by Lisa Jackson
The pain and humiliation she’d felt two years ago came back in a wild rush with its own brand of familiar heartache. Now, looking back, she realized it had been a matter of “he said/she said,” and she’d trusted her sister that Slade had not just come on to her, but also had actually, at Christmastime, slipped into her room and her bed. According to Camille, “nothing had really happened,” but she’d said it so hesitantly, Val had doubted it. Seeds of suspicion had been planted and had quickly taken root. Slade had always liked Camille, and they had flirted. Oh, God, what was the point? It was over now. She was divorcing her husband and her sister was dead. Twisting her glass in her hands, watching the ice cubes dance, she wondered if she’d been too harsh on her sister, too rash with her husband, too damned ready to believe the worst.
The cop in you.
Yeah, well, that part of her life was over, too. She’d quit being a detective when she’d left Texas. At least officially. Until now.
Old habits die hard. Especially when your own sister is murdered.
Frank O’Toole had to be the killer.
Who else?
Her gut instinct told her to look no further.
Her head reminded her to see past the obvious.
She thought of her sister. Cammie had been troubled, no doubt about it. Though she hadn’t heard all the details of her sister’s death, she’d been told enough to convince her that Camille’s murder hadn’t been a random act. The bridal gown—had that been Cammie’s idea? Had someone else dressed her? Someone close to her? Her night-clothes had been in her room. Everything she knew about her sister’s murder made her think that someone close to Cammie had killed her.
She just needed to figure out who and prove it. Fast. Hours were ticking by, and it was a known fact that if a homicide wasn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours after commission, the chances of solving the case were cut in half.
Which meant it was time to pin down O’Toole. Though she had almost believed the priest when he’d said he’d been in love with Camille, she still felt as if he could have killed her.
An act of passion.
There had been signs of a struggle, the cops had told her, but they’d said nothing else about the crime. She knew from her own experience that the police withheld evidence to weed out the real killer, the only person who would have intimate knowledge of the crime. All she knew was Camille had been strangled in the chapel around midnight, nothing more. She still felt O’Toole was the most likely suspect for the crime, but she needed concrete evidence to tie him to it.
Or prove him innocent.
Was it possible?
If so, then who would hate her so badly to kill her?
Let the police handle it. Isn’t that your motto? When she was with the sheriff ’s department, she’d hated it when novices got involved in her investigations.
But that was different. She wasn’t a novice, not by a long shot. She had investigative experience, and now her sister was the victim. She couldn’t sit around and wait for the likes of Montoya and Bentz to plod through their job.
No, Val had to take charge.
“I say fresh-baked goodies can cure just about anything,” Freya called through the screen door as she appeared with a small plate of blondies, which she set on the short table beside her chair.
Although Val appreciated the gesture, both women knew there was no way to soothe the loss of a sister, the end of a life. And when murder was involved . . .
Freya bit into a square and declared, “Oooh. Maybe my best batch ever.”
“Modest, aren’t you?” Val took a bite of the warm confection, and immediately bits of chocolate melted in her mouth, pecans crunching between her teeth. Bo, with his big, sad eyes, began to drool.
“Here ya go,” Freya said, and reached into her pocket for a dog biscuit, which Bo licked with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
It was so like Freya to have something to appease everyone. “So now, Val, all old, ridiculous promises aside, let’s hear it. Why the hell is it that you think the hunk you’re married to is evil incarnate?”
A few blocks off the river at a watering hole in the French Quarter, Slade worked on his second beer. He’d spent some time familiarizing himself with the city, figuring it was good to avoid the bed-and-breakfast for a few hours and give Val some space after their last confrontation at the cathedral.
He’d even driven as far away as St. Elsinore’s, the parish on the other side of the bridge that spanned Lake Pontchartrain. Built of stucco, its once-white exterior had darkened from years of grime. Giant willow trees draped over the walls guarding the orphanage, convent, and parochial school attached to the church. Not an inviting place, it looked deserted, closed for the day.
But there had been one door left ajar for a maintenance man, and Slade had slipped into the cool, dark interior and walked the mostly empty hallways, acquainting himself with the layout. A few doors were locked, of course, and he avoided areas where he heard voices, but he did get a general feel for the place, had taken note of the office for the parish and the orphanage. He’d seen evidence of children, a few toys and artwork on the cracked plaster walls. He’d seen a flyer taped to the windows announcing a charity auction and the fact that the building was about to be condemned, the orphanage moved. The disrepair was palpable—cracks in the walls, stains near the ceiling, the smell of mold beneath the stringent odor of disinfectant. Like St. Marguerite’s, St. Elsinore’s appeared antiquated and dark, in its death throes.
He’d climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, then hurried down an outdoor stairwell, studied the sorry playground and layout of rooms, the connections between the buildings. He’d even tried a few locked doors but hadn’t taken the time to try and break any dead bolts.
At least not yet.
He hadn’t stayed at St. Elsinore’s long, hadn’t wanted to be confronted and forced to answer awkward questions about why he was there. He really couldn’t explain it. Yes, there was a need for a glimpse of the crumbling building and grounds, the place where Valerie and Camille had lived for a short while before the Renards had adopted them, but there was more to it than that. Camille had worked at St. Elsinore’s recently, had taken a job with the children in the orphanage, a place Val had rarely spoken of.
