Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  “What is the address?”

  Lucia rattled off the street address and, when asked, her name and the phone number.

  “What kind of an accident?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe … maybe she was strangled. All I really know is that she’s dead, and the mother superior is with her now.”

  “A homicide.”

  “Oh, I don’t know! We need help. Please, please send help!”

  “We are. Officers have been dispatched. You need to stay on the line.”

  “I can’t … I have to tell Father Paul.”

  “Please, Miss Costa, do not hang up. Stay on the line—”

  Ignoring the dispatcher, Lucia dropped the phone, letting it dangle as she took off at a full run through the back door of the office, one only Sister Charity used.

  Lucia’s heart was a drum as she sprinted through the dark hallways with their gleaming floors, down the stairs, and out the double doors to a courtyard. As if Lucifer himself were chasing her, she raced through the rain-splattered cloister and past a fountain. Wind scuttled across the flagstones, kicking up wet leaves and tugging at the sodden hem of her nightgown.

  She couldn’t tell anyone about how she was awakened so abruptly in the middle of the night. What would she say? Anyone who heard about the voice that directed her, the beast she’d somehow unleashed, would think she was certifiable. As she did herself. She figured that voice in her head was between her and God. No one else. Not even Father Paul or Father Frank. They might think she was possessed by a demon, and maybe she was, but she just didn’t want any attention drawn to her.

  It’s not about you! Camille is dead! Dead! Someone killed her and left her lifeless body in the chapel.

  And somehow the voice knew. And awoke her.

  Oh, it was all so disturbing.

  Through another door and under a dripping portico, she flew to Father Paul’s door, where she pounded desperately.

  “Father!” she cried, shivering in the pale glow of the priest’s porch light. “Please! Father! There’s been … an accident!”

  Over the drip of rain, she heard footsteps behind her, the scrape of leather against wet stones. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the shadows, a dark figure emerging through a garden gate. She gasped, stepped back, and nearly tripped on her own hem as a large man appeared, his face white and stern, his eyes sunken and shadowed in the night.

  “Father Frank,” she whispered, recognizing the younger priest. She had clasped her hand over her breasts and suddenly realized that the cool rain had soaked her cotton nightgown, which now pressed flush against her skin. The fabric clung to her body, hiding nothing in the watery light. “There’s been an accident or … or …” She swallowed hard, aware of the secrets that Sister Camille had shared. Secrets about this tall man standing before her. “It’s Sister Camille, in the chapel… . She … she …” And then she saw the blood leeching from his cassock, running in red rivulets onto the smooth, shimmering stones of the pathway.

  “She’s dead,” he said, his rough voice barely audible over the gurgle of rainwater in the gutters, his gaze tortured. “And it’s my fault. God forgive me, it’s all my fault.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Still up?” Freya’s voice cut into her fantasy.

  “Always.” Val tried to ignore the worries about Camille. She tossed the tea bag into the sink and glanced over her shoulder toward the archway leading to the main house. When they’d bought this old inn, Val had been attracted to the small living space of the carriage house, while Freya took over the private quarters just off the main kitchen. Freya, all tousled reddish curls and freckles, appeared in shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She was cradling a cup with whipped cream piled so high it was frothing and running over the lip of her mug. Somehow, Freya managed to lick up the drip before it landed on the cracked linoleum.

  Freya was five-three and still had the honed body of the gymnast she’d been in high school and the metabolism of a girl twenty years her junior.

  “You look like hell,” Freya observed.

  “Thanks.”

  “Really, you should try to sleep.”

  If only. She turned and leaned her hips against the counter. “Insomniacs R Us.” The inability to sleep was something she and Freya shared in common.

  Freya toasted her friend. “Mine is decaf. Though it doesn’t mean I’ll actually fall asleep anytime soon.”

