by Lisa Jackson
O’Toole let out a long sigh. “You saw Sister Camille?” His hands clenched into fists, his thumbs rubbing his knuckles nervously.
“Yeah.” Montoya nodded. Camille’s image, in death, was branded into his memory. At some level, it would be with him for the rest of his life.
“It’s a shame,” the priest said, rolling his gaze to the ceiling, as if he could literally look to God for answers. O’Toole still possessed the striking physique Montoya remembered. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair and a few more lines near the corners of his eyes, and his nose wasn’t as straight as it had once been, but, in Montoya’s estimation, the signs of aging only gave Frank O’Toole a more mature and interesting appearance.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Something flashed in the priest’s eyes. Regret? Anger? The start of a lie? “I wish I knew. I was out with a sick parishioner. Arthur Wembley. Stage-four lung cancer. I spent the evening with him and his wife, Marion. When I returned, I ran into Sister Lucia just outside Father Paul’s door. She was in a panic, asking us to come into the chapel.” His jaw tightened and his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. “We followed her”—his voice lowered to a whisper—“and found Sister Charity saying prayers over Camille’s body.” He cleared his throat. “The first officer and the EMTs arrived within minutes.”
“Why the cassock?” Montoya asked.
“The Wembleys are old school. They like tradition. I wore it for them. I usually don’t.”
“Why do you think Cam—er, Sister Camille was wearing a bridal gown?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, biting at his lower lip, thinking hard. “The dress looked old. Not overly expensive, I’d guess. Like the kind a nun might wear when she was taking her vows and becoming a bride of Christ.”
“Seriously?”
O’Toole lifted a shoulder. “It’s an old custom, and St. Marguerite’s is steeped in tradition, far more than the other parishes nearby. The nuns wear habits, parishioners still abstain from meat on Good Fridays . . . though that’s something that’s coming a little back into vogue, isn’t it?” He glanced away before Montoya could read any more in his expression.
“Did you know Camille in high school?” Montoya asked.
“No,” he said convincingly, finally returning Montoya’s gaze again. “She’s . . . she was younger than me. I never met her back then, but I did know her older sister.”
“Valerie?”
“Yeah.”
“Date her?”
“No.” A look passed between them. Back in the day, Frank O’Toole, athlete, hunk, and ladies’ man, had cut a swath through the girls at St. Timothy’s. How in the world had he turned to the priesthood, a life of celibacy? It didn’t make a lot of sense to Montoya.
As if he understood, Frank said, “When my older sister, Mary Louise, was stricken with lymphoma, I made a deal with God. I’d go into the priesthood, take my vows, and dedicate my life to him, as long as he spared her.”
“And how did that work out for you?” Montoya asked, trying to remember Mary Louise O’Toole.
“Mary died last year. But not from the disease. With God’s help, she seemed to beat it. She was hit in a crosswalk by an old man who stepped on the gas rather than the brakes.” He sighed and rubbed his face, the stubble of his whiskers scraping against his fingers. “Thankfully she died instantly.”
“Do you think God held up his part of the bargain?”
“Hard to say,” he whispered. “I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m so important that the Father would sacrifice my sister as a pawn in a faith-based version of Truth or Dare. But for me, Mary Louise’s death was a test of my beliefs, of my calling.”
“And did you pass?” Montoya asked.
The corner of Frank’s lips twitched, though his countenance remained grim. “That’s for God to decide.”
“What about the victim? What do you think happened to her?”
“I wish I knew,” Frank whispered fervently, though he glanced away, avoiding Montoya’s glare.
“So you knew Valerie, but not Camille?”
“In high school, yes.”
“And Valerie lives in Texas?”
“No. She’s here.”
“Here? In New Orleans?” Montoya asked, making a mental note. Hadn’t Sister Charity claimed Camille’s sister lived in a small town in East Texas?
The priest was nodding. “Owns a bed-and-breakfast in the Garden District, I think. I can’t remember the name, but Sister Camille mentioned that Valerie had moved back to New Orleans sometime in the past couple of years.” His voice was soft, far away. As if he were remembering the conversation.
