The Dead Play On

by Heather Graham

  Jessica blushed and set her tray on the bar. “Arnie? No, no, we were friends, just friends. Did someone tell you we were dating or something? I don’t think anyone would say that. Because we weren’t. Why? Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I talked to a friend of his today, and apparently there was someone special in his life,” Danni said.

  “I never saw him with anyone, but... Eric?” Jessica said. The bartender was just placing a glass of seltzer with a squeeze of lime in front of a customer at the bar. “Did you ever see Arnie in here with a woman? Did he have something going on that maybe you knew about?”

  Eric turned their way. “Arnie was a good-looking guy. He had that bad-boy smile, even though he wasn’t a bad boy at all. Lots of girls liked him.”

  “But no one special that you know of?” Danni asked.

  Eric and Jessica looked at each other then shook their heads in unison.

  “Sorry, Danni. I don’t know of anyone,” Eric said.

  “What about Sharon Eastman, the woman who helps you out on the weekends?” Danni asked him.

  Once again, Eric and Jessica looked at one another.

  “I know she liked Arnie,” Jessica said.

  “And Arnie liked her,” Eric said. “But not like that, as far as I know.” Eric shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her, though, and she’s not back in until Thursday night.”

  “Thanks,” she told them.

  “Danni!” Tyler called to her.

  They were about to go on for the night, she realized.

  Being backup, she spent a lot of time just moving to the music or shaking the tambourine. She prayed that her eyes wouldn’t close and that she wouldn’t fall asleep onstage.

  As the night went on, the neon lights in the bar began blending together, and the music became a sonic blur.

  “Hey! You all right?”

  Danni started. It was Blake.

  She smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

  “We’re taking a break.”

  “Oh. Oh!”

  She walked off the stage. Tyler caught her by the arm and walked her to the table. “Danni needs to get home,” he told Father Ryan.

  “No, I’m fine, really.”

  “It’s no problem,” Tyler said. “It’s a Monday night, quiet as a graveyard, and I know you haven’t slept. Father Ryan, why don’t you and Pastor Cooke go on ahead with Danni? We’ll be cutting things short tonight, anyway.”

  “And what about me, Mr. Tyler Anderson?” Natasha demanded indignantly.

  “My deepest apologies!” Tyler said dramatically. “You’re young, so I figure you’re accustomed to keeping later hours.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m not about to move into senior housing yet!” Father Ryan said.

  “No, no, it’s just that you’ve been such a trouper, and I’m sure you’re not usually up so late this many nights in a row,” Tyler said, desperately trying to talk his way out of the verbal mess he’d made, albeit with the best of intentions.

  Then Father Ryan laughed, setting them all at ease.

  “I’m more worried about Billie than I am about myself,” Danni said. “I can’t play an instrument for love or money, but Billie is an amazing musician.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets home safely,” Tyler said. “And Natasha, too, if she needs an escort.”

  “No need. I’ll leave when Danni does,” Natasha said.

  “All right, then, thanks,” Danni said. She looked toward the bar. Eric Lyons was busy filling a tray of drinks for Jessica. Despite what Jessica had said, she couldn’t help but wonder about her relationship with Arnie. And yet, as she watched Jessica’s body language with Eric, they seemed to be close. His fingers brushed Jessica’s hands as he dropped swizzle sticks into glasses.

  She hurried over to the bar. “Jessica, you don’t walk home alone, do you?”

  “No, no,” Jessica said, her cheeks flushed. “Eric sees me home, and if he can’t, one of the guys in the band always does. And when I get home—” she shrugged with a smile “—my mom is there.”

  She realized that they had to consider the possibility that the murderer could be a woman, even the unknown love of Arnie’s life. But as she looked at Jessica’s big blue eyes and guileless smile, she told herself that she just couldn’t be the Sax Murderer.

  “I will always make sure she’s safe,” Eric said.

  Danni nodded. “Good. So...good night.”

  “Don’t forget to look at those songs,” Jessica said.

  “I won’t,” Danni said, and hoped she wasn’t lying.

  Father Ryan, Pastor Cooke and Natasha were waiting for her at the table.

  They reached the house on Royal Street without incident. Wolf greeted them joyously, and Woodrow Watson once again sat on guard duty with his shotgun by his side.

  * * *

  When it was time to quit for the night, Quinn told Brad that he was going to move over to La Porte Rouge the next night. Brad nodded gravely, understanding.

  Jenny heard and came over. “You can’t!” she gasped.

  “We’re pretty sure everything’s tied to the group over there,” Quinn explained.

  “But I was attacked!” Jenny said, incredulous and angry.

  “Yes, and thank God you’re all right. But the killer has already been to your place. He’s after something Arnie had, and he knows you don’t have it,” Quinn explained. “He’s moved on, and he’ll keep moving on until he finds what he’s looking for.”

  “Jenny,” Brad said. “I won’t leave you alone again, I promise.”

  Their bandmates had come up by then, and Steve said, “Jenny, we’ll all leave here together, and we’ll all make sure you two get to Danni’s place safely.”

