Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “What about distinguishing marks?” Portia said. “Monique had a broken finger, left index, an old softball injury. If the fingers are intact that should show, and Tara, I think, had an arm tattoo.” Portia scooted her chair closer to the computer monitor and her fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up her files on the missing girls. A second later, she was reading the information she’d gathered on Tara Atwater. “Yeah, here it is, a broken heart, but damn, the tattoo is on her right arm.”

  “What about the others?”

  “I’m looking.” Portia had already started searching all of the notes and documents she’d collected. “You’d think there would be something,” she said, anxious for a clue, any clue as to the girl’s identity. “I assume you’ve fingerprinted it.” She hitched her chin toward the picture of the severed arm.

  “Tried. But even if we get a decent print, there’s a chance the girls weren’t fingerprinted.”

  “A few of them had records, were busted for drugs…. Yeah, here we go…Dionne and Monique both were hauled in and charged after they were juveniles. Dionne has a love tattoo on her back with a hummingbird and flowers. Surely one of the girls had a distinguishing mark on the left hand….” But there was nothing obvious in her data.

  “I thought I told you to leave this case alone,” Del Vernon said as she closed one of her files.

  “It’s a good thing for both of us I ignored you.”

  He actually flashed a smile. Del Vernon of the ever-grim, studious countenance and tight butt, rained a quick but sexy grin on her for a second. “It’s never a good idea to ignore me. This time, you were right and I was wrong. You might want to mark this date with red letters because I seriously doubt it’ll ever happen again.”

  Uh-huh, Portia thought, as she watched him saunter away.

  Ariel? Was it really Ariel’s face she’d seen, looking so scared. And what was she doing inside Wagner House?

  Putting her own misgivings aside, Kristi hurried up the steps at the back of Wagner House and tried the door. It clicked open under her hand. It wasn’t locked. Amazed, she stepped inside the darkened kitchen and her heart began to pound. She saw the door to the basement and knew this was her chance. No one knew she was inside.

  Yet.

  Tiptoeing quietly to the basement door, she reached for the knob.

  Too late. The door swung open in front of her. She snatched her hand back as Father Mathias stepped into the kitchen.

  “Oh!” he whispered, startled. Then, focusing on Kristi, he scowled harshly. “You again. Didn’t I just tell you the museum wasn’t open?”

  “Yes, but my glasses—”

  “I’ve already looked in the lost and found. They weren’t there.” Obviously irritated, he closed the door tightly shut behind him. “Now, really, you have to leave.”

  “Father?” A female voice. The same voice she’d heard through the window. “What’s going on?” Wrapped in a black coat trimmed in dark fur, a tall regal-looking woman strode swiftly into the kitchen. Deep-set eyes glared down an aquiline nose. “Who are you?” she asked, then before Kristi could answer, followed up with, “And what are you doing here?”

  “She claims she lost her glasses on the last tour.”

  One of the woman’s eyebrows lifted in superior disbelief. “When?”

  Kristi had the lie ready. “Last weekend. I came by with friends.”

  “Really?” Her smirk revealed her skepticism. “Well, the staff will certainly look for them. Come back when the docent is on duty.”

  “I really need them for work.” Kristi stood her ground. “Today.”

  “Yes, yes, so you said, but I told you the house is closed,” Father Mathias insisted.

  “So you’re not the docent?” Kristi ventured. She didn’t like this woman, with her perfect complexion and officious attitude, but she wanted to know more about her.

  “Of course not,” the woman said. “That’s Marilyn Katcher!”

  Kristi pushed. “So why are you here? For a place that’s closed to visitors, there seems to be a lot of people running around.”

  “I’m Georgia Clovis,” she bit out. “Georgia Wagner Clovis.” She said it as if it were supposed to mean something to Kristi.

  Mathias, like a puppet on a string, said quickly, “Mrs. Clovis is a descendant of Ludwig Wagner and—”

  “Direct descendant,” she corrected frostily, her red lips turned down at the corners.

  “Direct descendant of the man who so graciously donated this house and property to the archdiocese to establish the university.”