“Camille talk to you often?”
“Sometimes,” Frank said.
“How often?”
“A few times a week, sometimes less, other times more.”
“Did she ever mention any old boyfriends?”
“You mean, besides you?” Frank cocked a dark eyebrow.
Montoya held on to his temper. “I mean anyone who might want to do her harm?”
“No.”
“Enemies?”
Father Frank shook his head. “I didn’t know that much about her personal life,” he said. “If you’re asking about her confessions, those are private, between her and God.”
“And you.”
“Or Father Paul.” His smile held little warmth. “You might want to talk to Sister Lucia or Sister Louise. They all seemed to be close.” He appeared suddenly tired, almost irritable. “Is there anything else?”
“I guess that’s it for now. But if I think of anything else . . .”
“Of course, Reuben. Just call.” He flashed a humorless smile as he rose and walked out the door, his dark cassock billowing, a stain visible near its hem.
“Father Frank?”
The priest turned, his face supremely patient.
“There’s something on the bottom of your cassock.” Montoya pointed at the stain, black on black.
“What? Is there?” He glanced down, saw the almost invisible stain. “I was out in the rain. . . .”
Feeling oddly like a supplicant, Montoya bent down on one knee and touched the hem. A faint crust of reddish brown smeared his fingertips.
“It’s blood,” he said, looking up at Frank.
The priest frowned, his forehead furrowing. “It has to be Sister Camille’s. From when I bent down over her body. Of course I hoped, prayed, that I could revive her. . . .” His voice faded and his features twisted with the memory.
“We’ll need the cassock.” Montoya rose, face-to-face with the tormented priest.
Frank’s face was pinched, as if he were about to object, but changed his mind. “Of course. I’ll get it to you.”
Montoya was already at the door. “If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t trust me, Reuben?”
“This is a homicide investigation, Frank. I don’t trust anyone,” Montoya admitted.
CHAPTER 9
“Son of a—” Valerie bit off the last of the oath as she walked out the back door the next morning. Her eyes narrowed on the battered pickup with Texas plates. Covered in mud, with grimy arcs across the windshield showing where the wipers had slung off dirt and water, the Ford was parked beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree on the apron of her driveway, right behind her relic of a Subaru.
The screen door slapped shut behind her, startling a couple of blue jays into flapping from their perch on a picket fence to the safety of the upper branches of a tree.
Valerie barely noticed; her eyes were trained on the damned truck.
On one side of the cab, his nose forced into the slit of a cracked window, was her dog. On the other, slumped behind the steering wheel, was her husband.
She was glad to see one.
Not so the other.
At the sight of her, Bo started barking and scratching the window, his entire rear end in motion.
Slade, curse his miserable hide, opened an eye, stretched, and grinned, that wide I-don’t-give-a-damn smile with teeth flashing white against a day’s worth of stubble on his square jaw. No one should have the right to look so damned sexy after spending a short night sleeping in a truck.
So what the hell was he doing here?
She’d been headed for her car but angled from the path to tromp across the wet grass bordering Freya’s pride and joy, an herb garden that was as drenched and beaten down as the rest of the foliage.
With a massive groan, the driver’s door opened and Slade stepped onto the gravel just as Bo, unable to contain himself a second more, leaped from the cab. Whining and squirming, the big dog raced up to her.
“Hey, boy,” Val said, her heart melting as she squatted down to pet the dog’s sleek head and receive exuberant licks on her face and hands. “Yeah, I missed you, too.” The hound couldn’t get close enough to her, and for a second she remembered bringing him home from the pound, a small black and tan puppy with bright eyes and ears that nearly hung to the ground.
“And me? You miss me, too?” Slade asked as he slammed the truck’s door shut and leaned against the front quarter panel. His voice, with his easy East Texas drawl, brought back memories that were better left forgotten.
