by Lisa Jackson
“You think the brother-in-law is involved?” Montoya asked.
Bentz lifted a shoulder. “Driving all night. Alone. No alibi. On the night the vic ends up dead. There’s some tension between him and his wife, and then, according to him, just after Camille Renard lived with them, she bails and gets all religious, enters St. Marguerite’s. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I just think we should check him out.”
“Doesn’t fit with the wedding dress.”
“What does?” Bentz glowered out the window.
Montoya didn’t see the cowboy as a murderer, but then he wasn’t buying Frank O’Toole as a killer either.
“You know,” Bentz said to Montoya as he scratched at the beard stubble beginning to appear on his jaw, “convents and chapels and cathedrals, they’re all good places. You know, where people go to gather and worship and . . .” He shook his head. “A few bad apples, okay, I grant you that, but for the most part, the people involved are well intentioned and God-fearing,” he said, then slid a look at his partner.
“For the most part,” Montoya agreed, but they’d both seen religion and faith twisted into the very embodiment of evil. “But the hell of it is, organized religion is made up of people. That’s the problem.”
“I interviewed Father Paul Neland last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Shaken up, of course, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t a fan of the younger guy. Nothing he said so much as what he didn’t say. Wonder if he knew about the affair?”
“Maybe he’s the guy O’Toole went to for his own confession.”
“How’s that for fucked up? My guess is when the news breaks that O’Toole was having sex with one of the nuns, the church will want to cut him loose. Too much bad press as it is. The archdiocese won’t want to start defending another bad seed, a priest who’s messing with the novices.” Bentz glowered through the windshield.
His phone rang and he answered, then listened. “Okay, got it.” He clicked off and glanced at Montoya. “That was Zaroster just letting us know that the story’s broken. WKAM’s running it at noon. It’s already on the all-news channel, and the department’s getting a lot of calls.”
“Sheeit. That didn’t take long. We just notified the next of kin.”
“I know,” Bentz muttered, frowning, “but a murdered nun is news. Real big news.”
Sister Lucia pushed open the swinging doors to the kitchen and realized she was late. Really late. Thoughts of Cruz faded as she walked into the cavernous room.
Several of her peers were already hard at work, preparing the noon meal. Along with the warm aroma of baking bread, she caught a glare from Regina, the lay cook who never seemed to smile. Standing at the massive iron stove where she was sprinkling herbs into a boiling pot, she managed to wordlessly convey her displeasure.
A big woman with stringy gray hair always braided and wrapped around the back of her head, she wore oversized glasses with transitional lenses that were supposed to become clear inside but always remained slightly gray. The result was to make her eyes seem shaded and dead behind the bulbous lenses.
Not far from her, Sister Irene was slicing strawberries at the sink, her knife moving quickly, its sharp little blade catching in the light.
Lucia quickly donned an apron and took her place at the smooth marble counter where Sister Angela and Sister Devota were busy kneading dough. Angela glanced at Lucia and smiled, but Devota just kept at her work, her fingers digging deep into the elastic dough.
The two nuns were as opposite as day and night. Angela with her apple cheeks, blond hair, flour-smudged glasses, and quick smile always appeared happy, if a little spacey at times. She had a tendency to forget the rules and was often in trouble for humming while she was supposed to maintain her silence or for running through the gardens when she was supposed to walk. Discipline was difficult for her, and suppressing her natural ebullience was seemingly impossible, much to the frustration of the mother superior.
Devota, on the other hand, was a tall, quiet woman who continually fought self-esteem issues, at least in Lucia’s opinion. Although she possessed pretty features, thick, curling hair, and a rare smile, Devota was self-conscious of the fact that she limped, the result of some kind of accident in her youth, which she would never discuss. No wonder she offered up her time at the clinic at St. Elsinore’s. Devota had no trouble following the rules and was quick to remind others, including Sister Angela, of how to be obedient and pious.
“You’re late,” Regina snapped as she glanced up at the ancient clock mounted over the door. “Again.”
“Sorry,” Lucia said to the cook.
The corners of Regina’s mouth turned downward a little farther, indicating that no excuse was good enough. Her glare was positively withering, but Lucia couldn’t worry about it today.
“We need more flour,” Regina said curtly, then turned to a pot that bubbled upon the massive stove.
Both Angela and Devota glanced at Lucia. Angela rolled her expressive eyes and Devota shrugged, as there was still an unopened twenty-pound bag propped against the pantry door.
“Did you hear me?” Regina demanded, bringing tense silence to the kitchen.
Even Sister Irene stopped slicing berries to look over her shoulder. Tall and slim, Irene swore she’d been a ballet dancer before joining the convent, and she still knotted her straight hair into a tiny topknot, enhancing the sharp cheekbones of her pixielike face.
“Yes,” Lucia said, nodding to the cook. “I’ll get right on it.”
“We already have an extra sack,” Irene pointed out. She spoke with a small lisp but seemed fearless of everyone, including the reverend mother. She wasn’t concerned about arguing with the cook. “See . . . it’s over there.” With the blade of her knife, she pointed at the bag propped near the pantry door.
