by Lisa Jackson
At that moment, church bells pealed, tolling off the morning hours, reminding Val of her sister, cloistered in the convent walls where she was supposed to be safe.
Oh, Cammie . . . no . . .
Images of her sister as a child with crooked teeth, big eyes, and freckles sprayed across a stubby little nose raced through her brain. In childhood, Cammie had adored her older sister. But then she’d changed, weathering the ravages of adolescence to grow long legs and breasts the boys noticed. Her face had become sculpted with high cheekbones, wide eyes, and a sharp chin. Her mouth could curve into a wide smile or turn quickly into a tight little pout that made her all the more fascinating.
Even to a boy Valerie had barely known, a dark-eyed tough who had turned into the cop standing before her: Reuben Montoya.
Val felt her jaw drop as she recognized him now. Gone was his bad-boy swagger, but there was still evidence of the rebel beneath the badge: a goatee that couldn’t be department approved and a diamond stud in one ear, proof, she supposed, of his ability to go undercover, to turn, chameleon-like, into a drug dealer, a pimp, or whatever persona was necessary to make the bust.
Today he was here to pass on the unthinkable news about Cammie, a woman he’d known intimately years before.
Goose bumps chased up her arms as she glanced into Montoya’s hard face and tried to read his mind. “You knew her. You knew my sister.”
He nodded, his lips so tight as to show white.
“Wait a second,” Valerie said, her brain coming back to life as she took in Montoya’s leather jacket, T-shirt, and jeans. Street clothes. “Detectives?” She felt her insides tighten. These guys weren’t the usual beat cops sent to inform the next of kin about a loved one’s death. “You’re investigating my sister’s death?” Her heart was knocking wildly. “What the hell happened to her?”
“Please, Ms. Renard,” Bentz said, his gaze straying to the man and woman on the porch, “let’s take this inside.”
“What are you saying?” Val asked. “There was some kind of accident? Where? At the convent?”
But she saw a darker answer in Montoya’s eyes, and her mind raced ahead.
“No, not an accident.” Her voice was hoarse, raspy. “She was killed?”
Or took her own life.
But she didn’t say it, didn’t want to believe any of this, including the chilling fact that the last e-mail she received from Cammie might have been a call for help or a suicide note that she received too late.
Can’t take it anymore.
Am leaving St. Marg’s.
You know why.
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, shaking from the inside out.
“Val.” Slade’s voice whispered against her ear, and he turned her toward her cottage where the back door stood open. Guiding her, he whistled to the dog and cast a warning glance at Montoya and Bentz. “Let’s just go inside and hear what the detectives have to say.”
Something in his tone got to her, snapped her out of the dark folds of denial that threatened to suffocate her. She yanked her arm out of the cradle of his, gave herself a firm mental shake, and told herself to buck up. No matter what had happened, she wasn’t going to fall into the trap of being the victim, of leaning on a husband she didn’t trust, of ignoring the fact that some of Cammie’s insecurities, her paranoia, landed squarely on Slade Houston’s shoulders. “I can handle this,” she said, stepping away from him, barely aware that the dog was following. “Alone.”
“I’m here.”
“Yeah, and why is that?” she spat. “Why this morning, huh? What kind of timing is that?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched into her kitchen and let the screen door fall behind her. One of the cops—Montoya, who was on her heels—caught it before it slapped shut, then followed her into the kitchen and down a short hallway of ancient hardwood to the living area of the small house. She stood at the cold fireplace, her back to the blackened grate as the detectives, and Slade, damn him, collected near the front door, the toes of their shoes barely touching the bound edge of faded carpet.
She glanced at the card she’d clutched in her closed fist and, scanning the information, confirmed her worst fears. Rick Bentz was from the Homicide Division. The chill in her soul turned to ice.
“My sister was murdered?” she whispered, her gaze locking with Montoya’s. Oh, God, no. Please . . . no.
“I’m sorry,” Montoya said, and she felt her knees start to buckle.