  “I’ve got decaf, too. Something called ‘Calm.’ “ Val took an experimental sip. Hot water tasting of ginger and chamomile singed the tip of her tongue. “It’s supposed to help you chill… . Wait a minute, let me see what exactly it’s guaranteed to do.” She picked up the empty box and read the label. “Oh, yeah, here it is. ‘Calm’s unique formula is guaranteed to ease the worries and cares of the world away with each flavorful swallow. With hints of ginger and jasmine, this chamomile blend will relax and soothe you.’ ”

  “Sure,” Freya mocked, wrinkling her nose. “Soothe you? No way. Anyway, it sounds disgusting.”

  “No, just boring to fans of triple-caramel-chocolate-macchiatos with Red Bull chasers.”

  “Very funny.” Freya couldn’t help but grin as she climbed onto one of the two café chairs near Val’s bistro table.

  A friend since eighth grade, Freya Martin had convinced Val to invest in this eight-bedroom bed-and-breakfast inn in the Garden District, a few blocks off St. Charles Avenue. Named the Briarstone House, the old Georgian had been minimally damaged during Hurricane Katrina, but the owners, Freya’s great-aunt and uncle, had decided they weren’t about to weather any more Category 5 storms. Actually, they didn’t want to see any Category 1, 2, 3, or 4 storms either.

  Auntie and Uncle had wanted out of the Gulf Coast, and fast.

  Freya had wanted in.

  She’d bought out Uncle Blair and Aunt Susie on a contract. Leaving most of the furnishings, they filled an RV and drove west, into the sunset, searching for a dry climate, new snowbird friends, and endless nights of card games and martinis.

  To Val, right now, her nerves on perpetual edge, that sounded like heaven.

  Valerie had been at a crossroads in her own life when Freya had asked her to become her partner. It hadn’t taken much to convince her that an investment in a creaking old Georgian manor—rumored to be haunted, no less—was the best idea in the universe. Especially since the inn was barely a mile as the crow flies from Camille and St. Marguerite’s.

  Since Freya and her live-in boyfriend had recently parted ways, Freya had decided she needed a business partner. She’d e-mailed Val with the details, and Val jumped on the opportunity.

  A deal was struck.

  The rest, as they say, was history.

  Some of it bad history.

  And now, with the gurgle of rain running through the gutters and the church bells now silent, Val wondered if she’d made the right decision. Again. And the eerie feeling that had been with her earlier still remained. Mentally shaking it off, she glanced at the window but, of course, couldn’t see the church spire in the dark.

  “Okay, spill it. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Freya asked, eyebrows puckering. “Wait a minute, forget I asked. Something’s always wrong. Let me guess—it’s Slade.”

  “It’s not Slade,” she said emphatically, and Freya rolled her eyes, not buying it.

  “If you say so.”

  “Trust me, it’s not Slade.”

  “It’s always Slade. We should talk about him.”

  “No way.” Scowling, Val skewered Freya with her best don’t-go-there glare.

  “Really, you should know that—”

  “We’ve been over this ground before. I don’t want to talk or think about him until I have to. In court.”

  “But—”

  “I’m serious, Freya. Slade’s off-limits.” She really didn’t want to discuss her ex again. Especially not tonight, when she was feeling so off-center.

  Freya looked as if she was about to say something more but thou
ght better of it. “Fine. Just remember I tried.”

  “I will.”

  “Did he do something I don’t know about?”

  “Probably.” Val lifted a shoulder. “Who knows and who cares?”

  Freya opened her mouth, but before she could bring up Slade’s name again, Val said, “It’s Cammie, okay? I haven’t heard from her in over a week.” The old timbers of the house creaked overhead, and for a second, Val thought she heard footsteps. The ghost again, she supposed. Freya thought the house was haunted; she didn’t.

  “Hear that?” Freya asked. Unlike Val, Freya was a believer in all things supernatural.

  “The house settling.”

  “It settled two hundred years ago.”

  Val rolled her eyes.

  Freya got the message. “Okay, okay. You’re worried ‘cause Cammie’s incommunicado. So what? I don’t hear from Sarah for weeks, and she’s my twin. If you believe all the twin literature, we’re supposed to be on the same wavelength and have some special”—she made air quotes—“spiritual connection.” She rolled her eyes and took another sip. “They say we formed a psychic bond from our time together in the womb. Somehow, Sarah never got the message.”

