“A voodoo priestess?” Hattie demanded, obviously fixated on that one description.
“Yeah, she snake dances and everything!” Quinn said. Danni shot him a frown.
“How remarkable—and exciting!” Hattie said, to his surprise. “I look forward to meeting this Natasha. And, my smart-aleck young friend, I happen to know your Father Ryan, or a Father Ryan, at any rate. Big, handsome man, quite a waste as a Catholic priest, I must say. His genes would do the world gene pool some good, and not just because of his looks. Now, where do we stay while we’re in Geneva? I do know some of the most charming boutique hotels. Geneva is a beautiful city, but arrangements can be a bit difficult, you know. There are constantly UN and other conventions going on, so booking on short notice could be a problem.”
“And very expensive,” Danni added.
Hattie turned to her and smiled. “My dear, surely you’re aware that while my personality can be a bit prickly, I’m very grateful for my life. If there’s one thing I do have, it’s a generous supply of funds, thanks to my late husband. I shall be happy to make our travel arrangements. If you’ll be so good as to give me a list with the legal names and dates of birth for all your friends, I will call my travel agent.”
“Oh, Hattie, that’s sweet,” Danni said. “But we really couldn’t—”
“Yes, we could,” Quinn interrupted. “Thank you, Hattie. We’ll be very grateful if you’d do that for us.”
“Now, where shall we stay?”
“Oh, that’s taken care of,” Quinn said.
“Oh?”
“We’ll be staying at the castle.”
“The castle? The House of Guillaume? But...how?”
“Dr. Ronald Hubert owns it.” He thought she would tell him she was afraid to stay at the grim and foreboding castle where the painting had been created.
She didn’t.
To his shock, she said, “Where better! So, when do you wish to leave?”
Chapter Eleven
THE SECOND HARDEST thing for Danni was making a decision about the shop.
She hated closing it. But she decided she had to. She wanted the shop—and her home—locked and the alarm on for the entire time they were gone, however long that turned out to be. She ran over to see Niles Villiers and Mason Bradley at the gallery, but didn’t tell them where she was going. They both assumed that she and Quinn were taking off for a romantic tryst, and she blushed and let them think that was the case. She also said she’d given her staff a brief vacation and merely wanted to inform Niles and Mason that she’d be away for a few days. She asked if they’d walk down the block to check on the shop now and then.
“Of course!” Niles promised her. “This is the French Quarter—Royal Street! We look after one another.”
“I’ll walk by the shop every day,” Mason had vowed.
Closing the shop was the second hardest thing she had to do.
The hardest was leaving Wolf. But Natasha helped her solve that dilemma. Her assistant, Jez, loved the dog and would happily take care of him.
Danni knew that, for Quinn, the most difficult task had been explaining to Jake Larue that going to Geneva wasn’t irresponsible, but the most important move he could make. He’d also asked Larue to keep an eye on the store.
As Quinn expected, Ron Hubert had balked at going, claiming he was “needed here, for God’s sake!”
But, in the end, he was convinced.
Bo Ray was thrilled—until he discovered they were staying at a real medieval castle with dungeons and darkness. A place no one had lived in for over a century.
Not a castle-turned-bed-and-breakfast.
When Hattie and Ron met, they made a strange and interesting pair. Ron Hubert was somewhat fascinated by the stern but attractive society matron, while Hattie seemed to appreciate Ron Hubert’s intelligence and perspective on life. She’d arranged for a cleaning crew, a large one—twenty people would be sent out!—to ensure that the castle was livable when they arrived. Hattie might’ve had any number of servants for years, but she was extremely capable herself. She made a number of calls to Switzerland, dealing not just with cleaning crews, but with food delivery and other necessities.
Hattie’s wealth was useful, Danni thought. She’d also arranged for generators so they’d have light and other electrical conveniences. As she told Danni, “I’m far too old to enjoy burned marshmallows over a fire!”
So, by the time they boarded their plane to France a week later, everything for their stay had been set in motion.
Danni had decided that despite their destination and their purpose, she was going to enjoy the “getting there” part of it.
Hattie hadn’t just booked them flights. She’d booked the eight of them first class all the way. And she’d worked with the passport office to expedite passports for those who needed them, namely Bo Ray and Natasha.
Danni had gotten upgraded with her dad a few times in their travels, so it wasn’t as if she’d never been in first class, although she was much more accustomed to coach. She’d stayed in some nice places—and also camped out, sleeping on the ground. Worst were probably the budget motels where she turned the lights out quickly rather than wonder if roaches were scurrying around.
But this...
They were on one of the new planes that had private first-class seats that reclined to become beds. She had a workstation, a setup for a computer, pillows, champagne, blankets...it was a piece of heaven.
Danni was impressed that Hattie had pulled this off in such a short time. The eight of them took up the entire business-class section, which was cordoned off from coach. Danni was in the second of the middle seats, with Quinn to her left and Bo Ray to her right.
Bo Ray’s eyes were still huge. He was happily playing with the video and stereo system.