No, no, no! Tears burned in her eyes as she stared at Montoya, memories of the past jarring her, rattling her soul. She remembered more about Reuben—“Diego” as he’d been called in high school—and in that split second, she thought she might get sick. “So have you arrested your friend Frank O’Toole yet?”
Montoya’s jaw tightened.
“The priest? Why would we arrest him?” Bentz asked as Slade crossed the carpet to stand next to her.
She didn’t hesitate a second. “Because if anyone had the motive to kill Cammie, it was that hypocritical son of a bitch.” She felt tears burn her eyes. How many times had she counseled her sister to leave the church and get away from Frank O’Toole, to break it off entirely? Val’s heart twisted painfully as she realized she hadn’t tried hard enough. She hadn’t gotten through. Camille had been so damned stubborn. Anger flooded through her, and grief clawed at her heart. “Maybe you don’t know it yet, but Cammie is . . . was . . . pregnant. Guess who’s the father?”
CHAPTER 10
The solitude, sanctity, and safety of the convent would never be the same. Lucia felt the loss deep in her bones as she walked briskly along the corridor from her room.
Even when the police would finally leave and the chapel would be cleaned, when poor Sister Camille would be laid to rest and the last prayers whispered over her body, when the news cameras and reporters would no longer hover near the outside gate, St. Marguerite’s would forever be tainted. And Lucia would never be the same, the heaviness in her heart a constant burden she would have to live with.
Twisting the folds of her skirt in one hand, she tried to dismiss the worrisome feeling that had been burrowing deep in her soul ever since she’d awakened last night. But the feeling of evil still persisted, unaffected by the shafts of light playing through the stained-glass windows near the staircase.
The sun was out, warming the day.
Yet she still felt as cold as death inside.
She’d spent a restless night, awoken, and said morning prayers in the oratory with the rest of the nuns at five, then spent an hour meditating and silently saying the rosary. Then there had been the interruption of their daily routine, where they had all been called to the dining hall and Father Paul, Father Frank, and the mother superior had spoken in soft tones about Sister Camille and the tragedy that had happened here within these sacred walls. The outside world had invaded their piety and holiness, and the nuns were told to pray for Sister Camille’s soul and find their own sense of peace in the Holy Father’s arms.
“Remember,” Father Paul had intoned softly, his face lined with sadness, “you are the brides of Christ. He will help you through this time of confusion and loss.”
Father Frank’s eyes had squeezed shut for just an instant, as if he were shutting out a private vision.
Mother Superior had bowed her head and made the sign of the cross, but Lucia had felt no consolation from God as she remembered Sister Camille’s pale face and bloodless lips as she lay on the chapel floor.
She’d swallowed hard, and her eyes had met the tortured gaze of Father Frank, no longer in the cassock stained with blood. Had it been Sister Camille’s? Did he know that she was carrying his child?
Did Father Frank realize what Lucia knew?
As the heat of embarrassment climbed up her neck, she had looked away quickly, though the priest’s piercing gaze lingered in her mind.
She had only been vaguely aware of the rest of the meeting, though she recalle
d talk of the police leaving soon and the promise that the chapel where Sister Camille had been found would be cleaned and blessed.
As if prayer and holy water could cleanse the evil.
Lucia wondered if she could ever set foot on the stone floors or view the looming crucifix without the image of Camille’s dead body appearing before her.
Afterward, they had been allowed to have an hour of private prayer and meditation before tackling their daily tasks.
The mood in the convent was somber, everyone caught in her own private thoughts.
Lucia hurried down the stairs, her shoes clicking upon the polished steps, her fingers trailing on the rail. She knew it was time to leave. Camille’s death had started a chain of events that would be the ultimate ruin of St. Marguerite’s, and she wondered if that was the killer’s purpose. Was Camille’s murder a public statement or a personal vendetta? She thought of sweet, troubled Camille. They had shared so much here at the convent, from having lived in the same small area of New Orleans as children to having dated brothers . . . which brought her thoughts to Cruz.
Dear Father, she never wanted to see him again.
