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From the corner of his eye Bentz caught sight of a middle-aged man in jeans, a flannel shirt, and red baseball cap who was raking leaves between the trees of the park.
“Harold, he was my husband, may he rest in peace,” she continued, bringing Bentz’s attention back to her. Opal’s smile was faint, as she dusted off the plaque that stated the bench had been dedicated to the memory of Harold Guidry. “I come here to talk to him sometimes. I know that sounds silly, but . . . We were married fifty-six years before he was called home.” Again she sighed, her expression suddenly melancholy.
“Called home?”
“To heaven, of course.” She adjusted the hearing aid and straightened her shoulders. “Now, Detective, tell me, what is it you want?”
“I was wondering if you’d ever seen this man,” Bentz said, taking a seat next to her as he retrieved the photos of Father John from his pocket. “Anywhere. Maybe here. Or at your house? Even when you were out shopping?” He handed her the pictures, though they were all over ten years old. Included was the fake priest’s driver’s license picture, which was older still.
She eyed the photos, frowning, then slowly shook her head. “No—I—I really don’t think so.”
“Take a look at this,” he suggested, and handed her his iPad. On the screen was a picture of Father John that had been enhanced with age-progression software. There were several pictures of his face, his hair grayer and thinner, deeper creases around his eyes and mouth. Bentz had also asked for head shots with more facial hair, a beard and a mustache, one with a goatee.
Opal swiped through the screen, studied each picture carefully, her eyebrows knitting over her glasses, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t think I’ve ever met this man, but”—she bit her lip and swiped back to the enhanced picture of Father John with a beard—“it’s possible.” She handed Bentz back his iPad. “Sorry. I wish I could be of more help to you. I really do. But”—she lifted her small shoulders—“I really can’t say.”
He’d expected as much. “Would you mind if I had someone look your car over? Check for prints?”
“Oh, no. Have at it. Anything to help.”
“We would have to take your fingerprints as well,” Bentz said, “for comparison and to rule yours out.”
“Oh, I know. And no need to worry. Mine are already on file,” she said, nodding. “I taught second grade for thirty-two years. And sure, that would be no problem.”
“And you never saw anyone hanging around the car who shouldn’t have been?”
“I already told the policewoman who called that I didn’t. That hasn’t changed.” She fiddled with her hearing aid, answered a few more questions, and Bentz thanked her, then eyed the bench on the opposite side of the fountain. It, too, held a plaque, slightly burnished and dedicated to the memory of Marjorie Laroche, with the inscription, BELOVED MOTHER.
“Do you know anything about this bench?” he asked, motioning to the empty concrete seating area.
“Oh. Yes. That’s for the Laroche family.” Her eyebrows were knitting. “Well, it was. Beverly Laroche, while she was still married to Hugo, mind you, bought it. Actually, as I understand it, this whole area”—she motioned to the area where paths wound through the trees—“was gifted to the church, the archdiocese, I think, but she specifically wanted it to be attached to Our Lady, which makes sense.”
“Who gifted it? Beverly?”
“No, no, Marjorie, she was a widow, Beverly’s mother-in-law.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Of course that was before he divorced her to marry that little tart Helene . . . Oh!” As if she realized she’d devolved into gossiping, she stopped suddenly, sketched the sign of the cross over her chest. “Yes. You’re probably here because of, um, Helene’s death as well. Poor dear.” Opal cleared her throat. “Helene wasn’t an active member of the church, and Hugo, he stopped attending mass years ago, but—”
She held her hands up and waggled them as if to disperse any remnants of her words that might be hanging in the air. “I—I didn’t really know Helene and what happened to her was just awful.”
“But the Laroche family is still a part of the congregation?” Bentz asked.
“I—I really don’t know. I don’t see them but, you know, I’m not here twenty-four/seven. I really should get back to work.” She stood quickly.
Bentz knew the interview was over, so he handed Opal his card, asking her to call him if she thought of anything else that might be relevant.
“Oh, I will,” she promised, then ran a hand lovingly over the bench as she stood and added, “I guess I’d better get going. Those pews won’t polish themselves and I promised Father Anthony that I’d be finished today.”
Again, Bentz saw the gardener, farther away, casting a wary look over his shoulder. And then it hit him. The man in the flannel shirt was none other than Ned Zavala. Older than Bentz remembered, but definitely the man who had been named the Bayou Butcher by the press. He saw that Mrs. Guidry, too, had noticed the man with the rake.
“Do you know him?” he asked.
“The gardener? Ned?” She shook her head. “Not really. His mother is a member and I think she got him the job.” Her lips curled over her teeth. “And you don’t need to ask. I know what he was accused of years ago.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “But that’s all in the past and he was proved innocent. Right?”
“His mother recanted her testimony.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She cleared her throat. “Whatever Mr. Zavala did—what happened—God will cast His own judgment.” And at that she crossed herself.
“You know Ned’s mother?” Bentz pressed as she took a step toward the church.
“Not really. I mean, I see her around. Or I did; she came to mass every once in a while. But she’s sick, in bed for the most part. Cancer, I think.” Again she sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest and cast another furtive look over her shoulder, but Ned had moved through the trees to the small cemetery.
