The Dead Play On Read Online Free PDF Page B

rose.
    They left the house and walked down to the street together, ready to head to the hospital in their separate cars.
    “I think the old bird likes you best,” Larue told Quinn.
    “You acted as if she were senile. Telling her not to shoot the mailman.”
    “She’s eighty-eight!”
    “And Bob Hope was still performing for our troops at that age,” Quinn reminded him.
    Jake nodded thoughtfully. “It’s all good. I’m glad she likes you. You can talk to her once we figure out which of the city’s musicians she might have been talking about. But then, you were good with that charming old battle-ax from Hubert’s case, and that god-awful painting-society matron, Hattie Lamont,” Larue said.
    “Not as good as Billie,” Quinn said, smiling.
    “They’re seeing each other?”
    “Oh, yes. They fight like a pair of alley cats sometimes, but they can’t stay away from one another,” Quinn said.
    “And Danni?”
    “Danni is great,” Quinn said softly. They’d agreed to take things slowly, which was almost a necessity, given that he was often asked to consult on cases outside Louisiana. But that was something else they shared. They both believed strongly that working to solve strange crimes was an integral part of who they were.
    But he loved being back in town, loved being with her. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, five-nine, slim and agile, her every move graceful. Her eyes reminded him of the blue sky on a clear Scottish morning, and her hair was a rich deep auburn. She was deeply compassionate and possessed old Angus’s steely courage and determination—and she was just as stubborn as her father, too.
    “She’s expecting you tonight,” he told Larue.
    “Yeah, well, I was just coming over with the files on the first case—wanted to see what you thought or what you might know, since you sit in at the clubs sometimes. But then...then we found Lawrence Barrett.” He fell silent.
    Quinn turned. The body of Lawrence Barrett was just being carried out.
    Ron Hubert nodded to them. “I’ll get you a report as soon as possible,” he promised.
    “Two in a week?” Quinn asked. “We’d better get over to the hospital and hope that Lacey Cavanaugh knows something we can use.”
    * * *
    “Arnie wasn’t messed up,” Tyler told Danni. “Not like that.”
    The saxophone was in its case now, and leaning against the counter. She was glad that the shop was empty, because Tyler seemed too upset to care where they were or what was going on.
    “Let’s say you’re right. That someone murdered Arnie. Can you think of any reason why?” she asked him.
    “That’s the problem,” Tyler said. He leaned an elbow on the counter and looked reflectively into the distance as he spoke. “We’re talking about a good man here. A black man from a poor neighborhood who went to church every week, loved his family, never stole so much as a dime from anyone and did nothing but love his music. He did the right thing—he up and joined the military because he believed we had to support our way of life. When he came home on leave, he did nothing but hug people and play his music. He didn’t talk much about what he’d done, just said that war was ugly, there were good people who were the enemy and some jerks who were on the same side. He believed he made a difference—he got to see schools being built, and people from both sides coming together to dig wells and feed starving kids. And enemy or not, he said it was hard as hell to kill a man. He survived bombs and gunfire and...came home to this. And I knew his death wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t right from the get-go. He was happy ever since he got home—he came home to his music! His family loved him. They’re good people. They never had much, but what they didn’t have in money, they made up in support. And he never did drugs, not before he went overseas or after he came home. There was no reason for him to walk offstage one night and decide to suddenly stick a