hazel eyes and olive skin. He was tall and slim, every inch the regal host. “My dear, even wearing a plastic garbage bag, you’d walk with an aura of mystery and class—and it doesn’t hurt that you have a wolf at your feet. People are looking at paintings, but they’re watching you, as well. And if you shop here, they’ll think it’s the place to buy.”
“Hmm. Thank you. However, I think most of the credit goes to Wolf,” Danni said. She set one hand on Wolf’s head. Sometimes people gave her a wide berth—they were afraid of the dog. But he was so well-mannered that they usually asked if they could pet him. Wolf was, when not fiercely defending his family, a truly loving dog. Even if he was part wolf, as his name suggested.
Niles took a step closer to her, sipping from his champagne glass. “I have some wonderful original oils at this show, and, of course, I’d love to sell them. But a house in Paris was recently authorized to create giclée copies of Ghosts in the Mind. They’re beautifully done, from the original, of course. Giclée is a way for people to own incredible works of art without having to rob banks or be millionaires themselves, and honestly, the quality is so good, it’s almost impossible to tell the copies from the original.”
Danni smiled. “That’s not entirely true. Yes, done well, they’re as exact as you can get, but prints still don’t compare to the real thing.”
“Okay, maybe not, but...they’re striking on a wall.”
“And you can sell a lot of giclée copies and make money and survive, and I’m all for it,” Danni assured him. “As long as the artist isn’t cheated.”
“Danni!”
“Oh, Niles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He grinned back at her. “When are we going to have another show of your paintings?” He shuddered. “Now that horrible case with the cult is well behind you.”
Danni shrugged. She’d actually been working the past few weeks. Working on her painting—and on her life. It was barely a year ago that she’d discovered her father had led a secret existence before his death—and that she’d inherited not only his earthly goods, but his rather unearthly ones, as well.
Niles was referring, of course, to the case that focused on the bust of Pietro Miro. She’d known nothing about the nature of real evil when she’d first become entangled in that situation, and now she knew too much. Her father hadn’t just been a collector of the priceless and unusual; he’d also been a warrior of sorts, saving others from the forces of evil. It made her feel, at times, as though she was dreaming about an odd graphic novel in which she simultaneously played a role. Before that strange case last year, she would never have believed that evil—or the wicked intentions of others—could reside in an object like Pietro Miro’s marble bust.
“Sorry,” Niles said quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. That nasty mess with the cult wasn’t that long ago. And you were close to several people who turned out to be involved.”
“I’m fine. That’s all over. Billie, Bo Ray and I are doing well at the store,” Danni told him. “And I’m always grateful for your interest and support, Niles.”
“So. I have all these beautiful pieces in here—gorgeous street scenes, paintings of musicians so good you can practically hear them, the Mighty Mississippi, Jackson Square, the cemeteries and the French Quarter—and you head right over to the giclée of Ghosts in the Mind.” He raised his brows. “Back to your work for a minute. Let me remind you that we haven’t seen anything in almost a year.”
“I’ve been working. I don’t have anything ready yet,” Danni said.
“Well, let us know when you do. You’re good,” he added. “So is Mason. He just hasn’t had the chance he needs. But his time will come... Meanwhile we can admire the giclée. It is beautiful. At a distance. And everyone’s drawn in. Hubert was a talented artist, and this piece is different, even for him. He was fascinated by the dark side of things, but rarely did he come up with something that teased the eye with such exquisite beauty—only to display such wickedness in the, er, details?”
Danni nodded. “His Weeping Angel at Dusk is sad and dark, I guess, but very beautiful.”
“You know something about the artist, right?”
“I was an art major, remember? I don’t know too much, and he didn’t paint that many pieces, since he died so young. But he’s considered a relatively minor artist. He’s hardly ever mentioned these days.”
“That was true until recently,” Niles said. “Because, of course, Ghosts in the Mind, his most famous work, went missing for years and was only discovered a few months ago—and sold at auction. There’s a story to that, of course, but as to Hubert, well...like you said, he died young. We might have had so many more wonderful pieces had he lived longer. His use of perspective was extraordinary. Not many artists could create completely different images, pictures within pictures, in such an effective way.”
“If I’m remembering my art history correctly, the original was oil on canvas and was painted in Switzerland during the summer of 1816. The world endured what they now refer to as ‘the year without a summer,’” Danni said.
“Apparently, a natural climate change at that time was enhanced by the eruption of a volcano—Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies,” Niles explained. “I got interested in this stuff because of Ghosts in the Mind, so I’ve been reading about it. Anyway, the volcano erupted in 1815 but the fallout changed the weather and the atmosphere all over Europe, even a year later. It snowed in June! In the United States, too,” he said. “Anyway, that terrible weather caused a great many miserable days, but also brought about this wonderful, chilling piece of art.”
“Don’t forget, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came out of that summer, too.”
“Yes, yes, of course! And it was influenced by the fact that scientists all over were playing with electricity. Mary was familiar with some of the greatest scientific minds of her time. It’s a brilliant book,” he said in a reverent voice. “One that looked at what life was and what it wasn’t...just like this painting looks at the masks we wear on the outside while we hide our real thoughts on the inside. Most critiques have agreed that this was Henry Sebastian Hubert’s finest work. Pity, pity, pity!”
“He died by his own hand,” Danni murmured.
Niles shook his head dismissively. “So said the bumbling authorities back then! Tragically, he was found in the tower where he was painting, seated before his masterpiece. They said it was poison. What did they know?” Niles demanded.
Danni laughed. “Probably a lot more than we suspect. Remember, anatomy was the rage back then. Corpses were stolen for dissection.... Burke and Hare were busy digging up corpses to sell and then killing people for the money their bodies would bring. They—”
“That wasn’t until later,” Niles interrupted.
“Yes, but they weren’t the first,” Danni said. “Different countries had different laws on acquiring corpses for medical purposes and learning about anatomy and so on. The thing is, by the early 1800s, doctors and scientists had been dissecting cadavers for centuries. Medical people couldn’t cure most diseases, but they’d certainly learned about anatomy. Still, you have a point—he might have been poisoned and they might have missed it. But since Hubert was alone when he died, his fingers curled around the wineglass that held whatever toxin it was, I’m sure they were right, and he committed