Regina colored slightly but set her jaw. “We need more,” she said, her lips moving over clenched teeth. “Guests are expected and I’m going to be baking all day!”
“That’s no reason to snap at Sister Lucia,” Irene insisted. “We’re all on edge today. Upset. Worried. Heartsick over poor Sister Camille. Things might not go as smoothly as usual,” Irene said, her lisp more pronounced, her head bobbing as if agreeing with herself.
Surprised that her authority was being challenged, Regina said, “No matter what happened last night, there’s still work to do. The Lord’s work.”
“Then let’s do it together. Amicably. Spiritually,” Irene suggested, lowering her knife.
Angela had trouble swallowing her smile, and even Devota arched her eyebrows at the confrontation.
“No problem. I’ll get it.” Lucia was already stepping toward the door leading outside as Irene turned back to her bowl of strawberries. Regina, tending her stew, looked as if she wanted to spit nails. Angela and Devota turned their attention back to punching the dough for the next day’s bread.
You don’t belong here; you know you don’t. That nagging voice in her head kept reminding Lucia that her commitment was less than most of the other nuns, that her devotion flagged by comparison. Angela, Devota, Irene, Louise, and Dorothy seemed much more devout, their faith so strong it could never be shaken. Even Regina, the sourpuss of a cook, a layperson, appeared to have an unwavering dedication and trust in God.
Not so Lucia.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross as she stepped along the gravel path through the herb garden to a storage building. The scents of lavender and rosemary wafted on the warm air, and sunlight caught in a few rapidly drying puddles that had collected on the path.
It was a good day. A warm day. A day filled with God’s promise.
And yet the darkness in her soul wouldn’t disappear.
The door to the storage pantry creaked as she opened it. Inside, the air was cooler. Jars and cans lined the shelves while sacks of sugar and flour were kept in tightly sealed bins. Lucia opened the
flour bin and hauled out a twenty-pound sack. She slung it over her shoulder and headed outside again.
Steeling herself for another round with the dour cook, she heard the crow before she saw it, a shiny black bird eyeing her speculatively from the roof of the chapel.
“Sister Lucia?” a male voice asked.
She nearly stumbled and stepped into a puddle as she rounded to find Father Frank standing at the garden gate.
“Oh . . . Father . . . ,” she whispered. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t see you.” In her mind’s eye, she saw him as he had been last night: his hair wet with the rain, his face twisted in a dark scowl, blood running from the hem of his cassock.
“Let me help you with that,” he offered, and crossed the short distance as the gate banged shut and the startled crow cawed and flapped away. Deftly, he lifted the sack of flour from her arms. “I think we should talk.” A dusting of flour powdered his shoulder, and the smile he’d forced fell from his lips. “Last night I was upset, and I told you that Sister Camille’s death was my fault.” His expression was that of a wounded, hunted animal. “I think I should explain myself.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” she said quickly.
A cloud crawled over the face of the sun, casting an eerie gloom over the garden.
“Of course I do, Lucia.” With his free hand, he touched her shoulder, the warmth of his fingertips seeping through the dark fabric of her habit. His dark eyes searched hers in a way she found far too uncomfortable.
Lucia shrank inside. She didn’t want to feel his touch, nor did she have any desire to be confessor to his penance. It was his role to hear confession, not hers. The crow, bolder now, landed on the gutter over the kitchen.
An omen.
Lucia felt a chill, as if the Devil himself were watching her.
“You have to believe me,” he said, his voice a strangled whisper. “I didn’t kill Sister Camille. I . . . I would never do that.” He closed his eyes for a second, and a breath of wind toyed with the strands of hair falling free of Lucia’s braid. “God forgive me, Lucia,” he said, blinking as if battling tears. “I loved her.”
CHAPTER 12
Valerie had made the mistake of letting Slade drive to the morgue. His truck had been parked in front of her Subaru, and he’d insisted on being a part of this madness. After leaving Bo with a bewildered Freya, they’d taken the old Ford to the hospital.
Slade had followed the police car, and Valerie, lost in thoughts of Cammie, had barely registered the familiar scents of dust and leather inside the pickup. She’d kicked aside a tool belt that had been tossed onto the floor and stared out the passenger window, her reflection pale and wan in the glass smudged with nose and paw prints.
She hardly remembered the traffic or the drive through New Orleans, though she did hear the sound of church bells as she stepped out of the truck, their somber tolling emanating from St. Marguerite’s Cathedral not a mile away.
The sun was playing hide-and-seek. Clouds were collecting, moving over the city again, shadowing New Orleans like a pall. Valerie shivered as they reached the back door to the hospital and stepped inside, where voices were hushed and footsteps were softened by a gray, industrial carpet.
In silence, she and Slade followed the two detectives down a staircase to the lowest level of the hospital. Val’s stomach clenched as they made their way along a short hallway and through double doors.
Inside, the morgue was cold.
Even though she stood behind a thick glass window, Valerie felt the chill of the area beyond the pane. She braced herself but couldn’t help listening to that disbelieving voice in her head: There’s been a mistake, a misidentification. Cammie is not dead. She can’t be. Not beautiful, bright, high-spirited Camille. No way!
