The Cursed (30 page)

Movement,
life,
seemed to emerge from the image. It was complex; the viewer felt a sense of belonging in the scene, being part of a living environment.

Behind the love seat was a great hearth, like that in the hall of a medieval castle. Above the hearth was a painting of a medieval knight, sans helmet; to each side of the image were massive plaques that bore the coat of arms of the House of Guillaume, with crossed swords below each. To the left, a massive stone staircase went up to the second floor and to the right, a hallway leading to another region of the castle, presumably the kitchens. It was guarded by a pair of 1500s suits of armor, standing like sentinels. And yet it felt like a scene of modern—nineteenth-century modern, at least compared to the medieval background of the castle—bliss.

Near the couple, on a massive wooden table, a boy of about twelve and a girl of maybe eight engaged in a game of chess. On the floor, a smaller child played with a toy. The pigments used were striking—even in the print, which was a copy of the original. Crimsons were deep and used throughout; the castle was dark and shadowed but the shadows were tinged with the same crimson and offset by mauves and grays. The little girl’s clothing added a splash of blue. Just inside the giant doors to the far left in the painting, a silver-colored wolfhound barked as a proper butler opened the door to official-looking men about to make a call.

The allure of the courtly man and the beautiful woman first entranced the viewer. The scene was so lovely, so romantic.

The painting didn’t, at first glance, seem to fit the title chosen by the artist—
Ghosts in the Mind
.

But then, even as the viewer studied the beauty and serenity of the scene, his or her perception of it would begin to change. If he or she shifted to a slightly different angle, looked at the painting from a different perspective, the hidden details became evident.

Beneath her book, the woman held a dagger. While he offered a rose to the woman, the man concealed a pistol behind his back.

A closer look revealed that malevolent, cunning eyes gazed out from the helmets on the suits of armor, both of which stood on pedestals but with swords in their hands.

The chess pieces had faces, alive and screaming.

The child on the floor played with a guillotine. What had appeared to be roses strewn over rushes on the floor were dolls—and their decapitated heads.

“Danni! Danni Cafferty, how are you? And Wolf!”

Danielle Cafferty turned as Niles Villiers, owner of the Image Me This gallery, came toward her. Wolf, to her the world’s most impressive pet, was seated by her feet. He was about the size of a small freight train but Wolf and Niles knew each other and Niles didn’t so much as blink; well-behaved pets were welcome in his gallery.

And Wolf allowed himself to be petted and crooned to. He even thumped his tail for Niles.

“I love this dog, Danni,” Niles said. “But I thought he actually belonged to your friend, Quinn? Haven’t seen him around in a while.”

“He has business in Texas,” Danni explained. Niles looked at her a little sadly. “Too bad. I like that Quinn. Great guy. So the guy leaves you, but you get the dog?”

Danni started to protest; Quinn hadn’t left her. After the case involving the Renaissance bust and the cult that had nearly formed in the city—the case that had brought them together—they’d both been afraid they’d gotten too close too fast. As a result, they’d decided to move slowly.

Quinn had gone to Texas a month ago to help the force there. He’d done it before when asked by law enforcement friends—or friends of friends—in other places. Usually he was only gone a few days. This time it seemed he’d been gone forever. But he’d made a decision never to leave her without Wolf. There was no question; the dog would lay down his life for her.

“At least he’s an amazing dog!” Niles said.

“He sure is.”

Niles greeted her next with an encompassing hug. She accepted it warmly. Niles was not only a friend, he’d been kind and generous enough to let her show her own art at his gallery on Royal Street. Image Me This was just a block and a half down from her own antiques and curio store, The Cheshire Cat. “Thanks for coming today,” he said.

“You know me, Niles. List a gallery showing and I’ll be here.”

A waiter went by and Niles snagged two champagne flutes, giving one to her. “I did especially want you to come. You add an aura of the sleek and beautiful—of modern sophistication.”

Danni smiled at that. “Niles, you should’ve told me I was supposed to be sophisticated. I’d have worn something other than jeans.”

Niles waved a hand in the air. In a suit himself, he was extremely handsome, with his striking 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 suicide. The poor man couldn’t run to a doctor and get a prescription for an antidepressant. Yes, it’s a tragedy. Sadly, history is full of such tragedies. Shelley drowned in a lake and Byron was only in his thirties when he died. Mary Shelley lost three of her four children at very early ages—it was
all
very sad and tragic.”

Niles still didn’t seem convinced that anything was as sad as the death of an artist.

“So, did someone just license the painting for giclée reproduction?” she asked Niles.

“Like I was saying, the painting disappeared soon after Hubert died, reappeared in some kind of storage, in England, then ended up in a museum in France. It disappeared again during World War II.”

“This sounds familiar. Wasn’t it stolen by the Nazis?”

“Perfectly true!” Niles said excitedly. “It seems an old Nazi war criminal died in Brazil within the past year, and the painting was found wrapped and buried in a vault. The Brazilian government returned it to the French museum, but the museum’s having hard times and gratefully put it on the auction block. No one knows who purchased the original yet. These things can be so hush-hush and done through corporate names and all that. But the new owner authorized a gallery to make a copy, and from that copy, they were allowed to do a giclée limited edition of two thousand. And—” he lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a coconspirator “—there’s a rumor that the purchaser was from here—from NOLA! I was incredibly lucky. I scored a hundred of them for the gallery. I’ve already sold sixty-six.”

Danni studied the copy of the painting again. It was as interesting, as rich, as complex, as the human/monster tale about Dr. Frankenstein’s creation.

“Shall I save one for you?” Niles asked.

Danni wasn’t sure. On the one hand, the giclée of the painting
was
beautiful. It was also terribly dark and seemed to be a warning regarding human nature. Did a man smile and offer a rose while thinking of murder? Were children innocently playing, already on the way to cruelty and a callous disregard for life?