When she had done that, she headed on down the stairs that led to the “basement,” which was really at ground level and the foundation of the house. Her father’s private rooms were there; the rooms where he’d stored collectibles that would never be for sale, items that had been involved in bad things, that were supposedly—or really—cursed, along with those pieces he couldn’t bring himself to part with. Angus Cafferty had been fascinated by all things Egyptian, and also all things pertaining to medieval Europe and the Victorian era.
There were a number of boxes piled up along one wall; she knew the contents of some but not all. One of her favorite items among the collectibles was a full suit of armor that stood in one corner as if guarding the room and its contents. Against the opposite wall was an upright Victorian coffin. No one had ever been buried in it; it had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in the city. The funeral home today was a private residence. When she’d been little, she’d found the coffin scary, because it held a beautiful mannequin, painted to look asleep to show just how one’s loved one would look on display. Danni had always been terrified that the mannequin would suddenly open her eyes and look at her. Other oddities had also found a home there, including props and posters from a number of movies. It always amused her that one of her father’s favorites had been a giant, openmouthed stuffed gorilla from the classic but never-completed The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan. He’d also kept his private stash of Egyptian artifacts down here, including masks, a mummified cat, a mummified raven and a number of funerary art pieces.
To a child, the basement had been creepy.
Now she loved being down here. It was as if she could be closer to her father.
The most important object in the basement, however, was the book.
The giant old volume had a special place on her father’s antique desk, protected by a glass dome. Danni only took it out when she needed to peruse it and was careful to return it immediately as soon as she finished. Her dad’s swivel chair sat behind the desk, and she remembered how she’d liked to sit in it. She’d curled into it many a time when he’d been alive to read or do her homework, or to be with him while he cataloged his collection or made notes on particular pieces.
If it weren’t so special to her family, the book would have been worthy of the best antiquarian bookseller in the world. Though yellowed with age, the paper was heavy and intact, the edges of the pages gold-trimmed. The book was American, something that always filled her father with great pride, and had been written by a woman named Millicent Smith and printed in 1699 in Boston. It contained herbal cures for every ailment known at the time and read like a medicinal how-to for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but it also contained curious texts about deflecting curses, how to rid the world of an “evil essence still upon the earth” and other occult know-how. The information was couched very carefully; accused witches had been executed in Salem not long before its publication, and there were still rather dubious laws on the books in many states that would lead to further persecution in the decades to come. Danni knew that certain texts only became visible when read through specially colored lenses.
It was sometimes difficult to read because it wasn’t an actual occult book, and the chapters weren’t always arranged in ways that made sense to a modern reader. There was actually a chapter on musical instruments, but instead she found what she was looking for in a chapter called “Secrets of the Mind.”
“‘Music,’ wrote the dramatist William Congreve, ‘has powers to soothe a savage breast,’” Millicent’s text read. “And how incredibly true; at its worst it is strident and discordant and painful to the ears. It brings to mind war and heartache, death and disease. At its best, it prolongs life because of the happy status it creates in our hearts. And there is the core of the would-be musician. There is magic therein, but magic springs from the heart, from the longing of that which he would play or sing to bring forth the beauty that gently caresses the raw heart and opens the mind to all things.”
Danni flipped through more and more pages but could find nothing specifically on instruments, haunted or otherwise.
Yet, as she sat there, she mulled with a certain amount of amusement over how Tyler Anderson had been convinced that he had become a better player because he had Arnie’s sax. Was the music in the believing?
She didn’t know.
She wished she believed that she could play.
With that thought in mind, she called Quinn. He sounded winded when he answered the phone.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“On the street.”
“Doing what?”
“Walking.”
“Because...?”
“I’m on my way to the station. I dug out some bullets from a tree. They’re from the attack on the musicians the other night—gotta get ’em to Larue. They’re pretty smashed. I’d say our guy has a Glock 19, which is, unfortunately, one of the most popular handguns out there. And, of course, we’re in Louisiana—tons of permits and even more unlicensed guns. But still...”
“That’s the first real break of any kind, Quinn. That’s great,” Danni said.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “But why did you call?”