“Yep, he called the cops saying he’d come in to check the place out—and he was afraid someone was in here who shouldn’t be. We sent Officer Tarleton over there to check it out. The door was open—we’re lucky we didn’t wind up with a dozen crazy teens in here—and Tarleton walked in and followed the path and found the body.”
Tarleton was one of the police officers in the room, keeping their distance from the coffin itself and trying to stay out of the way of the forensic team that was busy working.
“Tarleton?” Larue said, calling the man.
Tarleton walked over to Quinn and Larue.
“Please go over what you did when you arrived,” Quinn asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Quinn, I came in by the open door. I admit, I knew the maze of pathways—been here with my wife. I didn’t touch anything—except the door to come in. I just kept calling for Mr. Abernathy. And then I found him. Here.” He swallowed. “As you see him.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Quinn said, and turned back to Larue again. “Where’s his night manager—Ned Denton?” he asked.
“We’ve put a call in. He’s due here any minute. I don’t know why they call him the night manager—he’s the only manager. Abernathy was the only one who came in here before five at night. From what I understand, Denton was always due in at about six, and all the actors came in about that time, too. Box office was supposed to be here around six, as well.”
“I was here at night,” Quinn told Larue. “I came to look at that coffin, and found fluff in it from one of the cloaks the backstage employees use when they have to come out and fix something. When I asked Sean what he fixed when he came in, he said someone had caught a bunch of the fabric in the gears. I still think that was done on purpose. But, the actor in here uses an axe—he’s an executioner. Denton told me the axe was rubber. I believe it. So, this time, the murderer brought the axe with him. I sincerely doubt they had any real axes lying around.”
“What do you think about the letter?” Larue asked him. “It arrived at the paper—or the paper called us!—at almost the exact same time we found Mr. Abernathy.”
“I think this Axeman wants to be more famous than the original,” Quinn said. “And, I think we really have to stop this bastard before Halloween.”
There was a commotion from the back hallway; Ned Denton—accompanied by two policemen—burst into the room. He saw Abernathy in the coffin and gasped, sagging back so violently he had to be supported by the policemen.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.
“He was a friend, as well as your boss?” Larue asked.
“Good friend—he trusted me when I was down and out. Good man!” Denton said in a whisper. “Oh, God!” he repeated, and turned away.
“Where were you after closing last night?” Quinn asked him.
“After closing?” he asked, as if he’d been attacked—and he was surprised. “Hell, home and in bed! I don’t get out of here until about 4:00 A.M. I go home and go to bed, and then I…I wake up. And today….” He paused, swallowing hard. “I went into the Quarter for lunch. I ate on Chartres Street, near Jackson Square. I wandered around.”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for you?” Larue asked.
Denton looked at him blankly.
“Did anyone see you?” Quinn asked. “And, lunch was a long time ago now. Where were you since then?”
“Home, I got dressed….” He was quiet for a minute, and then he beamed. “The cameras! The cameras were going, come into the security room. We can see the killer!”
“Perfect. Let’s go,” Larue said.
Back in the office with the wall of screens, they stared at footage of nothing—the place was closed during the day.
They could see when Abernathy arrived; he went into the office where they stood, and then began a systematic check of the rooms. They followed his movements, screen by screen. They saw him enter the executioner’s room, and come to look at the coffin.
And that’s when the figure appeared. Entered the screen room, and then followed the same path Abernathy had taken.
“There!” Denton said. “There!”
Larue grunted.
Quinn watched silently. Yes, there was the murderer. They watched as he came up silently behind Jeff Abernathy, and slammed an axe into his head.
Thing was, they couldn’t see a damned thing about the figure. The clothing was black—a shoulder-skirted jacket, pants, shoes—and large slouch hat.
“Run it again!” Larue barked.
And Denton did.
Never once did the figure’s face appear. The black slouch hat hid the figure’s features and even his skin tone in every single frame.
“I need this footage—all of it—for the crime lab,” Larue said.
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, of course!” Denton said.
“One more time, please, before you pull it all for the police,” Quinn asked.
And Denton showed it all one more time.
The killer had taken the axe from beneath his coat. He had brought it himself.
“Thank you,” Quinn said. Larue nodded to him and they stepped out into the dark hallway again before either spoke.
Quinn asked Larue. “We’ll at least get a height for the killer, right? Maybe a few more specifics on body type, at least?”
Larue nodded. “They’ll do all kinds of things to the footage, you know that. Of course, the killer could have been wearing lifts in his shoes, and the coat or cape or whatever…pretty concealing. Still, we’ll get something out of this.”
Quinn already felt that he’d gotten something out of it. Thing was, it was just out of his touch. Somewhere, back burner, a clue tugged at him.
“Hubert will be taking the body to the morgue; autopsy tomorrow,” Larue said. “Until then…”
“I’ll be working,” Quinn said quietly.
“I’m going to get specifics from Ned Denton. Find out where he was in detail. And, bring him in to the station with me, let him talk more there, see if his story remains the same. We’ll grill him, get employee records, find out how many keys to the place there are out there.”
“All right.”
“You think he did this? Was all that horror an act?”