  Val ran her thumb over the chipped ridge of her mug. “But Cammie is different.”

  “Cammie is probably just busy. You know, doing what nuns do. Praying, doing penance, good deeds, whatever.” Freya wiggled the fingers of her free hand as if to indicate there were a myriad of things keeping Cammie from communicating. “Maybe she’s taken one of those vows of silence.”

  “Cammie?” Val questioned. Gregarious, outgoing, flirty, over-the-top Camille Renard? “You do remember her. Right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Freya bit her lip. “Always in trouble.”

  “That hasn’t changed,” Val admitted, the uneasy feeling returning.

  “I know, that’s really the problem, isn’t it? Cammie just doesn’t seem cut out to be a nun.” Another sip. “Just like you weren’t cut out to be a cop.”

  Val felt that same little bite that nipped at her when she thought about her career gone sour. She wanted to argue and defend herself, to tell Freya that she’d been a good cop, but the effort would have been futile. A gust of heavy wind slipped through the open window, rattling the blinds, reminding her how she’d screwed up. “Well, I don’t have to worry about that now, do I?”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know.” She waved a hand in the air, as if swatting a lazy fly. “Don’t worry about it.” But it was a sore subject, one that burned a hole in her brain and kept her up at night. She slid the window down and caught a watery image of herself: pale and ghostly skin, cheekbones high and sharp, wide mouth turned down, and worried hazel eyes. Her curly auburn hair was scraped back into a drooping pony-tail. God, she was a mess. Inside and out. Rain skewed her reflection as she latched the window tight. “Anyway, you’re right. I do look like hell.”

  “Nothing seventy-two hours of sleep won’t cure.”

  Val doubted it.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?”

  “Just you.”

  “Then you should take it as gospel. Quit dwelling on Cammie, okay? So she’s doing the running-off-to-a-nunnery thing. It’ll pass.” One side of Freya’s mouth lifted. “I’m surprised she hasn’t already been thrown out.”

  If you only knew, Valerie thought, sipping her tea and glancing out the window again into the thick night where the spire of St. Marguerite’s cathedral was cloaked in darkness, invisible.

  Oh, God, Freya, if you only knew.

  Slade Houston squinted into the darkness. The tires of his old pickup hissed over the slick pavement, and the wipers were having one helluva time keeping up with the torrent as he drove across the state line into Louisiana. His old dog, Bo, a hound of indeterminate lineage, sat beside him, his nose pressed to the glass of the passenger window. Every once in a while, Bo cast a bald eye in Slade’s direction, hoping for him to crack the damned thing.

  “Not tonight, boy,” Slade said as he fiddled with the radio, which crackled from interference. He found a station playing an old Johnny Cash song, but the lyrics couldn’t keep his mind from returning to his reason for driving in the middle of the night. A fool’s mission, at least according to his brothers, Trask and Zane, who’d let him hear it while he was packing up the Ford just before dusk.

  “Why the hell you want anything to do with that woman is beyond me,” Trask, his middle brother, had muttered under his breath. “Only gonna bring you grief.”

  “More grief,” Zane, the youngest, had added.

  Not that Slade had asked for any advice as he’d loaded his pickup with a sleeping bag and duffel before whistling for Bo.

  “Just take care of things. I shouldn’t be gone long,” Slade had said as the dog, with his perpetual limp and gnawed ear, leaped into the cab. Slade had slammed the door shut and felt the heat of his siblings’ sullen glares.

  “How long?” Zane had asked.

  “Don’t know yet. It depends.”

  “Just be smart,” Trask had advised.

  “Why start now?” Slade had flashed a grin to lighten things up, but the joke had fallen flat. Neither brother had cracked the hint of a smile; they just glared at him with their jaws set.

  Great.