Hattie, seated in front of Quinn, closed her eyes and rested. Billie did the same. Behind Quinn, Father Ryan read from a religious text and Ron was also reading, frowning as he did so. Natasha was in front of Danni, smiling as she sipped champagne.
Danni knew she had to use the time to finish Eloisa Hubert’s journal and the letters that had been stuck between the pages, but for the first thirty minutes of the flight, she just wanted to revel in the luxurious experience of being on this plane.
Danni thought it was a pity they hadn’t been able to let Hattie make hotel reservations for them; she could only imagine the accommodations they might have had....
As she carefully took the journal out of her bag, she noticed that Quinn was watching her from across the aisle. “I can help,” he told her.
She nodded and shook the journal gently, letting some of the letters fall out. She passed them over to him.
Danni began to read where she’d left off. She was starting to get used to Eloisa’s small, cramped handwriting and found herself trying to picture what her life had been like. She imagined Eloisa sitting by a cozy fire....
The solicitor called again today. The castle was packed up immediately after Henry’s death but he wanted me to know that he’d had six requests from would-be buyers for the heinous painting my foolhardy husband had created. Apparently, the fact that he died in front of it has made it valuable. The solicitor is quite astonished that I am refusing all offers and that I want the thing wrapped and stored. Everything that Henry painted is now worth a great deal—dead artists seem exceedingly more valuable than living ones. I will never sell that horrid painting, nor shall I ever set eyes on it. The creating of it killed Henry.
I do believe that, in his way, he loved me and our son. But there was something that burned in him, a hunger to be like Lord Byron. Perhaps I couldn’t give him the life he longed for; I couldn’t give him a certain freedom. Or perhaps he longed for brilliance and didn’t believe it existed within him. But I am convinced that in joining with Byron’s circle, he indeed sold his soul to the devil.
Most of the Swiss authorities believe he committed suicide, but some claim he was murdered. The one undeniable fact is that th
ere was poison found in his system. I have little recourse except to trust that those in Switzerland are doing everything in their power to discover the truth.
However, I doubt they will ever know with certainty. Henry’s servant, a man named Raoul Messine, found my poor husband and brought in the police. He wrote me a lovely letter of condolence.
It was then that I began to think of that wretched dark castle Henry had rented. I knew about Lord Guillaume; word of the man’s perversions and killings spread through newspapers across Europe. It was a blessed thing that he was killed by the Swiss authorities. The more I thought about everything that had happened—and that my poor son, Henry William, would grow up without a father, the more distressed I became.
I felt great relief when I made my decision; the painting would go into storage. And I would buy the House of Guillaume from the man’s son, a delightful fellow who eschewed his father’s evil ways! Young Guillaume wanted nothing to do with his father’s memory or the castle. Our deal was quickly made and the young man was pleased to hear that I mean to keep the castle, never to sell it, and that I don’t intend to visit or to let it to tenants. He applauded my decision wholeheartedly.
Danni sighed loudly, then realized that Quinn was watching her.
“I just read about Hubert’s wife, Eloisa, buying the castle from Guillaume’s son,” she said. “What did you learn?”
“I found the bill of sale from when the painting was sold to the gallery owner in London—and a newspaper clipping from March 15, 1891, describing his death. Which leads me to think...”
“What?”
“That you’re right. That whatever is in the painting can only be awakened at night. It appears that nothing happened until the gallery owner was there at night. He must have read something about the painting’s history and was curious. Or he was somehow compelled to see what would happen if he touched the thing up with a few drops of his own blood,” Quinn said.
“The painting’s not at the castle, but on the other hand that place is where Hubert created it. So it’s at night that we need to be wary.”
Quinn nodded. “At least we’ll get to the castle in daylight. We arrive in Paris at 7:00 a.m., and it’s a quick hop to Geneva, and then a short drive from the city.”
“I’m glad,” Danni said. “Quinn, do you think the castle itself could be evil?”
He was quiet for a minute. “I think men can be evil and that’s how objects become evil,” he replied. “I’m not sure I can really answer that. Why?”
“I read that Eloisa began to heal—I guess that’s how I’d put it—or at any rate make her peace with Henry’s death, only when she decided to store the painting and to buy the castle and see that no one used it. And she mentions that when she bought it from the hedonist Guillaume’s son, he didn’t question her plan never to let anyone stay there again,” Danni explained.
“Interesting...” Quinn said. “We certainly won’t take any chances while we’re there.”
Hattie, who’d appeared to be sleeping, turned around at that. “Good thing we have a priest and a voodoo priestess with us, isn’t it?” She was actually smiling as she said it.
Quinn laughed, obviously pleased by her reaction.
“Good thing,” Danni agreed.
Their flight attendants began to serve dinner. Danni worried about spilling something on the journal, so she put it away.
Dinner was surf and turf—lobster and filet—accompanied by a salad, a cheese course and their choice of wines.
“This is too cool,” Bo Ray said.
Danni smiled. “Yeah, just don’t get used to it!”
After dinner, their flight attendants converted their seats into bed compartments. Danni lay down, comfortable in her leggings and sweatshirt, determined to read more of the journal.
