Malice. Lisa Jackson
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Mardi Gras beads, and tiny alligator heads complete with glittering eyes. Then there were the dolls—all kinds of dolls that reminded him of dead children with their painted faces, false smiles, and eyes that were shuttered by squared-off fake lashes. The dolls were a recent addition to the store and, according to Olivia, a hit, the rare, high-priced ones boosting the shop’s profits.
Bentz didn’t get it.
He’d once made the mistake of asking, “Who the hell buys this voodoo garbage?”
Olivia, standing at the kitchen window while adding seeds to her parrot’s feeder, hadn’t been offended. She’d just looked over her shoulder, offered him an enigmatic smile, and said, “You wouldn’t want to know. Careful, Bentz, someone you crossed or sent up the river might want to place a hex on you.”
“I don’t believe in that crap.”
“Not yet. Just wait until you break out in a rash, or…your eyes turn red, or…oh, I don’t know…you lose your ability to make love, even to the point that your favorite appendage just drops off,” she’d teased, raising a naughty eyebrow. That was all it had taken.
“You’re asking for it,” he’d warned, advancing on her.
“Oh, yeah, and who’s gonna give it to me?”
He’d grabbed her then, swept her off her feet, while the seeds scattered over the counter and floor. Chia had squawked and the dog had barked crazily as Bentz carried his wife up the stairs. Squealing, Olivia had laughed, her sandals falling to clatter noisily on the steps.
Once he’d reached the bedroom, he’d kicked the door closed and fallen with her onto the bed. Then he’d gone about showing her that his male parts were still very much fully attached and working just fine.
God, he loved her, he thought now as the first drops of the rain fell from the leaden sky and he made his way along the busy sidewalk skirting Jackson Square. Yet now their relationship was strained and lacked the vitality, the easy, flirtatious fun that had once infused it.
There was still passion; just not the spontaneity or quirky playfulness that they’d enjoyed.
And whose fault is that, Detective Superhero?
His leg began to ache as he walked past the open doors of restaurants, hardly noticing the strains of jazz music and the peppery scents of Cajun cooking that wafted into the street.
He had considered confiding in her about the whole weird Jennifer thing, but he’d never been much of a talker, wasn’t a person who expressed all his hopes and fears. Now all that had changed. Push was definitely coming to shove.
He wended through a collection of artists displaying their work on the outside of the wrought iron fence surrounding the square. As a saxophone player blew out a familiar song, his case open for donations, a tarot reader was hard at work laying down cards in front of a twenty-something eagerly listening to the fortune-teller’s every word.
Another day in the Quarter.
As the rain fell, Bentz crossed the street behind a horse-drawn carriage, then stepped into the open doorway of the Third Eye. Olivia was just ringing up a sale, several T-shirts, a little box of sand complete with stones and a rake for relaxation, and a baby alligator head. Along with two antique looking, frozen-faced dolls.
Eyeing the ghoulish merchandise, Bentz thought it was high time his wife started expanding her psychology practice. Time to get out of this shop of weird artifacts and start talking to people with problems.
“Hey.” Olivia spied Bentz as he tried to move out of the way of the customer, a bag-toting woman who bustled past a display of oyster-shell art on her way to the door.
“Hey back at you.”
Olivia grinned, that same smile that could stop his heart. “What’re you doing here? Slumming?”
“Looking for a hot dinner date.”
“Moi?” she asked coyly, pointing an index finger at her chest.
Frowning thoughtfully, he pretended to look her over, head to toe. “Yeah, I guess you’ll do.”
“Nice, Bentz,” she said with an easy laugh. “I guess you’ll do, too.”
“Damned straight.”
“The male of the species, always so humble,” she said to Manda as she clocked out. That done, she crossed the shop and gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek. “What’s this all about?”
“You asked me what was going on and I thought it’s time you knew.”
Her smile faded. “Should I be worried?”
He hesitated, wanting to reassure her. But in the end he decided to play it straight. “Not really. At least not yet and not about our relationship, but there is something pretty weird going on.” He spied her umbrella by the door and snagged it, then, taking the bend of her arm, escorted her out of the shop. Rain peppered the sidewalk and coursed through the gutters. Artists, tarot readers, musicians, and performers quickly covered their wares with plastic tarps or folded up their tables for the day before scurrying for cover.
Bentz opened the umbrella and held it high over Olivia’s head as they dashed along the sidewalk. Rain slid down his back as he tried like hell to avoid both puddles and pedestrians. A bicyclist raced by, cutting in and out of traffic. A horn blasted and somewhere a horse whinnied nervously.
In a second the shower turned into a downpour.
Half-running to the restaurant, the cane hooked on his arm, Bentz felt the familiar pain in his hip, a constant reminder that he wasn’t a hundred percent.
The shoulders of his jacket and hems of his pant legs managed to get soaked despite his efforts.
Olivia was laughing, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight at being caught in the storm. “You’re soaked,” she said as they reached the doorway of the restaurant.
“That’s because I was being gallant and keeping you dry.”
“Which I appreciate. Thanks.” She winked at him. “I’ll return the favor sometime.”
“Yeah, right.” Beneath the cover of a striped awning, Bentz shook the rain from the umbrella, then held the door for her. Inside, tiny lights were strung from the open rafters, appearing like stars overhead, and the walls were paneled with warm reddish wood complementing areas of exposed brick.
A hostess led them to a far corner where they were seated at a window table. Outside the rain continued to pour down, gunmetal-gray clouds huddling over the city, water running wildly in the gutters. Inside, beneath lazy paddle fans a waiter brought water and menus, then lit the single candle before promising to return.
“So, about what’s happening,” Olivia prodded, once they were alone again. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like it?”
“Because you’re a very smart woman.”
“Mmm.”
“And you’re some kind of kook psychic.”
“Whom you love,” she reminded him.
“Right.”
“Make that adore.”
“Now you’re pushing it.”
“You’re avoiding the subject.”
“Waiting for the right moment,” he said, eyeing the menu and not bringing up Jennifer until after they ordered. Once the waiter had retreated again, Bentz laid it all out. He started with the moment he’d woken up in the hospital and felt the drop in temperature before witnessing his dead wife in the doorway. He told Olivia about the other sightings as well. Finally, he admitted to spying Jennifer again just off the veranda a few days earlier, then just recently receiving the marred death certificate and photographs.
With each of his confessed sightings, Olivia became