Still scratching Bo behind his ears, she lifted her gaze. “You’re kidding, right? Miss you?” She almost laughed, except nothing about their meeting was funny. “Like I miss the plague.”
He squinted, his face an expression of disbelief. “You always were a pathetic liar.”
“Unlike you,” she said, “the master of deceit.”
He didn’t crack a smile.
“So what’re you doing here, Slade?” Straightening, she felt the heat of the morning sun upon her back, the promise of a warm day after last night’s battering storm. The jays were chattering, and from a hidden branch an owl softly hooted.
“I thought we should talk,” Slade said, “just you and me. Face-to-face. No two-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers speaking for us.”
“We tried that. Didn’t work.”
“Maybe we should try harder.”
“Seriously?” She thought back to their marriage, the times she’d tried to communicate with him, the times he’d clammed up, the way he’d been so distant. Unreachable. The mess with Cammie. Slade’s incredible ego. Her own pride and stubborn streak. “So you drove down here in the middle of the night and slept in your pickup?”
“I just got in a few hours ago, and I didn’t have a reservation—didn’t think you’d appreciate me waking you up.”
“You got that right, but I think it’s too late for any more discussion. It’s over.”
“Not if we both work at it.”
“What?” she said, stepping closer. “Who are you? Where’s the aloof cowboy who really just didn’t give a damn about his marriage? The guy who came on to his wife’s sister and when it didn’t work, blamed her?”
“That’s not how it happened, and you know it.” He squinted at her, and she looked away.
Somewhere in the distance, the pace of the day was picking up. Val felt the change. The sun rose higher in the sky, and the hum of morning traffic, running along St. Charles Avenue a few blocks over, increased. People going about their workdays.
It was after eight; she’d slept in after a night of tossing and turning, and the last thing she needed was Slade Houston in her backyard. She had work to do at the inn. Freya was already making breakfast for the handful of guests who had spent the night, the smells of sizzling bacon, hot maple syrup, and apple fritters wafting through an open window. Val’s early morning job was to keep the coffee coming and the dishes cleared.
“What I know, Slade,” she said firmly, “is that if you drove all the way here from Bad Luck to convince me to give it another go, you wasted a trip. I’m not changing my mind.” The hound, damn him, whined at her feet and stared up at her with big, sad eyes. Her heart wrenched. “But if you want to, you can leave Bo with me.” She felt her lips twitch into a bit of a smile. She’d always been a sucker for animals. Strays to purebreds, Val loved them all.
“You can get your own dog.”
“Okay,” she said, not going into the fact that it was she who had made the trip to the animal shelter. She still believed the hound would be happier chasing squirrels and armadillos and jackrabbits at the ranch than cooped up here in a small yard where the gate was constantly opening and closing, strangers coming and going. “But I’ll miss you, big guy,” she said to the dog. As she leaned over him, she caught sight of a car in front of the main house. A squad car pulled into an empty spot at the curb.
Two men climbed out, and her heart turned to ice. “Oh, God,” she whispered, knowing that whatever the two men wanted, it wasn’t good. She’d been on the other side of this drama too many times to kid herself. Her stomach did a slow, painful roll as she thought of what news they were bearing, the kind of news she’d sometimes had to bring to a worried family: “There’s been an accident . . . sincere condolences . . . so sorry for your loss . . .”
She braced herself, heard dishes clattering as if from a great, long distance away.
One of the cops, a younger Hispanic-looking guy in a leather jacket, approached her a step or two ahead of the stockier man. “I’m Detective Montoya, and this is Detective Rick Bentz of the New Orleans Police Department. We’re looking for Valerie Renard.”
“I’m Valerie,” she said, jarred by the voice that didn’t sound like her own as she accepted some kind of business card from the older guy.
Time seemed to stand still as she looked at the contours of the younger man’s face. Strong jaw, sharp nose, dark eyes . . . The owl that had been hooting stopped, a heavy blossom on the bougainvillea near the front door silently fell to the ground, pink petals breaking apart. “Montoya?” she repeated over the buzzing in her head.