Eloisa continued with the business arrangements that had to be made after Henry’s death. Danni kept reading, but her eyes were growing heavy.
Then she was wide awake again as she read:
The Swiss authorities have reached me through Scotland Yard’s Lieutenant Morrison, a man who has been a great comfort to me. They have questioned every member of staff at the castle with the help of Raoul Messine, but they haven’t been able to discover anyone who would have had motive to hurt my Henry. He was well-liked, according to Messine, and the only time any member of the staff was disgruntled was when Lord Byron and his party came to stay. When they were gone and Henry worked alone in his attic, he was faultlessly kind to those who cleaned, cooked and saw to his needs.
Farther down on the same page she read:
My dear Lieutenant Morrison came to see me today with bad news. Apparently, in the midst of packing Henry’s belongings, Raoul Messine passed away. His heart, so it seemed, seized as he most tenderly cared for my Henry’s last work. Alas, no one was there to help him. The man fell in the midst of glass and china being packed, as well; he was bloody and bruised by the fall, and lay there dying all alone. I will pray for the man who tried so hard to help me.
Danni hadn’t seen the information about the butler named Messine anywhere else. She’d only known that the painting had been packaged and stored—and not until Eloisa had died and the painting was sold had there been more deaths. Was the butler, Messine, a victim of the painting, too?
She closed the journal and held it close. The silence of the plane was soothing.
“Danni?” She heard Quinn’s soft whisper.
Leaning up on one elbow, she opened her compartment door. He’d opened his own door across the aisle, a grin on his face.
“Yes?”
“Nice digs, huh?”
“Very.”
“I’d rather be next to you, though. In a real bed somewhere.”
“Excuse me!” They could hear Hattie from the seat in front of Quinn. “I’m still awake. So if you two wouldn’t mind!”
Danni smiled and Quinn grimaced. “’Night,” he told her.
“’Night.”
“Good night, Hattie,” Quinn said with excessive formality.
“Indeed!”
Danni lay down and went to sleep, still smiling and cradling the journal.
* * *
They arrived in Paris feeling surprisingly rested after their night on the plane.
They had an hour’s layover—not much time, but Quinn made use of it to purchase European cell phones so they could stay in touch with one another. He texted the numbers to Larue so the New Orleans detective could reach him easily.
The next flight was brief. They deplaned in Geneva where Bo Ray, who’d never been out of the States before, was wide-eyed with wonder. He was so busy looking at the bustle of people moving around him that he walked into a post when they went to line up for customs. Hattie seemed touched by his wonderment and took it upon herself to guide him. She’d gone into her European mode and she did speak French like a native.
With their carry-on luggage, they headed to their rental car. Hattie had seen to it that they had a van—but it was a Mercedes. Generous of her, Quinn thought.
He was definitely starting to like the old battle-ax, as Billie and Bo Ray had called her.
While she had no desire to drive, the others automatically deferred to her and she sat in the front passenger seat while Quinn did the driving.
“It’s a pity that we can’t at least stop for lunch in the city,” Hattie said. “Geneva is charming—absolutely charming!”
Quinn shook his head. “We haven’t got time.”
“Ah, but the scenery! The mountains, the lake—”
“We’ll see the lake,” Quinn reminded her.
Hattie chatted on about the attractions of Geneva as they drove. Quinn gave his complete attention to the road, but even so, he saw enough to be impressed. The mountains, beautifully snow-capped, rose around them. The water of the lake was the bluest he’d ever seen. They passed cathedrals and villas—and lots of sheep and cattle and goats, grazing in green and flower-strewn fields.
And then t
hey came to the castle. The House of Guillaume.
Quinn wondered again if Danni was right, if a structure of stone and wood could be evil.
They were met first by the walls, rising twenty feet above the ground. There was a huge iron fence; Bo Ray, by the door in the second row, said, “I’ve got it.”
Hopping from the van, he trotted over to the gate. It didn’t creak—not that Quinn could hear—but opened easily.
He drove in and parked in the large courtyard. One by one, they all piled out of the van and gazed up at the foreboding building.
The castle had four towers, heavy wooden doors and a gloomy gray facade that seemed jarringly out of place with the pristine beauty of the nearby mountains and the lake. There were no real windows in the wall surrounding the castle, only arrow slits. The place had been built for defense; it was supposed to be unwelcoming—and it was.
“Well,” Ron murmured. “Welcome to my...house.”
“You’ve owned this, and you’ve never been here?” Hattie asked him.
“No,” Ron said. “It’s not like my parents showed me pretty pictures of a villa somewhere. I’ve just—well, I’ve just never had the inclination to come here. I’ve paid the taxes and arranged for the upkeep. That’s all.”
He turned to face them all. “I never wanted to be associated with the artist. That’s just the way it is.” His words were followed by an awkward silence.
“Let’s go in, shall we?” Danni finally suggested.
“Wait! I think a prayer for help won’t go amiss,” Father Ryan said.
“Sounds reasonable to me!” Hattie responded.
Father Ryan walked to the door. He stared at it—as if he was staring at something that had a heartbeat, something that lived.
Waking the Dead Page 18