Talking to his older brother, the detective, was bad enough, but seeing the strong family resemblance made her want to run as fast as she could from the parish. Cruz Montoya was the one person who knew her secrets, the one man who had touched her soul, the one male who had nearly killed her. Her heart fluttered a bit in her chest. Was it fear . . . or something erotic? Sometimes, when she remembered back, when she thought of Cruz and what he’d done to her, she was turned inside out, the sensual images in her memory dangerously wicked. In her mind’s eye, she saw coppery skin stretched over taut flesh, dark hair thick over a muscular chest and washboard abdomen. Her blood heated when she remembered the way his jeans sat so low on his hips, how the faded denim was tight across his firm, smooth buttocks.
“Stop it!” she muttered to herself. Her scandalous thoughts were well beyond sinful. She was married to the church now, married to Christ, and she could think of no mortal man sexually. Especially not Cruz Montoya, who had so easily broken her heart. And that brother of his, the detective who resembled Cruz . . . Seeing him had started a domino effect of pictures in her mind, memories she should have buried long ago.
“Give me strength,” she whispered even as she remembered Cruz’s irreverent smile, the glint of the devil in his dark eyes. Her blood surged, and she silently damned herself again. “No more!”
“Your sister was pregnant?” Montoya stared at Valerie Renard as she dropped the bombshell in the living room of her small cottage.
The quaint building that looked to be a former carriage house was connected to the bed-and-breakfast by a narrow causeway, allowing Valerie Renard some privacy away from guests.
“That’s right,” Val said tightly, tiny white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth. “She’d gotten involved with Frank O’Toole.” As if she read his question, she added, “I know, I know. She’s a nun, he’s a priest, and they’ve taken oaths of celibacy, but trust me, she’s pregnant.” Something inside of her seemed to break, and she swallowed a couple of times, blinked, and leaned against the mantel of the cold fireplace. “I mean . . . I mean she was . . . Oh, God, can she really be dead?”
Her husband tried to console her, but she’d have none of it, holding up a hand before he got too close. Her gaze found Montoya’s again. “You remember Frank in high school. The ladies’ man? Seems like nothing much has changed despite his vestments. This isn’t the first time,” she charged. “Camille told me he’d had another affair with a nun, someone named . . . Oh, God, what was it?” She looked at the ceiling, as if trying to think, to deal with the horror of her sister’s death.
“Another nun?” Bentz asked, obviously disbelieving, thinking she was in shock. Hysterical.
Valerie nodded. “I’m sure Camille said something about it once.”
“Do you have a name?”
“No . . . oh, wait. Something like Lily or Leanne . . . I really can’t remember.” Sniffing and clearing her throat, she fought tears and asked brokenly, “How did he do it?”
The two cops didn’t answer, and she said, “I want to know.”
“It looks like she was strangled,” Bentz offered. “We don’t know the actual cause of death yet, but . . . that’s the way it looks now.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, and as she did, her face grew taut, as if she were seeing Camille’s perfect face in her mind’s eye, her sister’s eyes bulging, her lips trying to gasp for air.
“He choked her?”
Bentz said, “We’ll know more later.”
“Where?” She turned from Bentz to Montoya. “Where did it happen?”
“In the chapel at St. Marguerite’s, around midnight, we think.” Montoya said, “We don’t have any other details we can share with you.”
“She’s my sister.” Her voice was a low whisper.
Montoya nodded. “We know, but for now, until we’re certain of our facts, we can’t say too much.”
Valerie seemed to accept that, though she blinked back tears and straightened her shoulders in what appeared to be an attempt at gaining some of her rapidly ebbing composure.
“And you don’t live here, right?” Bentz asked Slade.
So, he’d put two and two together.
“I drove in from Texas last night.”
“You live there?”
Slade nodded and Valerie looked as if she wanted to wilt right through the floor.
“And you live here in New Orleans?” Bentz said to Val.
“Yeah . . . Slade and I are separated.”
Montoya asked Slade, “So you knew Camille Renard. How well?”
