Or someone who looked so much like her it stole the breath from his lungs.
Of course she hadn’t been out there; he’d checked the spot where she’d stood between the two bleached cypress trees. There had been no footprints on the ground, no bit of trace evidence left to indicate anyone had recently been in the spot where he would’ve sworn on his daughter’s life he’d seen his first damned wife. Ex-wife. They hadn’t been married at the time of her death.
If she’d really been killed in that freak accident.
Bentz had always thought the “accident” had been Jennifer’s way of escape. A suicide, though it was a damned messy way to take care of things.
He figured she’d felt so guilty not so much about cheating on him—more than once—but because she’d been caught in bed with another man. Bentz’s own half brother. Even now, years later, he still felt the rage that had ripped through him as much from the sting of her infidelity as the fact that he’d been stupid enough to trust her again.
So she’d taken herself out, left him to raise their daughter alone. She’d even written a suicide note, explaining her actions, her guilt.
At the time Bentz had been certain that the woman behind the wheel of the battered van had been Jennifer, and he’d buried her as such. There had been no DNA tests, no blood taken. Just his word that his wife was the driver.
Now, as he stared at that area at the edge of the swampland where he’d witnessed his latest “Jennifer sighting,” he felt a little tickle upon the back of his neck, as if someone were silently observing him. He turned quickly, teetering slightly, his eyes trained on the windows of his home.
Nothing.
No one was watching him from inside the house.
Or standing behind a magnolia tree outside peering at him.
He let out his breath slowly.
Ignored the sense of panic that gripped him.
For the love of God, Bentz, pull yourself together!
Was he going completely around the bend?
He knew he’d seen Jennifer, not just a few weeks earlier in this very spot and at the hospital, but other times as well. Once when he was sitting in the front seat of Olivia’s truck, waiting while she was taking in the dry cleaning, he’d been certain he had caught a glimpse of her. There was Jennifer, handbag clutched to her chest, hair scraped back in a ponytail, hurriedly crossing the street and disappearing into an alley. He’d gotten out of the truck, hobbled to the entrance of the alley, but had only spied a white cat slinking through a rotted fence while trash cans stood overflowing behind an old garage.
Another time he’d been sure he’d seen her strolling through a park, walking slowly around a fountain as sunlight caught in her hair, firing up the dark strands to a rich auburn. She had turned and looked over her shoulder and a slow, steady smile had stretched across her lips.
Her eyes had twinkled with a catch-me-if-you-can dare. He’d stopped his Jeep, double-parked and, using his cane, followed after her past the fountain only to find that she’d once again vanished.
Then there had been the incident in the woods near his house.
She’d seemed so real.
He was cracking up. That was it. Or hallucinating from the drugs he’d been prescribed. Trouble was, he’d kicked those damned painkillers a month ago.
Long before he’d seen Jennifer standing just off the edge of his veranda.
Or her ghost.
No way.
He didn’t believe in ghosts or anything the least bit supernatural or paranormal. He’d even had trouble swallowing his wife’s visions at the time a serial killer known as The Chosen One had terrorized New Orleans.
Yet he was certain that he’d seen her.
Really? Then she hadn’t aged much in the last twelve years, right? What’s up with that? Come on, Bentz, face it, you’re losing it.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered under his breath, then took a long swallow before tossing the dregs of his cup into a flowerbed filled with flowers in shades of periwinkle and deep purple.
He was tired of thinking about Jennifer, sick of wondering why his subconscious was so determined to dredge her up again. He’d tried to ignore her. Told himself that he must’ve just caught glimpses of a woman who resembled her, that because he’d thought he’d seen her during the day, his dreams at night had been haunted by her.
But that didn’t explain catching sight of her in the woods the other day. Not running into an alley or strolling through a park, but here, alone with him in his own backyard. The times he’d caught glimpses of her in public places might have been brushes with someone who looked similar, but the two times he’d seen her alone at the hospital and in the yard had been different—not a play of sunlight and shadow, not easily dismissed.
Was the woman who had been standing in his backyard a figment of his imagination? A product of wishful thinking? Misfiring synapses from an injured brain?
Who knew?
“Get over it.”
Whistling to the dog, he walked inside, showered, shaved, and, spying the exercise equipment in the den, promised himself he’d work out in the afternoon. Today he intended to drive into the city, to plead his case with Jaskiel again, get out of the ever-shrinking rooms of this cozy little cottage.
He brought his cane.
Melinda Jaskiel had asked for six more weeks and half that time had slowly passed. He didn’t think he could wait any longer. He was on his way to try to convince his boss that he was ready to work, at least part-time, but just as he was climbing into his Jeep, ignoring the pain in his leg, his cell phone beeped.
Caller ID said it was Montoya’s personal cell.
“Hey,” he said into the phone.
“Back atcha. You got a minute?”
Bentz waited a beat. No doubt his once-upon-a-time partner was being a wiseass. “Just one,” he said dryly.
“Can you meet me in…say…an hour?” No joking now. Montoya was dead serious.
“At the station.”
“No. How about the Cat’s Meow?”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Good.” Montoya clicked off and Bentz was left with a gnawing in his gut. Something was up. Was there a rumor circulating that Bentz was going to be forced into retirement? “Shit,” he said and switched on the ignition.
The thought of turning in his badge soured his stomach. He wasn’t ready for retirement, damn it, and he didn’t see himself as a P.I. He threw his SUV into reverse, did a quick turn, and drove down the lane to the county road, where he stepped on it and headed to New Orleans and whatever bad news Montoya had to offer.
The Cat’s Meow was a bar off Bourbon Street that, after the hurricane, had been restored to its original lack of splendor. The brick walls, even newly scrubbed, looked as if they might crumble. Wood floors, though refinished, had the patina that comes with overuse and age. Surrealistic pictures of jazz singers hanging over the bar had been retouched to appear as if they’d collected decades’ worth of smoke. The end one, of Ella Fitzgerald, was still hung crookedly, as if the owner of the bar prided himself in all things in the world being imperfect.
The air conditioner wheezed loudly, ceiling fans slowly rotated, and smoke drifted upward from tables where groups of patrons huddled over their drinks.
Montoya was waiting for him in a booth with a cup of coffee sitting neglected in front of him. He gave Bentz the once-over as