  That hadn’t been too much of a surprise. Neither one of them had liked Valerie before the marriage, and their opinions hadn’t changed much over the years.

  Slade had tried to let it drop as he climbed behind the wheel. Through the open window, he heard that crickets had taken up their evening chorus and saw the western hills had been silhouetted by the brilliant shades of orange and gold.

  Trask hadn’t been ready to give up the fight. “You plan on bringing her back here with ya?”

  “Valerie?” he said, just to get under his brother’s skin. As if there was anyone else. “Don’t know yet.”

  “If ya do hook up with her again,” Trask said, “then you’re a bigger fool than I took ya for.”

  “She wouldn’t be willing, even if I asked.” That was the truth.

  “She’s bad news,” Zane reminded him.

  “Don’t I know it.” But he’d cranked on the engine of the dusty rig anyway, executed a three-point turn in the gravel drive without a second look at the weathered two-story ranch house he’d grown up in, and hit the gas. He didn’t bother watching the setting sun light the sky ablaze behind the barns with their creaking wild-mustang weather vanes. His old Ford had bounced down the rutted lane, dried sow thistle and Johnson grass scratching the underbelly of the truck as it rolled past acres upon acres of fields dotted with cattle and horses, land he and his brothers had inherited from their father.

  A red-tailed hawk had swooped through the darkening sky as he drove past the old windmill that sat solitary and still in the dead air. A good omen. Right?

  He’d snapped on the radio, then turned the truck past the battered mailbox onto the county road. He drove through the small town of Bad Luck until he came to San Antonio, where he cruised onto I-10, the long strip of asphalt cutting dead east. He’d left his brothers, Texas, and the sun far behind him.

  To chase down a woman who didn’t want him.

  He had the divorce papers in the glove compartment of his truck to remind him of that sorry fact.

  CHAPTER 5

  The call came in not long after midnight.

  Montoya groaned as he rolled across the bed and answered his cell. While his wife, Abby, burrowed under the blankets, he kept his voice down and slid out of bed as he had a hundred times before. He was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. Odd hours and late-night calls were part of his job.

  “What now?” Abby asked, her voice muffled before she tossed the blankets off and shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes as he hung up.

  “Dead woman. A nun. Possible homicide.”

  Abby pushed herself upright, propped her back against the pillows, and clicked on the ligh
t. “A nun?”

  “According to the officer who responded to a nine-one-one call.” He slid into a pair of battered jeans that he’d tossed over the foot of the bed, then found a clean T-shirt in the closet and pulled it over his head.

  “Why would anyone kill a nun?” She scraped her hair back from her face, but wild curls sprang loose.

  “Don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” He flashed his wife a humorless grin and thought back to another time when a nun had been killed— that one being his own aunt. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  “Yeah, right.” She didn’t smile as she tugged at her hair. “Just be careful.”

  “Always am.” He started for the door.

  “Hey! Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, angling her chin toward him, practically begging for a kiss.

  “Oh, yeah!” He walked to the closet, found the locked box holding his sidearm, and retrieved his weapon. After strapping on his shoulder holster, he slid his arms through his leather jacket and started for the door.

  “You can be a miserable SOB when you want to be,” she charged.

  “I always want to be.”

  “I know.” But her eyes twinkled and the reddish blond curls that framed her face were sexy as hell. “You’re a father now, so … don’t take any unnecessary risks, okay? I want Benjamin to know his daddy.”

  He snapped his Glock into place, then crossed the room and pushed her back onto the mattress. “So do I.” He stretched his body over hers and kissed her hard, his tongue probing her mouth, his hands splayed wide across her backside. “Wait for me,” he whispered against her ear.

  “Not on your life, Detective,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice, and he had to keep his thoughts on the coming investigation to control the tightness in his groin and the rock-hard response she always elicited from him. One interested arch of her eyebrows could cause a reaction deep inside of him. Man, did he have it bad.

  “Pussy-whipped,” his brother, Cruz, had commented on more than one occasion.

  In this case, Cruz was right.