“It was a good one.”
“Yeah, so—”
“So, I’m off to see a special haunted house for kids.”
“What?”
“Sean DeMille. He’s setting up for school kids at Hattie’s house. He’ll have some help there, I think. Gill Martin. Who, incidentally, didn’t show up at work. But, maybe he was a no show because he decided to help Sean. I’ll find out.”
“All right. If you want to join in the interrogation with Mr. Denton here…”
“Thanks. I’ll just see if I can find Mr. Martin, first. And I’ll see how Danni’s research into all this is going.” He looked back toward the room where Denton was still working, procuring the footage for Larue.
“Let me know if his alibi does all pan out,” Quinn said. “Too bad there were no cameras on the street. You think the killer was walking the CBD dressed like that?”
“Like the Axeman of 1918 and 1919?”
“He is dressed per the eye-witness descriptions they did have back then.”
“You’d think someone would notice. But, hey, this is New Orleans. Worse—it’s Halloween. Who the hell notices anything odd, here, at this time of year?”
Quinn headed on out.
He noted the sky. The day had passed in a blur.
Night was coming. Neon, parties, drinking, craziness…
And in the corners and the alleys…
Darkness. Shadows and darkness, both capable of hiding so very many sins.
***
Danni slipped into the courtyard and through the back door.
Billie was there when she entered, standing a fierce guard. He relaxed, seeing her and Wolf.
“Thank the good Lord that dog is back!” he said.
Danni laughed. “Thanks, Billie.”
“My dea
r Danielle, you do not bark when something is a bit askew!” Billie told her.
“True. Has anything happened?”
“Not a thing. Business as usual. Bo Ray is handling it quite well. I’ve been…here. With Wolf now in residence, I’ll be giving him more assistance.”
“Thanks, Billie. I’ll pop in on the shop, and then I’ll be down in dad’s room, searching through the book again.”
Billie nodded and patted Wolf. “I’ve a fine piece of good steak for you, my friend. And then, well, you keep that nose of yours working on mischief, eh?”
Danni walked on through the hallway toward the shop, pausing at the door to her studio. She looked in, and then decided to study her sleep-sketch again.
The scene was so sweet…
Until it came to the portrait of the decaying man over the hearth.
“Who is it who thinks they have inherited your cause, whatever that may have been?” she wondered aloud, looking at the portrait. The Axeman.
She thought about the new letter the police had received. She wondered how many people would stay in—forgetting the Halloween holiday season—in fear of the Axeman.
Some would do so. They would check all their locks. They might even buy weapons.
Or big dogs.
But, most of the city would remain crazy, a gallery of victims for this copycat Axeman.
She headed out of the room, anxious to check on the shop, and then get back down to her father’s book.
Her phone rang as she walked in. It was Natasha.
“Danni, a friend of mine called. Mack, who owns the voodoo shop down on Decatur.”
“And?”
“Our costumed woman—Medusa—was in his place, too.”
“Did she get what she wanted from him?”
“He doesn’t do any of that black magic bull either,” Natasha said. “But, she was telling a friend she knew someone down near Frenchmen Street who did. Thing is, Mack—my friend—told me he wasn’t so sure our woman was a woman. Might have been a man dressed up as Medusa. I asked Jez, and Jez said, sure, it was possible. And, Jez said he knows the shop—it’s run by a guy named Fred Ferrer, and he dabbles in all kinds of spells and things. Most of them bull, of course, but…”
“So, our killer might have found a spell. Thanks, Natasha. I’m heading back to the book.”
“Anything more from Garfield?”
“I found a name that might relate. I just have to try to follow it!”
“I’m here if you need me,” Natasha said.
Danni thanked her and headed on into the shop. Bo Ray was busy behind the counter, an old mahogany bar her dad had refitted as a counter.
He was smiling at a customer.
There were ten or so customers in the shop, several entranced by Mr. and Mr. Devil Demon.
Bo Ray completed a sale. Danni walked around the counter and asked him, “Anything—unusual?”
He shook his head. “Business as always,” he said. “Busy—lots of sales. It’s Halloween. Two people came by with crafts they’d like you to carry. That lady came by with her little jack-o-lanterns. Very cute. There at the end of the counter there. And a very young girl came in with some paintings. They’re behind the counter, here. Pretty good. She’s got a bit of twist in them, real with a hint of the fantastic. I think you’ll like them.”
“I’m sure I will,” Danni said. She noted the jack-o-lanterns. They were about the size of an apple. Cute. Then she took a quick peek at the framed paintings behind the counter.
Everyone painted Jackson Square and the Cathedral. This girl had also painted the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson—except that Jackson was tipping his hat. She quickly glanced at the other paintings. The young artist had also done her little bit with a mule drawn carriage—with a grinning mule, St. Louis #1—with a welcoming skeleton, and a view of the Mississippi—in which the river itself seemed to smile.
“Nice!” She told Billie. “Of course, we’ll put them out and do our best for her! We can draw up paperwork tomorrow. I’m—I’m heading down to dad’s office.”
“You know, it is your office now,” Billie said gently.
“Yes. And it will always be dad’s office,” she told him.
