by Lisa Jackson
“Christ,” Bentz grumbled. “Who knows how many more will crawl out of the damned woodwork?”
“Hopefully none.”
“Be sure to check the list of everyone associated with St. Marguerite’s. Could be some more long-forgotten girlfriends holing up there.”
“I will.”
With a snort of disgust, he discovered a pack of gum in a pat-down of his jacket and unwrapped a stick. He pointed out the obvious: “If Camille Renard really was pregnant, we’ve got ourselves a double homicide.”
“Great.”
“With your friend O’Toole as a prime suspect.” He wadded the gum into a ball and plopped it into his mouth. “You buy him being the daddy?”
Montoya snorted. “I don’t buy him being a priest.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
“Nuns don’t get pregnant.”
“Yeah, usually the celibacy thing takes care of that,” Montoya agreed, turning a corner where a lone saxophone player was playing blues to a small crowd, his instrument case open in front of him, scattered coins glinting in the sun.
“You believe he was involved with another nun, one before Camille Renard?” Bentz asked, squinting from the sun.
“Don’t know what to think, but we’re checking it out. Zaroster’s on it.”
“So what is it with this guy? Why become a priest if you’re so into women?”
“Who knows?”
“Yeah, well, I just don’t get the whole vow of celibacy thing. Seems to be just another way to get everyone in trouble. It’s just not natural. God or no God.”
Montoya didn’t respond, just drove on automatic, his mind spinning as fast as the tires of his car. He wondered about Camille Renard, how she’d ended up back in New Orleans in a convent. And pregnant. He figured she must’ve really been carrying a child; there was no reason for the sister to lie, especially when an autopsy would reveal the truth.
“You know, the whole crime scene was wrong,” Bentz finally said, staring out the window.
“Staged.”
“Nuns don’t wear bridal gowns or jewelry.”
“Actually, O’Toole said they wear the gowns when they take their vows. And they have a ring, too. But I get what you’re saying. The wedding gown. The way her body was laid near the altar with the drops of blood around the gown’s neckline . . .”
“Ritualistic,” Bentz observed.
“Sick.”
Bentz’s cell phone chirped. As he answered, he rolled up the window, cutting down the ambient noise.
Montoya tuned out Bentz’s one-sided phone conversation as he passed a carriage pulled by a gray mule. Driving along the river, he tried to piece the disjointed bits of the investigation together. Camille as the victim, dressed in a frayed wedding dress, strangled, apparently. Who wanted her dead? Who would go to such bizarre lengths to kill her and display her body? The father of her unborn child?
Seemed unlikely.
Someone else, then. Someone who lived at the convent? An outside enemy? What about the brother-in-law, Houston? Montoya’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Slade Houston seemed an unlikely candidate as the killer, but then, so did Frank O’Toole. As for the paternity of the unborn child—assuming Sister Camille really was pregnant—was O’Toole the father, or someone else? Montoya felt a pang of remorse, his own involvement with Camille a very painful sticking point.
Bentz clicked his phone shut as they slowed for a red light. “That was the ME’s office,” he said, his voice low and angry. “Preliminary report on Camille Renard. Looks likes asphyxiation due to strangulation, which we figured. And, yeah, she was pregnant. It’s a double.”
Montoya’s hands tightened over the steering wheel again. He thought of Camille in the chapel, the way her body was displayed, the rosary beads threaded through her fingers. “So who, besides Valerie Renard, knew she was pregnant?”
“Most likely the father of the kid. Maybe a friend or two. Maybe even the mother superior or a priest, other than O’Toole. Someone like that, who she might confess to.”
Montoya had already thought of them. “But the secret was probably confined to the convent and her sister.”
“Unless people talked—they tend to do that.” Bentz glowered out the window. “The lab’s checking blood types now—Camille’s and the fetus’s. We’ll need a sample from O’Toole, too, or rule him in or out.”
“And anyone else who knew her.”