He nodded, as if expecting her to draw some sort of connection.
“What’s going on?”
She heard Slade’s voice over the white noise that filled her ears.
“Valerie?”
He was talking to her, but she was fixated on the Hispanic man with the dark goatee and thin lips.
“Who’re you?” the Hispanic man asked.
“I’m her husband. Slade Houston. I think the bigger question is who the hell are you?”
Crouched near her feet, Bo let out a low, ominous growl.
Slade sent the hound a warning glare. “Hush!”
“Ms. Renard,” the older guy, Bentz, was saying to her, “are you the sister of Camille Renard, known as Sister Camille of St. Marguerite’s Convent here in the city?” He kept one eye on the dog.
Oh, God. Val’s heart was beating a horrible tattoo.
This was about Cammie—two cops coming with unthinkable news.
“No!” she said, shaking her head slowly, refusing to believe what she innately understood, the reason the cops were here on her doorstep, their faces grim masks of resolve. She didn’t want to see it, but it was there in their eyes. They were the reluctant messengers of death. “Not Cammie,” she whispered, horrified. “Not Cammie. No, no, no!” Her knees started to buckle as her world exploded, splintering into jagged, ugly shards. She felt a strong arm catch her around the waist.
Slade.
“Ms. Renard?” the older, sadder cop said quietly.
“They’re sisters,” Slade interjected, holding her steady.
“Cammie is my younger . . .” Val’s voice faded, her throat constricting her words to a raspy, disbelieving tenor.
Something was wrong here, very, very wrong. Cammie? No . . . no, it just couldn’t be. So young. So full of life. Fresh-faced with a smile that could light up the world.
But then she remembered the ringing bells, the vision of a horrible black-cloaked fiend with dangling chain, the same threatening demon that cut through her mind last night, its evil, glowing eyes hungry and rabid as it slithered through the shadows, bringing death.
&
nbsp; The ache in her heart was palpable, the ringing in her ears the knell of death.
“Do you mind if we step inside?” Bentz asked, as if from a distance. Were it not for Slade’s strength, her knees would have buckled. “We need to talk.”
The vision rose again, horrible and potent, so evil it reeked, the scent burning her nostrils. She heard the demon cackling in triumph, smiling wide enough to show a row of sharp little teeth....
Don’t do this. Don’t let go. Be strong, for Cammie. Drive that miserable harbinger of death back to its lair. You can do this, Valerie. You’ve staved it off for as long as you can remember. Do not let the evil creature win. It’s a figment of your imagination, nothing more. Hold on. For God’s sake, hold on . . .
She drew a long breath, determined not to be swallowed by the blackness and fear, though her heart was racing, her blood as cold as the demon’s soul.
Bentz was still speaking, but she barely heard his inept attempt at condolences. His voice came as if through a tunnel, stronger as she brought herself back to the present, forced her legs to hold her upright.
“There must be some mistake,” she said, the words tumbling off her tongue as realization, a cruel, sharp barb, dug deep into her brain. Now she realized why she hadn’t heard from Cammie. The last e-mail, which she so recently read, sliced through her mind: Having second thoughts. Can’t take it anymore. Am leaving St. Marg’s. You know why.
Her heart cracked, but finally the vision slid away. Like the inky phantom it was, it slunk into its shadowy crevice again, to wait patiently. . . .
“What happened?” This time Slade’s voice was clear, strong.
Bentz shot Montoya a glance and said, “We’re not sure just yet. Maybe we should go inside where it’s quiet. A little more private?”
Over the pulsing of blood through her veins, Valerie heard the hum of traffic, caught sight of a hummingbird hovering near a twining branch of honeysuckle, and was vaguely aware of the door to the main house opening to allow a couple in their fifties—guests of the inn—to step onto the broad front porch only to pause and stare in their direction. The man was adjusting a baseball cap, the woman digging through a straw purse, both sets of eyes focused on the unlikely group near the picket fence.