  Kristi gave Georgia a bland “So what?” look.

  “Mrs. Clovis, along with her brother and sister, still sit on the board of Wagner House. Very important to All Saints. Now, if you’ll come back when Mrs. Katcher is here…”

  “Someone’s upstairs,” Kristi said, just to gauge their reaction. She’d come this far, might as well go for broke. She didn’t think she would get another chance and she wasn’t frightened of either of these two people. Father Mathias was often brooding, but he seemed like a weak man. Georgia Clovis, tall, slim, her dark hair twisted onto her head, tried her best to be intimidating—and wasn’t half bad at it—but Kristi wasn’t about to be cowed.

  “No one else is in the house,” Georgia said through her teeth. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “I saw someone in the window. That’s why I came inside. It was a girl, er, woman, and she looked scared out of her mind.”

  “Impossible.” She shook her head, but the perfect facade cracked just a bit. “You imagined it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “A play of light,” Mathias put in, shooting a look at Georgia.

  “One way to find out.” Without waiting for any kind of permission, Kristi headed through the dining room and up the stairs.

  “Wait a minute. You can’t go up there!” Georgia called after her, high heels clicking across the hardwood floors. “Wait!” To the priest, she added shrilly, “What does she think she’s doing?”

  Kristi didn’t waste any time. She raced to the third floor and once there, dashed to the door of the room that overlooked the backyard, the one where she was certain she’d seen Ariel, or someone, standing near the watery panes of glass.

  Father Mathias’s heavier tread was climbing the stairs. “Miss…please…you aren’t allowed…”

  Kristi twisted the knob and the door swung open to an empty room. The one that held the Victorian dollhouse. No one was inside, but the dollhouse, which had been closed, was now open, the perfectly furnished rooms on display.

  “Hello?” Kristi called, her voice disturbing dust motes but nothing else. She checked the closet, just to be sure.

  Empty.

  But near the window overlooking the back porch hung a black cloak with a white bag above it, both facing the window…as it had the night before when she’d searched the house.

  Had she been mistaken?

  Thought she’d seen a face when it was just this cloak and bag?

  “Satisfied?” Georgia demanded, entering with Father Mathias on her heels, her pale skin flushed from the exertion of the rapid climb. “No one hiding in the corners? No ‘scared out of her mind’ girl?” She was shaking her head. “I know the stories that run rampant about the house and yes, in the early 1930s a person was killed here, the murder never solved. I also know about the group of ‘Goth’ kids who hang out around here, fascinated by the architecture and history of the house, but it really is just a museum, filled with very personal and valuable artifacts. Therefore we can’t have anyone, including you, running wildly through it. If you really did lose your glasses, which I suspect is a total fabrication, please return when Mrs. Katcher is on duty and she can help you.”

  “Last night, a girl walked into the house,” Kristi insisted. “I saw her. Followed her. She came inside and…disappeared. Maybe…into the basement?”

  “Another girl? Or the same scared one?”

  “Different.
”

  Georgia snorted contemptuously. “The basement? Why?”

  “I thought you could tell me.”

  “It’s only used for storage.”

  Father Mathias hovered in the doorway, almost as if he were afraid to enter. “I was just in the basement and it’s not empty,” he said to Georgia. “I found evidence of rats. I think we should call an exterminator, but other than old furniture and crates, boxes, there’s nothing downstairs.” Reaching into a deep pocket within his alb, he found a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

  “Yes, call someone to take care of the problem.” Georgia was dismissive. “As for you…” She glared at Kristi. “Who are you?”

  Kristi thought about lying but it was too easily checked. “Kristi Bentz. I’m a student here.”

  “Well, Kristi, if you really did come into the house last night, you were trespassing,” Georgia said, her lips pursed at the corners. “If we find anything missing, believe me, we’ll contact the police and your name will come up.”

  “Don’t you have security cameras?” Kristi asked. “You know, with all your valuable things, I’d guess you’d have some kind of security system in place. Check the tape.”

  “Until now, we haven’t had to have one,” Father Mathias said coolly.