“You mean in the biblical sense.” Bentz slid a glance in Montoya’s direction, unasked questions hovering in the warm interior of the car.
“She was a nun, for Christ’s sake.”
“And knocked up.”
The light changed and Montoya hit the gas.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if the captain yanked you off the case,” Bentz thought aloud. “It’s not often an investigating officer knows the vic and one of the suspects as well as the person who found the body and reported the crime.” He nodded to himself. “Nah, the captain’s not gonna like it.”
“I don’t like it,” Montoya said.
“What about that Sister Lucy?”
“Lucia,” Montoya corrected, taking a corner too fast, tires screeching. He felt the weight of Bentz’s gaze, recognized the questions forming in his partner’s eyes.
God, what a mess. He couldn’t imagine Frank O’Toole as a murderer ; then again, he’d never have guessed the soccer star would end up a priest, even with the near-death experience of O’Toole’s sister.
Stranger things have happened.
“Guess you’ll have to ask him.” Montoya braked, allowing a slow-moving minivan filled with half a dozen kids to roll past. Balloons fluttered from the windows, catching the wind, delighting the grade-schoolers and causing ripples of giggles and squeals of laughter to rise from the van. After the noisy vehicle passed, he wheeled into the lot and pulled his car into a safe spot.
“The odd thing about this case is that it seems to center around you,” Bentz prodded, and straightened his leg, wincing a little from an injury that had once sidelined him while he worked a case in Baton Rouge, an injury that nearly cost his older daughter, Kristi, her life.
“There are lots of odd things about this case.” For the first time in months, Montoya craved a smoke. He’d given up the habit years before, but when things were tense, he found himself reaching into his pocket for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes.
The hell of it was that Bentz was right about the high school reference.
Montoya felt a weird sense of déjà vu, as if he’d been thrown back in time to take a long look at his own life, the images of his youth parading by like his own personal krewe at Mardi Gras.
He only hoped that no one else he knew turned up.
“I’m telling you, he was involved with her,” Sister Charity said angrily. So irritated she had to pace from one side of Father Paul’s small office to the other. Books lined the shelves, stained-glass windows filtered the light, and Paul sat behind a huge desk of dark mahogany. The wood shined so glossy that light reflected off it.
“We don’t know it for certain.”
“I’ve seen them!” Sister Charity was almost trembling she was so upset. “Discretion wasn’t one of Sister Camille’s strengths.” The headache behind her eyes began to pound. “And Father Frank . . . well, he just doesn’t understand the meaning of celibacy!” She had only to think of the other incident . . . Oh, dear Father. Righteousness burned deep in her soul.
“I’ve talked to the archbishop,” Father Paul said softly. “Told him about the situation.”
Charity closed her eyes. “This is such an embarrassment for the church,” she whispered.
“We’ll ride it out,” Paul said, and she saw the weariness in his eyes. “Have faith.”
“My faith is not the issue.” She sighed and shook her head. “There is a chance, Father, that Camille was with child.”
He glanced up sharply, disbelief and something else—sus
picion? —in his eyes. “No.” He shook his head. Foolish old man. As if he could decide what was the truth.
“I’m not certain, but I overheard a conversation between her and Sister Lucia.”
The lines in his face deepened. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said. Then his weak smile. “I don’t put much faith in gossip.”
He checked his watch and she understood. He was a busy man. And he was dismissing her, hiding his head in the sand, hoping that she, again, would clean up the mess. “I’ll talk to Father Frank,” he said benignly, as if that conversation would change anything.
Inwardly, Charity seethed as she left him and his skewed view of the “situation,” as he so callously referred to it. Didn’t he understand the significance of Sister Camille’s murder? The ramifications to St. Marguerite’s? Of course not. Whenever there had been a “situation” in the past, she’d taken care of it.
