasha was wrong this time. She expected you last night.”

  “How does she always know I’m coming?” Danni demanded. “That woman really is complete magic.”

  Jeziah laughed, leaned over the counter and whispered, “She was always a big fan of Marie Laveau, you know. And Marie Laveau got most of her mystical wisdom from being a good listener—and having the wisdom to truly hear what was going on. This time, it’s not so much of a secret. She heard about the musicians, and knew you and Quinn would be involved in the investigation.”

  “The newest murder wasn’t even made public last night,” Danni said.

  “Danni Cafferty! Have you forgotten? This is New Orleans. There’s public, and then there’s public. You don’t think the people in Lawrence Barrett’s neighborhood noticed the cop cars and the throngs of police over there?”

  Danni laughed. “You have a point.”

  “Natasha is in the courtyard.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  “Actually, she’s doing a reading out there right now. Give her five, then she’ll be ready.”

  Natasha definitely did have spiritual powers. Danni had seen her at work often enough to know. But she was also, as Jeziah had implied, brilliant at reading the people around her and at zeroing in on a situation.

  “There are some new masks from Haiti on the wall. You might want to browse those for a few minutes. Hey, where’s Wolf?”

  “Guarding the shop,” Danni said.

  Jeziah didn’t ask why. He merely nodded.

  The Haitian masks were beautiful, painstakingly hand-carved. Danni could easily have studied each one for a long time, but it seemed she had barely begun when Jeziah told her to head out to the courtyard.

  Natasha stood to greet her. She “held court” at a wrought-iron table in the courtyard. Small trees and well-tended bushes planted long ago surrounded the courtyard, while delicate wind chimes and dream catchers hung in the branches around them.

  Natasha deserved the title of queen. She was statuesque, with coffee-and-cream skin, and large dark eyes that seemed to read a person’s soul. She usually kept her hair swept up in a scarf, much like the famous voodoo queen Marie Laveau. Natasha wasn’t against using any trick that helped her.

  She gave Danni a kiss on the cheek and told her to sit.

  “What have you heard?” Danni asked her.

  “Well, naturally I’ve seen the news, but my flock speaks, as well. Gary Carter plays with a group on Frenchman Street, and he was well aware of that attack on those musicians. When the news got out that Holton Morelli had been killed it was upsetting, but it was easy to say it might have something to do with his involvement in the drug trade. But now...do you know more?”

  “I do,” Danni said.

  She went on to explain about her conversation with Tyler Anderson about Arnie Watson, and their visit to Arnie’s parents. Natasha listened attentively.

  “I knew Arnie Watson, heard what happened to him. His parents are devout Baptists, so I can’t say they’ve been in the store often, but they’re not crazy anti-voodoo crusaders or anything. They’ve brought out-of-town friends by, and even though she’s Baptist, Mrs. Watson loves to buy rosaries for an aunt of hers. She gets one every year. But I must say, reading between the lines, Arnie’s death seemed suspicious. Never knew him to use drugs, and I think I would have heard if he did,” Natasha said.

  “According to his parents, friends and bandmates, you’re right. They all said he never did drugs and was happy to be home. And according to Quinn, you don’t just go out one day and inject yourself with a lethal dose of heroin right out on Rampart Street.”

  “He could have been moved.”

  “The ME doesn’t think so, but thankfully we’re on good terms with Ron Hubert, so if necessary, we could get more facts.”

  “Exhume the body?”

  “If necessary,” Danni said. “Meanwhile, I was hoping you might have heard something on the street.”

  “I’ve heard a great deal of fear. But even when they’re afraid, people have to work for a living. And people always talk—especially when they’re afraid. It doesn’t take a psychic or a Sherlock Holmes for people to figure out that this killer isn’t just after musicians, he’s looking for something specific. And since we’re talking musicians, that pretty much has to mean a certain instrument. Word is, Arnie Watson had a special sax. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no one knows where it is?” Natasha asked.

  “Tyler Anderson, Arnie’s friend, thought he had it and brought it to us. But it wasn’t the special sax after all. That sax disappeared the night that Arnie died, and no one knows where it is.”

  “Well, someone knows where it is—the person who has it. But what will you do if you find it?”