  Georgia sniffed. “Obviously it’s something we need discuss at the next board meeting. Now, Miss Bentz, it’s time you left.”

  “I’ll escort you outside,” the priest offered. “I’m already running late. It’s past time to get ready for mass.”

  There wasn’t any point in arguing and Kristi, too, needed to leave.

  As Father Mathias ushered her out, including opening the door for her, Georgia Clovis followed, her coat billowing around her as she headed toward a sleek black Mercedes.

  Kristi had thought about mentioning Marnie Gage’s name but had decided to keep it to herself for the time being. Maybe she could talk to Marnie. Not interrogate her, but cozy up to her, befriend her, although so far the plan of permeating what appeared to be the inner circle of the vampire “cult” hadn’t worked. Not only Ariel, but now Lucretia, was avoiding her like the plague.

  The chapel bells chimed, breaking into her thoughts, as the priest hurried down the steps to unlock the gate and hold it open. “Be careful,” he said under his breath, so low she almost didn’t hear the words. “God be with you.”

  She turned, but he was already hurrying toward the church and she didn’t have any time to chase after him. Strapping on her helmet, Kristi swung onto her bike, picking up speed and clicking through the gears as the cold rain began to fall more steadily, bouncing on the pavement and running beneath the collar of her jacket. Father Mathias’s warning echoed in her mind as she headed for the diner. Her tires hummed across the cement and brick walkways, cutting through puddles beginning to form. She skirted the library, then sped across a parking lot before catching a main street and riding the six blocks to the back lot of the restaurant.

  What was the priest trying to tell her? Obviously to back off. But there was more, she knew, secrets he wasn’t about to share.

  Her heart was beating like crazy as she swung off the bike and locked it against a post. Tearing off her helmet and wiping the rain from her face, she headed inside—and straight into the heart of chaos. The Bard’s Board was filled with the brunch crowd, people standing and waiting for tables, the line cooks working like mad, the wait staff searching for orders and hurrying through tables, the bus people clearing tables as soon as they were vacated.

  One of the ovens had given up the ghost the night before and one of the fry cooks, who considered himself a handyman, was trying to fix it. He was on his knees, head inside, his big size-thirteen feet sticking in the small galley so that everyone had to step over him.

  Kristi whipped on her apron, washed her hands, and grabbed her notepad. She didn’t have time to think about what had happened at Wagner House.

  “Thank God you’re here!” Ezma breezed by with a tray of water glasses. “The new people can’t keep up.”

  “I thought I was one of the new people.”

  “I’m talking about Frick and Frack,” Ezma said under her breath. “They’re useless.” She slid a glance at two waiters. One, Frick, was a tall thin boy who looked no older than sixteen and was really named Finn. Frack was a girl somewhere around twenty with rosy cheeks, springy brown curls, and curves she didn’t bother to conceal. Her real name was Francesca, but it didn’t seem to fit. Even during this mad rush, Frick-Finn was taking time to flirt with her and Frack-Francesca was eating it up, ignoring her tables.

  Kristi scanned the specials. “This is it?” she asked, noting that some of the more popular items, shrimp crepes, crab cakes, and crawfish etouffee had been erased from the chalkboard, the faint outline of their Shakespearean names still visible.

  “With the oven on the fritz we’re down to a lot of the stuff that was made earlier or can be sauteed. Push the jambalaya and catfish fritters.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I get a clean table?” the harried hostess asked of the kitchen staff. She was standing a few steps from the front desk and door where patrons were clustered, waiting. “What about thirteen? Or eleven? I’ve got people who’ve been waiting out front for a half hour!”

  “I’m on it.” Miguel, one of the busboys, hurried past and was picking up dirty plates, glasses, and flatware before Kristi finished tying her apron.

  Francesca looked up, spied Kristi, and immediately went into complaint mode. “It’s about time you showed up,” she chastised, breaking up her tête-à-tête with Finn. “It’s been a nightmare this morning, let me tell you,” she said, as Finn, with a quick look over his shoulder, turned back to the tables in his section of the restaurant.