What was the deal with that?
After the trek across Lake Pontchartrain to St. Elsinore’s, Slade had returned to the city and driven straight to St. Marguerite’s, clocking the miles and time. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a gut feeling that whatever Camille had been doing at St. Elsinore’s had been important. What had the big nun who’d worked with her—Louise—said? That Camille liked to work with kids? That she’d been searching for her roots?
When she supposedly knew all about her life.
Val had been stunned.
Worth looking into.
Once he’d checked the mileage to St. Marguerite’s, he’d driven through other parts of New Orleans, some still scarred and abandoned, as empty as an evacuated war zone, the resulting destruction of Hurricane Katrina years before.
He’d taken the time to familiarize himself with the city where his wife had grown up and now called home.
That thought stung like a bitch, and he wondered, in light of Camille’s murder, if Val would ever return to his ranch near Bad Luck.
Probably not.
Once he was finished with his tour, he’d wound up here in the Plug Nickel, a honky-tonk that was about as glamorous as its name.
The bartender swabbed down the scarred bar, revealing tattoos that seemed to be inked on every inch of her exposed skin. Her over-processed hair was piled high on her head and tied with a red scarf. A tank top and shorts gave ample view of the body art that was scrolled on her arms, legs, and neck. So far, the spiderweb that climbed up her throat hadn’t reached her face.
A good thing, in his estimation.
“You need another?” she asked, offering him a bright smile as she replaced his nearly empty bowl of sa
lty Chex Mix with a full one.
“Still workin’ on this one.”
“Just let me know.” She took a drag on her cigarette, then jabbed the filter tip out in an ashtray near the soda gun and moved down the bar to wait on other customers. Two women in their twenties laughed over a couple of glasses of wine. Farther down, another single guy nursed a scotch while surreptitiously watching the female patrons’ reflection in the mirror that ran along the wall behind the bar.
Bottles glistened like jewels in the soft light, and pool balls clicked as a couple of guys in jeans and T-shirts played a game of Nine Ball at one of the two pool tables.
A television mounted high in the corner had been tuned to a local station. The five-o’clock news was just airing the big story: nun murdered at St. Marguerite’s.
Oh, hell.
Every muscle in his body tensed.
The volume on the television was set too low to hear much over the conversation in the bar, but Slade caught the drift. A male reporter stood in front of the cathedral, explaining details of the crime. A close-up of the crime scene tape around the doors of St. Marguerite’s gave way to an image of Camille. In the photograph, she wasn’t dressed as a nun. It was a photo Slade recognized, a posed senior portrait, which was over five years old. The same photo Valerie had displayed on the mantel at the ranch when they’d lived there together.
Slade’s jaw slid to the side as the screen changed to a series of black-and-white photos of nuns as the reporter quickly went through some of the history of St. Marguerite’s.
The barkeep saw him watching the screen.
“A helluva thing,” she said, scooping ice into three empty glasses, the small cubes rattling loudly. “Who in their right mind would want to kill a nun?” She poured healthy shots of vodka over the ice. “I mean, really.”
“No right mind was involved,” the single guy at the end of the bar interjected, then added, “She sure doesn’t look like any of the nuns I had in grade school.” He smiled, hoping to engage the women sitting near him.
They ignored him, as well as the TV.
Slade didn’t say anything. That Camille was beautiful wasn’t an issue in her death.
Though it had been part of her undoing in life.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her again as he had the last time he’d been with her—long, perfect neck, dark hair falling in thick, coiling waves that skimmed the tops of her naked breasts—full, round, with large pink nipples standing at attention, begging for the touch of his fingers and tongue.
A long, knotted rope of pearls had fallen between those breasts, and the electric blue of her eyes had sizzled with the promise of an erotica that had teased at his mind. That girl had opened doors to dark alleys that should have stayed closed forever.
It had been Christmas Eve, rain battering the windows, the East Texas wind blowing cold. With candles lit and the sound of a choir singing “O Holy Night” whispering through the ranch house, Camille had been set on seduction.
And Armageddon had ensued.
Damn it all to hell.
Now the news story changed, and Slade drained his beer. He left some cash on the bar and, with a nod to the tattooed barkeep, strode outside to the heat of late afternoon.
The image of Camille followed him outside, and though he tried to shake it, she hung close, as she had in life. A shimmering ghost. Death had only exacerbated the feeling that she was nearby, that she would never let him be.
Slade walked a few blocks toward the river, striding with purpose. He hardly noticed the people he passed, teenagers in groups, each plugged into an iPod or talking on a cell phone; a jogger, sweating and intent on getting in her predusk workout; two homeless men with beards, backpacks, and watch caps, asking for spare change. Local color was lost on him; his mind was anywhere but here.
The air was heavy, the sultry heat that pressed against his skin thicker than what he was used to in the hill country he called home.
At the top of a levee, he paused to watch ships and boats churn up the murky water of the wide, muddy Mississippi River. The sun hung low in the western sky, promising to dip below the horizon within the next few hours.