  Quinn just hoped that with everyone so on edge, an innocent bystander wasn’t going to get shot. But he knew that Brad knew how to use a gun, and his head was noticeably cooler than Jenny’s.

  “That will work,” Quinn said.

  “But—” Jenny began.

  “Do you want this guy caught or not?” Brad asked her, aggravated. “Just let Quinn do what he does best—investigate.”

  Jenny fell silent. “Right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Quinn felt his phone vibrate. He quickly took it from his pocket.

  “Quinn?”

  It was Danni’s voice. He glanced at his watch and realized that it was after three. He felt himself tense up. He couldn’t help it. He would always be afraid when he heard her voice in the night that way.

  “You all right?” he asked her.

  “I’m fine. But he was out there again.”

  “He—you saw him?”

  “I saw a...a dottore.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, someone in a black cloak and a birdlike white mask. The kind people wear a lot during Carnevale in Venice. Like the doctors wore in Europe during the plague. We have them here sometimes.”

  “Where did you see him?” Quinn asked.

  “Under the streetlight near the wig shop.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Just standing there, watching the house. Wolf was on edge, so I went out to the shop. I didn’t turn the lights on, and I went and looked through the window across the street. He was just standing there, staring at the house. It had to be the killer again.”

  “I’m leaving now.” He motioned to Brad that they needed to go. Brad nodded, and the others gestured toward the stage and nodded to indicate that they would see to the rest of the equipment.

  As Quinn listened, with Brad and Jenny following closely behind him, he headed out to the street and his car.

  “I’m telling you, I saw him there. He was watching the house.”

  “Is anyone else up?”r />
  “Woodrow is with me. He followed me into the shop and saw him, too.”

  Was it really the killer in a new costume? Even though it wasn’t Halloween or Mardi Gras, when every second person on the street was in costume, people here dressed up year-round. They were painted and gilded. They were clowns. They were comic book heroes and supernatural creatures, and most of the time, they had a hat out for tourists to throw bills into.

  “We’re leaving the club now,” he said. “Is he still out there?”

  “No. He just...disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He was there one minute, Quinn, and then I blinked and he was gone. Quinn, we need to go over there and see if we can figure out how he’s disappearing.”

  “I’ll be there in just a few minutes. Don’t go out there, Danni. Please don’t go out there.”

  “Just hurry, okay?” she said then hung up.

  By then they were in the car.

  “I think our guy has a new costume,” he said.

  “Did something happen?” Brad asked.

  “Danni saw someone watching the house from across the street again. This time he was dressed up in a Carnevale-style costume.”

  “Oh my God! What are they going to do?” Jenny asked. “Outlaw every street performer? In New Orleans?”

  Quinn didn’t answer. He knew that Jenny really was terrified. He wasn’t sure he could blame her. She had nearly been a victim of the killer.

  “Did they go after him?” Brad asked.

  “No. They’re waiting,” he said. Or so he hoped.

  While he was pretty sure it was going to be a fruitless effort, Quinn called Larue. He was grateful his old partner was equally determined to get the killer off the streets.

  Larue agreed to direct people out to look for the killer right away. By the time Quinn reached Royal Street, there were police everywhere.

  He ran inside to find Danni, who was looking thoughtful.

  “This is wrong,” she told him quietly. Once again, though it was the wee hours of the morning, everyone was awake, gathering in the kitchen or moving quietly out to the store to look through the windows to the street.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her softly.

  “Police everywhere—he’ll see them. He’ll know we’re onto him. He’ll hide. He’ll slip into another alley. Or he’ll just disappear completely.”

  Quinn shook his head. “He didn’t just disappear. He’s using the alleys and the courtyards of the French Quarter. He knows this city the way only someone from here can know it. Come on, let’s go out and take a look ourselves.”

  Wolf went with them. Woodrow assured them that he would stay at the kitchen table, shotgun at the ready, until they got back. Jenny sat at the kitchen table with him, while Brad paced. Amy and Bo Ray stayed in the shop to keep an eye on the street and wait for Billie to come home.

  “Show me where you saw him—as exactly as you can,” Quinn told Danni.

  She headed straight for a streetlight and said, “He was here. Right here. And then he was just gone—in a blink.”

  “Through that gate,” Quinn said, looking behind him. He knew the street, knew there were several gates that led to private courtyards much like their own.

  By day, this gate opened to a narrow alley that led to a courtyard surrounded by a few small boutiques and a café.

  “It’s always locked at night,” she said.

  He tried the gate, which opened easily. Wolf barked and started into the alley. Quinn had him on leash, but now he unclipped the lead to give the dog freedom to move ahead on his own then followed closely behind him.

  It was dark; only a few small lights glowed inside the shops. Danni stayed close behind Quinn as they moved in. When they reached the center of the courtyard and stopped to look around, Wolf began to bark excitedly.

  He ran for the door to the café. Quinn tried that door, too.

  It was open.

