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Which would be perfect because, before that fortunate little bleeding in her brain, Bessie Cawthorne was getting a little nosy. Sometimes if the old bat was out in the garden trimming or deadheading her flowers, she’d call to me, ask me how I was, to which I always answered, “Fine” or “Busy” or whatever. At times I’d caught her peering through her blinds, especially if I was leaving late at night. That’s when her curiosity got the better of her and she’d always ask the next time she ran into me, what was I doing, where was I going, that sort of thing. I’d been able to fend off her questions fairly easily for the most part.
And now, at least for the foreseeable future, she won’t be a problem.
Aside from the old lady, there aren’t too many others to worry about. A lawn service with a variety of gardeners mows her yard and blows debris off our shared driveway. But the workmen wearing ear protection were always trying to finish as quickly as possible, never even glancing at the short alley and brick fence that surround this private spot.
My biggest concern had been Bessie’s scrappy little dog—a terrier of some sort—and an infernal beast with bristly gray fur, curious dark eyes, and a penchant for watching my every move. As soon as I open the gate, there he is, peering out the kitchen window from his seat on the banquette, paws on the glass. Sometimes the damned dog barks—a high-pitched, irritating noise—and I’d rather he didn’t alert the old lady to my comings and goings. Especially at night. Not that I’m in the alley all that often, but still, the less notice, the better.
However that problem is solved. At least temporarily. Someone in Bessie’s dutiful family took the irritating mutt away.
And now that the dog and Bessie are gone, my life is simpler.
Aside from the sorry fact that Kristi Bentz is still alive.
That’s a problem.
I try to convince myself that it’s all for the best, that I should savor this moment. I’ll get to her in time, but for now, isn’t it better that she is grieving, feeling the pain of the loss of her husband?
Sure, it is, I tell myself as I walk into the kitchen and reach into the small refrigerator and pull out a bottle of cranberry juice—not that sugary stuff, not the “cranberry cocktail” that is touted on TV, but pure, tart cranberry juice. I dilute it with filtered water, then carry it to the tall café table where newspapers are spread, opened to pages dedicated to the murder that occurred in Pirate’s Alley. I peruse them again—there’s nothing new, thank God—then fold them and pull out my laptop to check the latest reports. I scroll through the news reports, not only for New Orleans, but nationally. Just in case.
Here, in this apartment, I have secure Wi-Fi under an alias—everything in this tiny apartment is listed under an alias, of course. I can’t help but smile at that. Who would think? I’ve gone to such lengths to hide, so that no one will ever suspect. Sipping the juice, I find that Jay McKnight’s homicide has receded from the national interest. No column inches dedicated to his death. And checking social media, I find his bizarre murder is no longer trending.
Good.
The fickle public has moved on to other more topical and salacious scandals, mainly those involving celebrities. Jay McKnight’s brutal demise is, for now, forgotten.
Except by his wife.
And the police.
They would still be searching, examining every tiny clue, every microscopic shred of evidence. How ironic, as Jay McKnight had worked in the crime lab, a forensic specialist. I smile. All McKnight’s knowledge and expertise about crime scenes and blood spatter and DNA analysis and whatever wouldn’t help him now, would it?
I lift my glass and silently congratulate myself on a job well done. Well, sure, it wasn’t exactly what I’d planned, but it would work. It might even work better.
Because Kristi Bentz is suffering.
Good.
Her pain—that is what matters.
So maybe I didn’t fail after all. Maybe, instead, I’ve increased the agony.
Which is perfect.
“To me,” I say aloud, and wish I had just a tiny shot of vodka to add to my drink, “and to all that is to come.”
I can’t wait.
And then I make the mistake of turning on the television and am faced with another clip of one of the movies made for television, a cheesy replication of the crimes that Kristi Bentz wrote about in her books.
“No!” I say, and smash the glass against the floor. “No! No! No!” As I stare at the television, my good mood, like the glass, is shattered, and I feel the walls closing in. From the outside, pushing in on my brain. I close my eyes and grab my head to stop the pain. Anger surges through my blood, pounding in my ears.
I fall to my knees, feel the liquid seep through my pant leg, and whisper, “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. . . .”
* * *
Bentz glanced at the clock. Almost two a.m. He yawned and stretched at his desk, rubbed his chin, and felt the stubble that he’d have to shave in what? Five hours? He needed to go to bed.
He would.