When the attendant slipped the sheet off Cammie’s face, Val’s knees nearly buckled. Cammie’s perfect face, bluish in death, looked upward.
Val let out a squeak of protest.
Slade’s strong arm was instantly around her waist, holding her up as she stared at the woman on the slab, her only sibling, so young . . .
“Oh, God,” Val whispered. The truth was a razor through her heart, all remnants of denial seeping from her. Tears stung her eyes and her insides trembled. For a second she thought she might be sick.
“Son of a bitch,” Slade muttered. His ghostly reflection appeared in the glass, his determined, unshaven jaw, blade-thin lips, narrowed eyes overlapping the stronger image of her dead sister.
How ironic was it that Slade was here, his image superimposed over Cammie’s dead, draped body?
After all they had been through. All the lies. The accusations. The heartache. Val couldn’t help but wonder if Slade felt a smidgeon of guilt for Cammie’s death.
He should.
As Val did. They were both integral in the contribution to her downward spiral.
“I should have done something,” she whispered.
“Like what?”
“Protected her.”
“Impossible.” Slade nodded toward the attendant, and the sheet was pulled back over Cammie’s face. He shepherded Val away from the window and through a door to where the two detectives waited.
How many times had she, in her years as a cop, been in their position, waiting to question the loved ones, trying to root out information while the family was torn by grief?
“We can talk to you here, or if you’d prefer, down at the station,” Bentz said.
“Here’s fine.” Val found some grit.
“Okay, there’s a room, just down the hall.” Bentz led them along a carpeted hallway to a small room with three chairs and a dying potted palm positioned near the window, a place where doctors spoke with patients or loved ones. Outside, the sky was now a sea of gray, threatening rain.
Bentz motioned them into chairs, took one himself, and waited as Montoya closed the door behind him and stood near the ill-fated tree.
“So let’s get started. Tell us what you know about the affair between Father O’Toole and your sister.”
“I wish I could,” Valerie said. “But I don’t know all that much.” She told the detectives how Camille had met with her nearly a month earlier and explained her situation, that she was pregnant, that the father was a priest, and that she was considering leaving the convent.
“But she didn’t,” Montoya prodded.
“No, not by the time . . .” She cleared her throat and told herself to “tough up” as their father had always advised whenever either of his daughters came to him with a problem. “Not by the time she’d died. She sent me an e-mail, though. It was short and said that she couldn’t take it anymore, whatever that meant, and that she was leaving the order and that I know why. I guess she was talking about the pregnancy.”
“When did you receive it?”
“Last night. Late. I was worried about her and . . .” And you should have gone and visited her. Maybe you could have saved her. The recriminations rolled through her mind even though she knew better. She’d been a cop, been in Bentz’s and Montoya’s shoes, showed family members their dead loved ones, questioned them about everyone they knew. So she tried like crazy to push her guilt aside and help the cops. She told them everything she knew, from the time that she and Camille were adopted by their mother and father, through the trials and trauma of high school. She had known of Frank O’Toole’s reputation, and she recalled that Camille had dated Reuben Montoya. She admitted that she and Camille had been estranged in recent years, that part of the alienation had been her marriage to Slade, a man Camille had shown interest in.
She also reminded them of the other nun who had been involved with O’Toole, though she still wasn’t certain of her name or what became of her or really if she had existed anywhere but in Camille’s jealous mind.
“So . . .” Bentz switched his attention to Slade as rain began to tick against the window. “You were the last man she was involved with before she joined the order?”
“We weren�
��t involved.” Slade’s gaze was level, his words firm. “She was my sister-in-law.”
“But she . . . did what? Came onto you?” Bentz glanced at Valerie for clarification.
“You could say that.” He glanced at his wife. “She flirted.”
“Define ‘flirted,’” Montoya said, and Slade had the decency to look uncomfortable.
“You know, man. She would say things, give me a look, get all pouty.”
“Around you?” Bentz again, brows slammed together, eyes on Valerie.
She shook her head. “No, I never saw that.”
“What did you see?”
Val sighed, glanced to the window where the rain ran in zigzagging rivulets. “I saw a woman who was confused and a man who didn’t discourage her.”
“Jesus, Val, that’s not the way it was!” Slade scowled and shook his head. “Camille lied about me. Swore to Val that I was the one who did the pursuing.” He let out a long, disgusted sigh through his nose. “That’s not how it happened.”
“Tell me how it did,” Bentz said.
“After Val and I were married, I don’t know, maybe a year, Camille came to visit for a long time, about a month. She showed some interest then, I think, but it was subtle. The next visit, not so subtle. She’d bump into me. Come up on me when I was alone working with the stock. Always said suggestive things and then laughed it off.” His eyes held Bentz’s. “You know when a woman’s interested. Especially a woman like Camille.”
“She was a beautiful woman.”
Slade didn’t respond.
“You tell your wife about it?”
“No.” Slade frowned and Valerie wanted to slide farther away from him. “Not at first.”
“Camille came to me,” Val said. “She swore Slade was trying to get her into bed.”