She walked briskly, hurrying through the passageway between his quarters and her beloved convent. She trailed a finger along the old walls, composed of more than mortar and brick. Years, no centuries, of history were a part of this institution; if she tried, she could almost feel the love, determination, and anguish of those who had walked before her down these hallways, which had withstood hurricanes and floods and political madness.
She reached the far end of the windowless corridor and started toward her office when she heard her name.
“Reverend Mother,” Sister Zita said. She had a melodic voice and a tall, lithe appearance that wasn’t hidden by her habit. Her skin was a warm mocha color, her eyes sparked with intelligence, and she had never given Charity one second of trouble.
“Yes, my child.” She smiled warmly.
“I was wondering about St. Elsinore’s,” she said somberly. “Sister Camille and I worked in the orphanage together ever since Sister Lea left and now . . .” She rotated her palms upward.
“I see.” Charity was nodding. “There are lots of spaces that will need to be filled now that Sister Camille has passed on. Why don’t you see if Sister Maura or Lucia . . . or maybe Sister Edwina can go with you?” She offered a reassuring smile. “Even though the orphanage is moving to a new location, trust me, we here at St. Marguerite’s will be involved. I’ll see to it. Now, come with me.”
She led the tall woman toward her office and, once inside, sat at her desk, unlocked a big drawer, and retrieved the staffing schedule. As Zita had said, Sister Camille was scheduled the next day at St. Elsinore’s orphanage, which was actually across Lake Pontchartrain and closer to Slidell than New Orleans. A place dear to Charity’s heart. She hated to see the orphanage’s venerable old doors closing, but it was already decided, the move in progress.
“Let’s see . . . Yes, either Maura or Devota should be available. They both work there fairly regularly. Lucia . . . let’s leave her out of it. She’s been through enough in the last twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Zita said.
“Good.” Then, automatically, “Bless you, my child.”
Zita left, and once again, Sister Charity was alone in her office, the picture of the current Pope and the crucifix her only solace. In so many ways, these were troubling times. Much earlier, when she was a young novitiate, before Vatican II, things were so much easier to understand. Rigid, yes, but there was no blurring of lines, no question of what was expected.
Now . . . now nothing, it seemed, was clear.
CHAPTER 15
There was no way Val could just go about her normal life.
Nothing about it will ever be normal again, a voice nagged at her as she walked out the back door of her little cottage and slid into her Subaru. The interior was hot; she felt as if she were climbing into an oven, and her air-conditioning was sporadic at best. She started the car, buckled up, and cranked open the window to capture any trace of cool air.
Slade was still at the house—or at least his truck was still parked where he’d left it—but she’d deal with him later.
Right now she had things to do.
She planned on dropping off copies of the e-mails she’d received from Camille at the police station. Just after she had a heart-to-heart with Father Frank O’Toole, that miserable, lying son of a bitch.
“Val!” Slade’s voice chased after her as she pulled out of the short driveway and onto the street. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him striding toward his truck.
She hesitated, then ignored him. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with him, nor even, for that matter, a discussion. She didn’t slow down until she reached St. Charles Avenue. There, she eased into the flow of traffic, navigating around a streetcar with its cargo of tourists eyeing the gracious mansions set back from the tree-lined street, snapping pictures of the pastel Victorian with its widow’s walk and gingerbread details.
Val couldn’t deal with Slade now; didn’t want to. Later, even though his coming to New Orleans was a fool’s mission. And what was all that talk about reconciling? Ridiculous! She ignored that small feminine part of her that found him fascinating, the bit that found his stubborn determination and long drive from Bad Luck romantic.
“Pain in the neck,” she muttered, reminding herself that if it weren’t for Slade and the events that had unfolded two years earlier, Camille would still be alive. She set her jaw, and as she slowed for a red light, she glanced into her rearview mirror, past the traffic stacking up behind her, to the side street leading to the Briarstone House. Sure enough, Slade was waiting to turn onto St. Charles and wedge the old Ford into traffic. Behind her, traffic shifted, a sleek black convertible jockeying into the space behind her.