Shadows lengthened, but the warmth of the day remained, seeming to ooze from the ground as he walked back to his truck and climbed into the sunbaked interior.
Earlier, despite all his adverse thoughts, he’d given Val some space. She’d been furious with him for following her to the convent, but there was something else in her eyes as well, something that gave him a bit of encouragement.
And just what is it that you want?
A marriage without trust?
A separation?
Maybe a divorce would be the best thing—a clean slate. You both could start over.
Their romance and wedding had been like fire in a tinder-dry forest. Quick. All consuming. Destined to burn out.
They’d met when he’d gone into the local sheriff ’s office to report some cattle that had gone missing—stolen, he’d expected. When the dispatcher had told him politely that someone would come out to the ranch to look things over, he’d expected a silver-haired deputy with a bit of a paunch and years of experience. Instead, Valerie Renard had stepped out of the department-issued Jeep, all five feet five of her. Her uniform had fit snugly, showing off her athletic body and hinting at her curves. Reflective sunglasses had covered the upper half of her face, a hat shading her forehead, auburn hair pulled back. She’d worn little makeup, but he’d found himself fantasizing about her, as if she were one of those cop-impersonator strippers. He’d figured his brothers had pulled a practical joke on him.
But when she had not whipped out her cuffs to “arrest” him and had settled down to business about the missing cattle, he’d had to accept the fact that she was a cop doing her job. She’d been thorough, but the twenty head were never found, most likely victims of a rustling ring that had swung through the hill country.
Nonetheless, he’d been intrigued with the deputy who was quickly promoted to detective. And when he’d gotten up the nerve to ask her out, she’d surprised him with a quick “Sure, Cowboy, why not?”
There had been dozens of reasons why not, but they’d ignored them all. She’d slept with him on the third date, moved into the ranch house the next month, and said “I do” six weeks later. Their affair had burned hot, rash, and straight into trouble.
Which had come in the form of her baby sister: Camille Renard, a younger, wilder version of Valerie and a woman who had been determined, it seemed in retrospect, to break up their marriage.
In the end, even in death, Camille was the pall that hung over their relationship.
Valerie had chosen to believe her sister rather than her husband. What the hell was that all about?
And now Camille was dead.
He squinted into the dying sunlight, watching as a tugboat pushed a barge upriver. It looked like an impossible task, yet the tug was making progress. Sure and steady.
He only hoped he’d be so lucky.
CHAPTER 20
After explaining to Freya that she didn’t really think Slade was the devil, just Lucifer’s right-hand man, Val spent the next hours compiling all the information she could about her sister. Though she’d already left copies of Camille’s e-mails with the police, she had made other hard copies that she slipped into a file.
She made a timeline of Camille’s life, starting with her birth, moving to their natural parents’ deaths, their short stint at the orphanage, their subsequent adoption, and every address where they’d lived. Val included the schools they’d attended and a list of Camille’s friends and boyfriends, at least the ones she remembered. At first she could recall only first names, but after looking on the Internet and through old school records, the list became fairly complete.
One person on the list she wanted to meet was Camille’s ex-fiancé, a law student at Tulane University named Brandon Keefe. Val didn’t know all the details of the relationship and the breakup, except that Keefe had d
umped Cammie and married an old girlfriend within the year.
Cammie’s best friend throughout high school had been Georgiana Pagano, who had gone off to California for college and, as Val recalled, had gotten married to someone she’d met in L.A.
As for enemies, none of the names on the list popped for Val. No doubt Cammie had wronged more than her share of people, but in the past year or so, she’d attempted to turn her life around. She had even joined a convent for God’s sake. She should have been safe.
But really, how hard had Cammie tried to turn things around?
She’d managed to get pregnant.
By a priest, no less.
Which reminded her to add the staff of St. Marguerite’s to the list, starting with Sister Lucia, the best friend. Cammie had said Lucia was “interesting” and “different,” that she possessed some kind of ESP, which Cammie had found fascinating. She’d commented once that she suspected Lucia had joined the convent because she was running from her secret past.
Just like Cammie.
But Camille’s crime had been no secret: an affair with her sister’s husband. Inwardly, Val cringed as she remembered screaming at her sister to “Get out! Just leave us the hell alone!” upon finding Camille in her bedroom with Slade. Soon after that, she’d packed up and left the ranch, knowing in her heart that her marriage was over. Even now, the thought of Slade with Cammie—her sister, for God’s sake—tore at a raw wound in her heart.
“Son of a bitch,” she said under her breath, and tried to concentrate. She could not let her mind wander to the “what ifs” of life....
What if Val had never married Slade?
What if she hadn’t offered Cammie a place to stay over the holidays that year?
What if she hadn’t been called to the accident that night ?
What if she’d never learned about her husband’s infidelity with her sister?
What if she’d swallowed her pride, tried to talk things out reasonably?
What if Cammie had never left Bad Luck . . .
“Stop it,” she warned herself. This was getting her nowhere. She shook off all the old, melancholy memories, forced herself to push past her grief and think like a cop again.