  He didn’t stop to call for police backup. He went in, glad that Danni was staying close. Inside the café, chairs were piled on tables. He looked around, seeking a rear door.

  He didn’t need to look for long. Wolf whined and led him behind a counter and through the kitchen. Spotless stainless-steel sinks and counters and workstations were illuminated by a half dozen night-lights.

  Wolf barked and ran through. Quinn hurried to catch up, relieved to hear Danni’s footsteps behind him.

  There was a back door leading out to Chartres Street.

  Like the front door, it was unlocked.

  Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of a man in a bird mask. In fact, the street appeared to be completely empty.

  He turned to look at Danni. “He could be anywhere by now,” he told Danni.

  “Yes, he could be. But here’s my question. Why wasn’t that gate locked—and why was the coffee shop unlocked, too?”

  “We’ll get Larue on that.”

  Danni looked down Chartres Street toward Jackson Square then turned to look in the direction of Canal. She could see cars moving on Canal, as they just about always were.

  She let out a sigh. “Why does he come and just watch the house?” she asked.

  “He’s waiting,” Quinn said.

  “For?”

  “His chance. And we’re not going to give it to him.”

  He pulled out his cell and called Larue then told him where they were and what they had found. Larue promised that within the next few hours he would contact every shop owner and find out how and why the gate and the café doors had been left unlocked.

  “Go to bed,” Larue told him. “I’ll get on this. But...”

  “But?”

  “I know you. You look after your own. Mostly, you try to do it all by yourself. Sleep or you’ll be worthless. I’ll station a patrol car out in front of your place, but make sure someone is awake and watching at your place at all times.”

  “Will do,” Quinn promised him and rang off.

  “What now?” Danni asked.

  Quinn smiled. “He told me to go to bed. I’m all for that suggestion.”

  “Don’t grin at me like that. We’re both keeling over.”

  “I’m not grinning. I’m contemplating bed.”

  She laughed. “And I’m contemplating sleep!”

  “Let’s do it, shall we?” he asked her.

  “Sex or sleep?” she countered.

  “Both?”

  “We’ll see, but let’s get home first, okay?”

  Wolf barked in agreement.

  They returned to the house, where they told the others what they had discovered and what Larue had said. Bo Ray said he would open the shop in the morning, so he was going up to bed, and Woodrow promised to stay on guard until morning. After that, everyone said their good-nights and dispersed.

  In the bedroom a few minutes later, Danni threw her arms around Quinn’s neck. “I’m surprised you didn’t give me a hard time about going with you just now,” she told him.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t. So do I get a reward?”

  She twirled away from him, strewing clothing behind her as she made her way to the bed.

  He sat on the bed, grinning, to take off his own clothes.

  But when he turned around, he saw that Danni had only gotten so far.

  She was sound asleep, shoes and jeans off, shirt and underwear still on.

  He pulled the covers up around her. His head barely hit the pillow before he was sleeping himself.

  * * *

  Larue and Quinn were back at the courtyard the next morning, talking to the owner or manager of every shop. Everyone had been vague; they were each responsible for locking up their own shops. The last person out was supposed to lock the gate. So far, none of th
em seemed concerned. If someone had been in the courtyard, so what? Their shops had all been locked. And nothing had been taken, so they couldn’t understand why it was so important to the police that someone had forgotten to lock the gate.

  They’d left the café for last.

  “Who’s responsible for locking the café each night?” Quinn asked Rafael Payne, manager of the Courtyard Café. “Someone was definitely in here. That should concern you.”

  “Well, of course it concerns me,” Payne said. “I just don’t know why you’re so concerned. Nothing was taken.”

  “Someone got away through your café, and I’m pretty sure he knew he’d have an escape route,” Quinn said.

  Payne lifted his hands in exasperation. “Who? Why? And since nothing was touched, what makes you so sure anyone was even in here? This is like—like police harassment!”

  “A killer might have escaped through this café and you don’t care?” Quinn asked, aggravated.

  “Was someone killed last night?” Payne asked, a worried look on his brow at last. He was in his midthirties, with well-muscled arms and a harried expression.

  “Not last night,” Larue said.

  “Then what are you talking about?” Payne asked.

  “A suspect was seen on the street, and he escaped through your shop,” Larue said.

  “Look, I don’t know how or why it was left open. Someone got careless, that’s all I know. Really. At the end of a day...we’re tired. We make mistakes. And we’re not the last ones to leave the area, you know. The boutique in front closes late—really late. Their stuff is high-end. They wait for a lot of people who work downtown to come after they get off. That shop is open until at least nine most nights. Why don’t you harass them?”

  “We need to know who left that door open,” Quinn said, pointing to the café’s front door.

  Payne hesitated and then exploded. “Me, it was probably me, all right? But I’m not the one who left the gate to the street open. You’ll have to find someone else to blame that on! What, am I under arrest or something for forgetting to lock up?”

  “Did you do it on purpose?” Quinn asked him.

  “No!” Payne said.

  “It’s aiding and abetting, if you did,” Larue said.

  “It is not—there was no crime last night,” Payne protested.