She was only slightly aware of the BMW, her attention focused on her husband and his beat-up truck. Was Slade following her?
No doubt.
Oh, for the love of God, why?
She felt a tug on her heartstrings and thought for a moment that he really did care, that he wouldn’t have driven all the way from East Texas if he didn’t still have feelings for her, that the past was the past and—
A horn blasted sharply.
“Hey, lady, it doesn’t get any greener than that!” The jerk in the Beemer was gesturing at the light.
Val punched it, disgusted that thoughts of Slade had interrupted her concentration.
As the BMW found a way to pass her, the driver gunning the engine to show his disgust, she pushed the speed limit and cut through the city.
Again, her thoughts turned to Camille and her heart twisted. She’d initially thought Frank O’Toole had killed her, but now, with a little time to think about it, Valerie wasn’t so sure. He was a priest who had broken his vows, yes; that much was true. But to take a life, not only of the woman he’d slept with, but of his own child, too? Was that possible? Even with human passion being what it was, Frank O’Toole was a Catholic priest, and murder was a mortal sin.
But if not Frank O’Toole, then who?
The short drive to St. Marguerite’s Cathedral seemed to take forever, and as she nosed her little car into a parking space on the street, the church bells were tolling again. She realized it was noon, barely twelve hours since she’d stood at her kitchen window, worrying about Camille, sensing something was wrong but not knowing that at that very second she might have been on the verge of death, drawing her last breath. In her mind’s eye, Valerie saw the image of Camille’s motionless, draped body lying on a cold slab in the hospital’s morgue, a picture she prayed would fade with time.
She steeled herself as she rolled up the window.
This probably wasn’t going to go well.
That was just too damned bad.
After locking the Subaru, she jaywalked across the street to the looming edifice, a stone and brick building whose spires rose as if in exaltation to the heavens. The main part of the cathedral was well over two hundred years old, having withstood wars and storms and scandal. Rimmed by expansive grounds and guarded by a wrought-iron fence and gnarled live oaks, St. Marguerite’s Cathedra
l was a reminder of ages past, a society locked away, a world unto itself.
There were no news vans parked along the street, and if the police were still on the premises, Val didn’t see any of their vehicles. However, the massive doors of the cathedral were sealed with yellow crime scene tape strung through the handles, and the trampled grounds were evidence of last night’s assault by hundreds of feet during the start of the investigation.
Of Cammie’s murder.
Oh, God.
She followed the wrought-iron fence that guarded the church grounds, heading toward a back alley and a gate that Cammie had mentioned once, an entrance used by delivery trucks and the few nuns who occasionally left the convent.
She found it next to a solitary oak.
Locked tight.
An eerie feeling washed over her, a breeze that tickled the hairs of her neck and caused her to look upward toward the dark windows of the building. Like soulless eyes, they seemed to stare down at her, almost daring her to enter.
Being here, she had the sense that she was trespassing, that if she ever walked through these locked gates, she would be treading where she shouldn’t.
So what? Could anything be worse than Cammie’s murder? Pull yourself together!
A raven flapped his black wings and cawed before landing upon a gargoyle shaped like a snarling demon, and Val told herself it wasn’t an omen.
Just a coincidence, imagery from too many horror movies that had terrified her as a child.
Just like the monster with hot eyes and tiny teeth who creeps through your nightmares?
She gave herself a quick mental shake, located a buzzer, and jabbed it with her finger.
Waiting, she ignored the sensation that she was being observed by hidden eyes.
No one answered.
“Oh, come on,” she said under her breath, and gave the buzzer a long, hard poke. “Hey! Is anyone there?” she called.
Waiting, she felt a slight breeze as it rustled through the alley behind her, a cool breath against the back of her neck. She twisted her neck to glance behind her, certain she would find someone staring at her from the other side of the narrow backstreet.