Several women were at the entrance of the shop, looking at the “Devil Demon” mannequins. Danni walked over to them.
“They’re creepy!” one of them said.
“They’re charming!” another countered.
Danni studied them again herself.
They were both; creepy and charming.
“Heading down; you know where to find me,” Danni said, waving and calling out to Billie.
In her father’s office, she sat behind the desk and opened the book. By rote she turned on the light—the lamp that flooded the pages of the book and sometimes showed what might not be seen without the intense light.
She re-read the pages she had already read. They verified everything she had learned from Eric Garfield.
She flipped more and more pages, time passing, as she sought more. And then, finally, she discovered an entry about “Bones of the Dead and the Cult of the Seven.”
“’In the late sixties and early seventies, cults raged about the country. Mass suicides, the Manson murders, and more began to trend throughout the country, and parents prayed their children would not grow up to be swayed by such groups. The Cult of Seven arose in New Orleans. Their leader, Marc Henson, claimed to have the power of the super-being, not God, but a demon, and his followers believed that the demon could grant them good lives. Henson also claimed that he was the chosen one, selected from ‘she who held the spirit before, who received it from he who had held it first.’ Police began do investigate the members, and it was suspected that Henson would be arrested—and that there was evidence against him and he would face the death penalty. The cult members were found dead at their location near Slidell, all having taken cyanide.’”
Danni sat back, drumming her fingers on the desk.
Wolf wasn’t with her—Billie had him doing guard duty by the kitchen door. She spoke aloud anyway; she’d become accustomed to talking to the dog.
“Okay, so, say that Gretchen Gaffney was really a Manfre, Mumfre, or Munfre…and there was such a person in the city of New Orleans during the Axeman spree. She would have known where his body was interred, and…”
She broke off. They had dealt with cases before in which the ashes of the dead had been worked into an object…such as the bust they’d dealt with when she and Quinn had first met. They’d been right from the beginning. Something in Casey and Sean’s house had started it all.
Mr. and Mrs. Devil Demon? They were able to give off the appearance of being benign because they…they really were so evil?
If Danni was right, Manfre or Munfre had been the killer. His daughter had taken up after him—killed her husband, reported the killing…and, of course, gotten away with it.
“But who came after her?” she murmured.
She hesitated, then picked up the phone. She called Quinn.
“Where are you?” she asked him.
“Almost at Hattie’s. Not far. Do you need me?”
“No, no. I think I’m almost at the end of the connection. I believe that the Axeman was a man named something like Mumfre, which became Manfre by the time his daughter married. She was Gretchen Avery and I believe she did kill her husband—and others. That was in the 1940s. I think she passed it on to a guy named Marc Henson, who was head of a cult. He died—cyanide when he was afraid he was going to be arrested.”
“Good work! But after the 1970s?”
“That’s what I’m looking for now. I need to know if Marc Henson left any descendants, of if anyone survived his cult…or if there’s any way to figure a connection between someone now and Marc Henson back in the 70s.”
“I’ll get hold of Larue right away,” Quinn told her. He hesitated. “You’re home; you’re safe—right?”
“Absolutely. I’m going to keep looking. You’d think
this book would make it easier, wouldn’t it?”
He was quiet for a minute. “I guess the book doesn’t really know what’s going to happen when.”
“Hm. Okay. So…”
“I’ll be back after I see what’s happening at Hattie’s.”
“All right. Did—did Larue think Abernathy might have been killed by his manager?”
“Ned Denton is acting innocent as all hell. But, hey, he’s got access. Larue is checking out the places he said he went during the day. But, I still say there was time. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I do say we’re looking at Chrissy Monroe, Gill Martin—or, yes, Ned Denton. I was going to question Abernathy, but…”
“He’s been proven innocent,” Danni said softly.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Danni promised then hung up.
She turned back to the book. “Okay, if you were a computer, I’d key in ‘evil ashes!’”
She flipped a few pages. And there it was. The exact heading.
Evil Ashes.
She kept reading.
Chapter 9
Darkness had fallen in earnest by the time Quinn reached Hattie Lamont’s beautiful old home on Esplanade.
It had taken on quite a different appearance during the day. Sean’s artistry was amazing. The friendly dinosaur stared down from the elegant and historical porch. Spider webs danced with grinning creatures within them. In a day, Sean DeMille had reset his entire display—adding more touches of pure fun, such as cherubic-looking witches and skeletons dancing to a popular jazz beat.
Hattie was out in the front with Sean.
And Gill Martin.
Hattie had an arm around Sean; she was speaking to him softly. As Quinn walked up to the trio, he knew, of course, what had so upset Sean.
He’d heard about Abernathy.
“Quinn, my God, have you heard?” Sean asked. “Jeff! Jeff Abernathy. He was a good man; a really good man. We had this just about up when I heard. It was great…Hattie is great…the kids…we could do all this for the kids. And now…it’s my fault. It has to be my fault. I’ve done something, I don’t know, but it was my house or Casey’s house and then my work…”
“I’m sorry about Abernathy,” Quinn said. “But, Sean, it’s not your fault.”
Big Easy Evil Page 10