  Francesca’s cheeks were flushed as she untied her apron, further showing the area of her blouse where the fabric gapped, offering a peek at her lacy bra and cleavage. “People with kids, and I mean young kids, babies, and the tips have been miserable. Just awful. I should have stayed home and called in sick.” She stuffed her dirty apron in the laundry basket and reached for her jacket.

  Waa, waa, waa, Kristi thought, wondering if the lousy tips had anything to do with the girl’s obvious lack of interest in her job.

  Unfortunately Ezma and Francesca’s evaluation of the situation was spot on. With one oven disabled and a cook out of commission as he tried to fix it, the finished orders were slow to reach the window where the waiters were to pick them up.

  Worse yet, in Kristi’s section, she saw familiar faces. Dr. Croft, the head of the English Department, had just been seated along with Dr. Emmerson, her Shakespeare 201 instructor with the biker dude persona. Today, though, he’d shaved, his usual T-shirt given up in favor of a gray sweater, his hair still a carefully planned mess. The third member of the group was Dr. Hollister, Jay’s boss, head of the fledgling Criminal Justice Department.

  A toxic trio, Kristi thought as she greeted them, handed out menus, and smiling, rattled off the specials that still remained. “…and if you’re interested in jambalaya, I hear it’s wonderful today.”

  “Is it hot?” Dr. Emmerson asked, his eyebrows lifting, almost flirting. “Spicy?”

  “No more than usual, but yes, I think it’s got a little kick to it.”

  “Just the way I like it.”

  “Down boy,” Natalie Croft said, her lips twitching a bit.

  Yuck, Kristi thought. But at least it drove out all thoughts that she was way behind in his class, and she had several assignments that she hadn’t yet read.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Mmm. I’ll have sweet tea,” Dr. Croft said. She was a tall woman, with porcelain skin, dark hair, with just the beginnings of crows feet showing in the corners of her eyes. Her nose was patrician, her demeanor a little standoffish.

  “Coffee for me,” Dr. Hollister said, slipping a pair of rimless reading glasses onto her nose as she studied the menu, tucking a wayward strand of
black hair behind her ear.

  “Yeah, me too, the coffee. Black.” Dr. Emmerson looked up at her and a spark of recognition touched his face. “You’re a student of mine, aren’t you?”

  Kristi nodded. That was the trouble with this damned job, located as it was, so close to campus.

  He snapped his fingers. “Shakespeare, right? Two-oone?”

  “That’s right.”

  Kristi didn’t want to get into a discussion here in the middle of rush hour at the restaurant, but she didn’t have to worry as Dr. Hollister inadvertently came to the rescue. “Oh, I’d like cream with my coffee. No, make it skim milk, is that possible?” She gazed questioningly at Kristi over the tops of the half-glasses perched on her nose.

  “Not a problem. I’ll be right back with it.”

  “Miss!” a petulant man’s voice called from a table in the next section. “We’ve been waiting here for ten minutes and would like to order. Can you help us?”

  Kristi nodded. “I’ll get your server.”

  “Can’t you just take the order?” he asked, checking his watch. He was seated with a grumpy-looking heavyset woman and two preteen kids who were already beginning to fiddle and slap at each other.

  “Stop that!” the woman said sharply.

  The older kid ignored her and stuck his tongue out at his sister. She shrieked as if he’d slapped her.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Marge, control them, will you?” the man insisted as Kristi flipped the page of her notepad.

  “Sure, I can take your order,” Kristi said to stem the tide of pandemonium that was about to erupt amongst this happy little family. “What would you like?”

  “Strawberry waffles!” the girl yelled. “With whipped cream.”

  “It has a different name. It’s called—” her mother said.

  “That’s okay, I’ve got it.” Kristi managed a smile as she hurriedly finished taking the order. In the kitchen Finn was nursing a cola and looking as if he’d just run a marathon. “No time to rest,” she warned him, tearing off the page for his table. “Take care of this. Table seven. And you’d better not mess around. The natives are getting restless.”