“Come on, Erin.” Gabriel nudged her with his elbow. “Ms. Young has graciously agreed to let us see the gatehouse.” When Erin frowned, he explained, “Where Mr. Johnson resided.”

A guided tour of the home of a possible victim? “Coming.”

Gabriel walked beside the docent and thought of the puzzle that was Erin. Partnership frightened her, he realized. What he didn’t know was the origin of that fear. They wound through the exhibits, where Bantu ritual masks mingled with twentieth-century paintings. He remembered coming to the museum as a child, pulling Gennie along as they trailed behind their parents. A memory of an older gentleman with shocking white hair and a patient smile surfaced. “Lynnette, how long had Mr. Johnson been the docent here?”

“He became docent in 1982. Trained me when I was a student at Xavier. We all miss him terribly.”

Erin caught up with the pair. “Had he worked here before then?”

Lynnette shook her head, smiling sadly. “No, though it seems like it. Mr. Johnson loved to talk about his adventures. He served in the army during World War Two and came back to New Orleans. Put himself through Burkeen on the GI Bill. Before he became chief docent, though, he was proudest of integrating the elevator operators’ union in New Orleans in the 1950s.”

Erin felt her pulse trip. “He was an elevator operator?”

“To pay for school. He worked at the Grammercy Hotel in the Quarter.”

Gabriel glanced at Erin. He could see her mind working. The trio emerged into the sunlight, and Lynnette led them to the small carriage house behind the museum.

“Juan lived on the grounds of the museum for decades. Said it made it easier to get to work.” The air was stale, the interior gloomy, when she unlocked the door. Lynnette flicked on a light and backed away from the entrance. “I haven’t had the heart to clean it out. I can’t even go inside.” She touched Gabriel’s arm. “You’ll help find the person who did this to him, won’t you?”

Gabriel patted her hand reassuringly. “Yes, ma’am. I promise.” Looking at Erin, he corrected himself. “We promise.”

Satisfied, Lynnette left them, after they agreed to secure the door and return the key. Erin poked her head inside, then entered. The house was small, the only bedroom with the door ajar. They stood in the living room, where he’d decorated the space with more art. Erin wandered over to a corner near the kitchen. A half-finished sculpture stood on a pedestal that rested on a drop cloth. Work tools gathered dust on a table nearby.

“He was an artist.”

On her heels, Gabriel whispered, “Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?”

Erin turned and put distance between them. “The police found a chisel at the scene. The type of chisel they found is probably an ébauchoir.”

“To rough-hew sculpture.”