as she could make it. When buyers stopped in, they could spend a dollar for a few plastic beads or a fortune for real art, antique pieces or jewelry. Danni’s father—cast by the fates from the Highlands of Scotland to New Orleans—loved his adopted city. Shops should be different and unusual, he believed. Places people wanted to come back to, just like they wanted to come back to Bourbon Street for revelry, Frenchman Street for great local music, Jackson Square for art....
The Cheshire Cat was special, Danni thought. Her father had purchased the building when he’d fallen in love with her mother. The place had been a home in the early 1700s, one of the only structures to survive the fires that had nearly destroyed the city later in the century. It still had a courtyard and the typical U or horseshoe shape of so many New Orleans homes and she loved every inch of it.
When she and Quinn entered, Billie was sitting behind the counter, actually a glass display case for jewelry. He’d been reading but when the door opened and he saw Quinn, he jumped to his feet, hurrying around. “Quinn, you’re back, man!” After years in the United States, Billie’s Scots brogue remained strong.
He pumped Quinn’s hand, stood awkwardly for a minute, then threw both arms around him. Then he quickly stepped back, his expression anxious. “Oh. Oh?”
Danni understood the way Billie looked at Quinn. He was glad to see him; he was afraid to see him. While they’d had some quiet times over the past months, if Quinn was here, something could be going on. And, given that Larue had already called him, something was....
“I got back last night. Finished in Texas,” Quinn said. “I came in really late so I went straight to my house.”
“Everything all right?” Billie asked.
“It was last night. But this morning...bad scene in the city. A family massacred.”
“Oh,” Billie said. “Oh.” His shoulders slumped. “I haven’t seen the news today.”
“It might have been a domestic situation,” Quinn added.
Billie was obviously skeptical. “Domestic, eh?” He turned to Danni. “Bo Ray took a breather—he’s gone to pick up some groceries. As soon as he’s back, I say we walk over to Natasha’s and after that, we get Quinn to tell us what went on at the ‘domestic’ situation.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. They could just have called Natasha, but it would be better to see her. “Sounds like a plan, Billie. But I say we meet here after seven, when the shop closes. If Bo Ray’s buying groceries, we can whip up something to eat and I’ll tell you what I know—which might be a little more than I know now. I’m due at autopsy. I didn’t realize I’d spent so much time looking at art.”
“Looking at art?” Billie repeated.
“One piece in particular. It’s a very...unusual piece,” Danni said. “But we’re getting a copy. It’s a giclée.”
“A what?”
“An ink-jet copy—almost as good as the original.” Quinn winked at Danni. She doubted he’d been familiar with giclée prints until that day.
Billie just shook his head. Danni smiled. She loved Billie; he’d been devoted to her father. He was devoted to her now. And to The Cheshire Cat.
“It’s a pity we looked at art for so long.” Quinn said, his lips twitching with humor—and a secret message meant only for her.
She grinned wickedly, indulging him. “Go. We’ll see you back here.”
He nodded, turned to leave the shop. As he did, he nearly bumped into Bo Ray Tompkins, a young man who now worked at the shop as a clerk and bookkeeper. He’d been a suspect in their first investigation. Now, he was clean of drugs and grateful, and a reliable member of their staff.
Bo Ray was excited to see Quinn, too. He almost dropped the grocery bags he was carrying. Quinn grabbed and saved one and they all wound up on the counter.
“Quinn!”
Bo Ray said the word with such adulation that Danni had to laugh. He hadn’t even noticed she was there.
“Bo Ray, great to see you!” Quinn said. “Things are going well?”
Bo Ray looked over at Danni. “You bet—Danni’s the best. And Billie, too, of course! Hey, I’ll have a Scottish accent myself in a few more weeks!”
Quinn laughed. “See you all tonight,” he said, and headed out.
“He’s really back!” Bo Ray said, delighted. Clean-shaven, his hair still on the long side, his clothing clean and neat, Bo Ray was darned good-looking. He was excellent with their customers, too, charming them easily. Danni’s philosophy—which had also been her father’s—was that they did far more business by making people like the shop than they did by trying to sell things every minute. That way, people remembered the place; if they weren’t ready to buy, they came back. If they just wanted to look, they were welcome. “Ohhh!” he said, his mouth a circle. “Does that mean...”
“It means he finished working in Texas, but there’s been a murder here—several murders, a family—and he’s going into autopsy.”
“Ohhh,” Bo Ray said again.
“Maybe not ‘ohhh,’” Danni said. “Bad things happen in any big city. Drug deals go wrong and we sure as hell haven’t stamped out domestic violence. Anyway, I’ll get Natasha over for dinner tonight. Then we’ll talk.”
“And we’re just... We’re just supposed to keep working until then? Keep the shop open? Smile and greet customers? Act like nothing’s happened?” Bo Ray asked.
“Exactly,” Billie said, clapping a hand on Bo Ray’s shoulder. “Now, get the groceries into the kitchen. You’re messin’ with the gargoyles here!”
Danni laughed. “Children, play nicely. I’m leaving now to drop in on Natasha.” Wolf barked. She could swear the dog understood her words. Wolf loved Natasha and the courtyard at her shop.
“Oh, Wolf, I’m sorry. I want you to stay here and help the boys, okay?”
Wolf whined; he not only loved Natasha, he took his role as Danni’s bodyguard seriously.
She stroked his head and slipped out the door, leaving the dog with Billie and Bo Ray.
Danni walked down to St. Ann and then up toward Bourbon to Natasha’s shop.
* * *
Quinn was taken directly back to the largest autopsy room at the morgue. Ron Hubert was already at work. The doctor’s assistant offered Quinn a gown and mask—suggesting he’d definitely need the mask—and led him in.
The five bodies had been cleaned and prepped and were in a row on scoured steel autopsy tables. The scent of disinfectant was heavy in the air, but it didn’t dispel the metallic scent of blood. The smell of decomposition already sat beneath that of the chemicals.
Hubert, his face protected by a full-cover plastic mask, stood by the body of James A. Garcia. The Y incision had been made and Hubert was recording his findings in an even, modulated tone that was picked up by the hanging microphone above the
