Father John Ryan was standing at the front door of the rectory, almost as if he was waiting for someone, when Danni drove up and parked on the street. He didn’t seem surprised when she and Wolf got out of her car and approached him.
“You knew I was coming,” she said.
“I did.”
Danni offered him a curious half grin. “You speak with the Almighty?”
“I do.”
“Oh?”
He smiled ruefully. “I speak with Him the same as you and every other man and woman out there, Danni. Actually, I knew you were coming for a far more mundane reason—Natasha called me.”
“Ah! But I didn’t tell her I was going to see you.”
“That’s where instinct kicks in,” Father Ryan told her. “But I had a feeling you or Quinn would be by soon enough. I heard about the massacre this morning.”
“I believe the police are looking into Garcia’s financials and other records,” Danni said. “It’s the type of thing that could happen if a big drug deal went wrong.”
Father Ryan shook his head fiercely. “There was no drug deal gone wrong, Danni. I’m sure of that.”
“How?”
“You and Wolf come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“You know something?”
“Let’s have tea, shall we?”
Father Ryan didn’t want to be rushed. She and Wolf followed him into the rectory kitchen. First, Wolf got treats; Father Ryan kept them on hand just for him. Then, he put the kettle on and took his time setting out cups. Only when the tea was brewed and they sat down to drink it did he start talking. “James and Andrea Garcia were my parishioners. I’ve already been called in by social services—I’m helping place the children with relatives. This is a terrible blow. There are three children left behind—a ten-year-old, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. The two older kids were James and Andrea’s and the youngest was the aunt’s little girl. Luckily, Andrea has another sister and brother in the city and they’re doing their best to comfort and care for the children, but...well, the only good thing about the situation is that the children weren’t there.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you knew these people,” Danni murmured.
Father Ryan nodded. “There was no drug deal,” he said again. “And don’t tell me we don’t know what people are really like. James Garcia was a hardworking man. He was with the same company for years. He made deliveries for one of the most trusted services in our city and there was never a single complaint against him. His wife took care of her family—her parents lived with them—and neither Andrea nor James ever minded any burden put upon them. That family did nothing wrong.”
“The police are investigating. It won’t ease things for the children, but hopefully justice will be done.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Ryan demanded, looking her hard in the eyes.
“What can I do? There’s no indication that an object might be involved, not like the Pietro Miro case, Father.” Before Father Ryan could protest, she continued. “Quinn just got back last night. He was called to the scene this morning. But that’s why I’m here. Can you come to dinner at my place around seven tonight? Quinn wants all of us there to discuss what happened.”
”Yes, of course,” he said. “I promise you this isn’t a random murder. Nor is James Garcia part of it. Something isn’t right here—aside from the obvious, I mean. James Garcia was a good man who spent his life hauling packages and received commendations from his employer. His wife was a model of virtue. And the parents...hard workers, retired, enjoying their last years with the grandkids. The old man didn’t have much time left as it was—cancer. They’d given him six months.”
“I’m so sorry, Father Ryan,” Danni said again.
He drummed his fingers absently on the table. “What I’m afraid of is that we all may wind up much sorrier. Danni, we have to find out what the hell is going on here.”
* * *
“Dr. Hubert is a descendant of the Hubert who painted the original of the giclée at your friend’s gallery,” Quinn told Danni, setting plates on the table. The meal Billie had prepared, his version of the classic jambalaya, simmered on the stove.
She stopped patting dry the lettuce she’d just washed and looked over at him. They’d decided to get dinner ready and wait until Natasha and Father Ryan arrived to discuss the situation, so she was surprised that he’d brought up the painting. She’d reported that Father Ryan had known the Garcia family well and that he strenuously denied they could’ve been doing anything illegal. And Quinn had said only that the autopsy reports had yielded nothing they didn’t already know.
“A direct descendant,” he added.
“Really? How interesting.”
He nodded pensively and didn’t say any more.
“You okay?” she asked him.
He gazed at her for a long moment, then smiled, and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her. “I’m going to be more okay later on,” he whispered huskily.
They were pressed tightly together. It suddenly felt like months rather than weeks since they’d stood this way. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the strength of his muscles. Memory reflexes were going to kick in hard any minute. The urge to do far more than stand together was almost overwhelming.
They looked into each other’s eyes and backed away at the same time. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry.” He might have intended to keep his thoughts to himself a while longer, but touching her had obviously changed that.
“We should have scheduled this for...any time other than now!” Danni said.
He grinned but then grew serious again. “I don’t think we could have.”
Even as he spoke, Danni heard someone at the courtyard’s side entrance. Excusing herself, she went to open the back door. Father Ryan had arrived. She tried to push away her visions of Quinn, naked, as she greeted the priest, but she could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She had to curb her thoughts about Quinn for the moment.
“Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”
“Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.
Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.
She liked his view of the world.
“We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.
And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.
“Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”
“Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t