“She’s my sister-in-law,” Slade said, meeting the detective’s stare with his own.
Valerie thought of his involvement with Camille and blanched.
“You were close?” Bentz asked.
Slade lifted a shoulder. “Like family. She lived with us for a while.”
“When?” Bentz pulled out a small notebook.
Slade said, “A couple of years ago.”
“Before she joined the order.” Bentz found a pen and was scribbling.
“Yep.”
Valerie cut off the interview by saying, “So, can I see her?”
“Sure,” Montoya said, though he wondered if it was a good idea. The body had already been IDed. “But first we have some questions. What do you know about your sister’s friends? Any enemies? Can you think of anyone who would want her dead?”
“Besides Frank O’Toole, you mean?” she charged, angry all over again. “I’m telling you right now, no one would have more motive to kill my sister than that cowardly son of a bitch who’s hiding behind his damned clerical collar. He seduced her, got her pregnant, and then, when she was trying to break it off with him, he killed her to keep her quiet. End of story.”
“Wait a second,” Bentz interjected. “She was breaking it off with him?”
“Yeah.” She was nodding and fighting tears. He witnessed the set of her jaw. “The last time we talked on the phone, she said something like, ‘I have to get out of this.’ And then you know what she added?” Valerie said, her eyes filling.
Bentz and Montoya waited.
“That he wouldn’t take it very well. That he’d ‘kill’ her.” She sniffed and swiped angrily at her eyes. “And she wasn’t joking, you know. She was being literal.” She swallowed hard, her eyes red.
“Did he ever threaten her that you know of?” Montoya asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. She, uh, didn’t tell me all of the details.” Val blinked hard, still fighting tears and staring at him as if he was completely dense. “I don’t know what their relationship was, just that it was unethical, immoral, and God knows what else. The term ‘sexual harassment’ doesn’t even begin to touch what was going on there!” She took one step forward, and her husband grabbed hold of her wrist, but she shook him off. “Listen, you’re dealing with
a sick, narcissistic psychopath who scared her to death. She said as much, thought he would kill her and his own unborn child to save his damned reputation!” Tears welled in her eyes again. “If you don’t believe me, check with the medical examiner. He should be able to tell you that Camille was two, almost three months along.”
CHAPTER 11
“I want to know everything you can dig up on Francis O’Toole,” Bentz was saying into his cell phone as Montoya punched the accelerator, cutting through the thick traffic of the city. The windows were rolled down, and the smell of exhaust from a semi that squeezed his lane overshadowed the tinge of barbecue that hung in the air. “No, I don’t know his middle name, but that can’t be too hard to figure out. He’s around thirty-five, maybe, the junior priest over at St. Marguerite’s, and he went to a private school here in the city, St. Timothy’s, about what, twenty years ago?”
Montoya nodded, then found enough room to pass the big truck, only to be stopped at the next light and have it idling, belching black smoke, beside him.
Bentz was silent for a few minutes as he listened to one of the junior detectives on the other end of the line, then said, “And find out anything you can about a Sister Leanne or Lily who left St. Marguerite’s in the last few years. . . . No, not yet, but I’ll check and see if we can come up with a last name. It shouldn’t be too tough to find her, though. It’s not as if convents are crawling with nuns these days.... Yeah.”
The light turned, and Montoya gunned it again, leaving the semi to lumber through the light, the driver pushing the huge vehicle through its gears.
“There’s a guy I want some info on, too,” Bentz said as Montoya slowed for a jackass who jaywalked across four lanes of traffic. “The name’s Houston . . . Yeah, that’s right, like the city. First name is Slade. Lives in Bad Luck, Texas . . . What? Yeah, I know, but he swears that’s the name of the town. He’s married to the vic’s sister, and there might have been something going on between him and the vic. . . . Yeah, I know, but this was before she entered the convent,” Bentz said, squinting against the glare through the windshield. “Uh-huh, not exactly The Sound of Music. I get it. Okay . . . we’re on our way to the morgue now. You can catch me on my cell.” He hung up and swore under his breath.