  “Once we find it, we’ll set a trap. But how the hell do you find one sax in the city of New Orleans?”

  Natasha smiled. “You join a band.”

  “A band?”

  “Quinn plays guitar.”

  “Quinn does. I don’t.”

  “You can fake some songs. Your father gave up on you learning the bagpipes, but I know you took piano. And if you can play the piano, you can master a keyboard. And if the band plays loud enough, no one will care whether you can play or not, anyway.”

  “Such faith! How will I live up to it?” Danni asked her.

  “I’m telling you, that’s what you need to do.”

  “Quinn is fairly decent on the guitar. My friend Jenny LaFleur—you know Jenny, she and her boyfriend, Brad, play with a group called the Nightwalkers—told me that he’s actually pretty good.”

  “There you go. There’s your opening. This city is music. You want to get into the heart of the music scene, join a band.”

  “I’ll talk to Quinn when he gets back. But Natasha—”

  “Give me your palm,” Natasha said.

  “You’ve read my palm before.”

  “Hand it over,” Natasha said, grinning. “You heard me. Hand over the hand!”

  Danni complied.

  With an elegant finger and a long, manicured nail, Natasha traced the lines in her palm. “This...is your life line,” she said. “You should have a long life. But see these? These little striations off the main line? They seem to be deepening. Danni, this is a dangerous situation. We don’t walk away from these things, but you need to listen to what I’m saying. You need to find that sax quickly—and the killer. I’m telling you, do what I say. And don’t worry. I’ll come and clap for you no matter how bad you sound.”

  * * *

  “Naturally there was no one else in sight,” Jeff Braman said. “There’s always someone on the street and plenty of cops around. But not that night.”

  Braman was about thirty-five and looked like a holdover from the sixties. His beard was long, and as he’d told Quinn earlier, his hair would have been long, too, but the doctors had needed to shave his head so they could treat the wound he’d received from the butt of the attacker’s gun.

  “It was late. We’d been clowning around with the waitstaff as they cleaned up,” Lily Parker, an attractive woman with short-cut dark hair, told him. Quinn thought she was in her late twenties to early thirties.

  The third member of the group was Rowdy Tambor; he was the oldest of the three, as well, probably in his midfifties.

  Lily leaned over and tapped the city map Larue had spr
ead out on his desk. “We were there—right on the corner. The guys were walking me home. I’m on Decatur, so we always head there when we’re done, and then Rowdy gives Jeff a ride home.”

  “I live in the Garden District,” Jeff said.

  “I checked the records, and a patrol officer was a few blocks over right when you needed him,” Larue said, shaking his head. There was no way to have a cop on every block at all times, and everyone there knew it.

  “Forgive me if I’m asking you to repeat details you’ve already covered in the past,” Quinn said, “but this guy who held you up at gunpoint and demanded your instruments... How did he manage to wield the gun, beat Jeff and take your instruments? I’m trying to figure out the logistics,” he added quickly, so they wouldn’t think he disbelieved them. “Every little detail is important.”

  “It’ll be easier if we act it out,” Lily said. She didn’t appear to be offended. She stood up, and though they looked a little surprised, her bandmates joined her.

  “So,” she said then paused. “You want to be him?” she asked Quinn.

  “Okay.” He stood, as well.

  Larue leaned back in his chair and tossed Quinn a pencil. “Your gun,” he explained, when Quinn shot him a puzzled look.

  Quinn caught the pencil and pointed it at the three musicians. “Okay—give me your instruments.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t go into acting,” Lily said. “Never mind. Give me the pencil. You be me. I’ll tell you what to do.”

  Quinn handed her the pencil, and they changed places.

  “You three are walking down the street,” she said. “I had my ukulele that night, so my case was small, and even though he took it, I don’t think he was much interested in it, honestly.”

  “Not my guitar case, either,” Rowdy said.

  “Okay,” Lily said. “You three are just laughing and joking, and suddenly—I’m there. In front of you. In a black trench coat. And my face is all weird, as if it’s made of plastic, but it’s really a mask. Then I say, ‘Stop! Hand me those cases now—right now—if you want to live.’”