by Lisa Jackson
It was all Val could do to hold her tongue, especially when Camille’s name came up.
“I heard she was pregnant, you know,” Connie said, her eyebrows rising at the scandal.
“Really?” the third woman, a brunette with wide doe eyes, said, shocked.
“Shhh.” Connie’s husband, Vince, scowled.
“I will not! They claim the father is the priest, and I don’t blame her—look at him!”
“Connie!” Vince rebuked, his face suffusing with color. “Please.” But Connie, tipsy, was eating up Father Frank with her eyes. “I wonder about that other nun who was killed. Maybe she was having a thing with the priest, too!” Connie laughed and nearly fell off her chair. “And now I heard from my friend who works there that another couple of the sisters are missing. What kind of a convent is that? They’re dropping like flies over there!”
“Shhh!” The husband was angry now. Embarrassed.
Val couldn’t stand it. Despite a warning glance from Slade, she said, “Camille Renard was my sister.”
“Of course she was. She was everybody’s sister,” Connie said, her eyes a little glassy as her fingers held up a wobbling glass of Chardonnay. But Vince stiffened, and the other couples went completely silent, setting their forks on the table.
“No, I’m not talking about her being in the convent and taking vows. She was my blood sister,” Val said evenly, and saw the shock register in six pairs of eyes. Slade looked as if he wanted to throttle her, but Val wasn’t about to back down now. “We both were brought to St. Elsinore’s when our parents died. She was a lovely woman, and I miss her terribly.”
“Oh, dear God,” Ned’s wife whispered.
The other crossed herself.
“But she was preggers, right?” Connie had lost all sense of propriety.
“I’m so sorry,” her husband said, and to his wife, “Come on, honey, let’s go.”
“But the auction hasn’t even started.” She was slurring her words now, and Val, irritated and ready for a fight, wondered how many drinks she’d had before she’d walked through the hotel doors.
“I’ll be good, I promise,” she said, trying to appear cute.
Her husband wasn’t having any of it, and he herded his tipsy wife out of the room. They wove their way to the doors while the rest of the people at the table picked at their food, a silent, awkward table in the midst of noise.
Slade placed a hand on Val’s knee and warned her with his gaze to not make a scene. He was right, of course. Especially when she considered what she planned to do later. She didn’t want anyone to notice her. Or miss her.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd again, and she noticed several people from the police department. Her gaze locked with Bentz’s for a second, and she saw Montoya leaning against a post and eyeing Father Thomas, who, just as dessert of Bananas Foster was served, introduced Sister Charity and the St. Marguerite’s choir.
The reverend mother seemed to have shrunk in the past few days, her skin paler than Val remembered, the starch drained out of her.
“As you know,” Charity said into the microphone after she’d tapped it to see that it was still live, “we’ve suffered some terrible losses at St. Marguerite’s lately.” Her voice was clear and strong, even over the feedback of the mic. “Our choir, too, has been affected, but in honor of those who have passed and those who are missing, for the glory of God and this great cause, we will perform.” The corners of her mouth tightened a bit as she paused, then said, “But first, I’m going to ask you all to pray with me and observe a moment of silence for Sister Asteria and Sister Camille, who were called home so recently, and for those who are missing from our order.” She glanced at Father Paul, who led the prayer; then, after a quiet moment when nothing so much as ice cubes clinking disturbed the silence, Sister Charity led the smaller group in song.
Val watched, listened, and wondered what it would have sounded like if her sister and the novitiate who had the beautiful voice, the one who was always humming, Sister Louise, were still in the group. As it was, the hymn was melodic and, to Val, melancholy, the nuns sad as they raised their voices.
Val glanced at her program and saw that it had been printed too early to erase the names of all the members of the choir, and as she studied the names, listed one after another, she saw something she’d missed earlier. Or was she nuts?
The sopranos were listed as:
Sister Camille
Sister Asteria
Sister Lucia
Sister Louise
Sister Edwina
Sister Devota
The altos were:
Sister Zita
Sister Irene
Sister Maura
When she took the first letters of the sopranos’ names and listed them, they spelled out CALLED. If she drew a heart around the letters, like a noose, she’d get one of the messages Camille had left in her diary.
So what? she asked herself. That’s kind of random. Still she felt a bit of a buzz run through her nerves, the sense that she was on to something—something important.
What had Camille said so long ago—that the sopranos all had a crush on Father Frank. Was it possible?
Val’s mind was racing with possibilities, and the conclusion she drew was too bizarre to consider:
Camille had known which nuns had a crush on Father Frank.
Of the six, two were dead and two were missing. Both Sister Lucia and Sister Louise were nowhere to be found.
Val’s insides turned to ice. Were they dead? Already dressed in bridal gowns, their throats sliced by the horrid garrote?
If so, she thought, looking over the list of names again, it meant that Sister Edwina and Sister Devota were his next victims!
Valerie turned her attention to the small choir, singing the Lord’s praises, lifting their voices in song.
Sister Devota’s gaze moved, slid across the room. For half a heartbeat, she stared straight at Valerie.
As if she knew.
As if she, too, felt the evil that was hiding in the corners, noticed the tremor of premonition that ripped though Val’s soul.
Or was Val wrong?
Hadn’t the killer told her differently? Hadn’t he singled her out?
You’re nexxxt, he’d rasped into her phone, telling her that she would be his victim. There is no esssscape.
Sister Devota’s gaze had shifted again, and Val drew in a long, calming breath.
She decided she wouldn’t be played as a victim. Bring it on, you twisted bastard, she thought angrily. I’m sick and tired of playing games.
So this is it, I think from my spot on the upper landing. I stare down at the patrons of the orphanage as they gather, a teeming, glittering crowd, all eager to partake of the festivities.
A tribute to the whore . . .
A joke.
And yet, don’t I feel her presence here? Don’t I hear her laughter? A wave of regret passes through me as I think of Camille with her naughty smile and bright eyes.
“Teach me,” she’d pleaded, so willing.
And I had.
But I hadn’t been alone in her education, I realize.
There had been many teachers.
That was why she’d been so unique.
I’ve lost at love before, of course.
But this time . . . this time I cannot stand the pain.
I feel the rosary, deep in my pockets, the sharp beads clicking softly, and I smile as I find a back staircase, the one used by the hotel staff, and step inside.
I push the button with the arrow pointing downward, and it lights brightly.
With a groan, the old car shudders into motion and I descend.
As if to the very bowels of hell.
CHAPTER 50
Val had to tell him.
There was just no getting around it; she had to let Slade in on her plans.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered before the final prayer was intoned.
“Why?” Slade asked, but she w
as already pushing back her chair. When he caught the determination in her gaze, he followed suit. They weren’t alone. Other patrons were leaving the hotel, hoping to dash the few blocks to the orphanage and start bidding on the items on display in the old gymnasium.
“I want to poke around in the records of the orphanage,” she said under her breath, “before the whole place is torn down.” She didn’t have time to explain her urgency; it was just a feeling she had, stronger since seeing the picture of Sister Ignatia with the child. Soon the orphanage would be torn down or sold, the old records, those not on computer, lost or buried, the secrets they held gone forever.
“You can’t just go digging through the old records.”
“Not even if they’re about me?” she whispered as they crossed the main foyer, past the stools where the string quartet had played earlier, and through the glass doors into the night.
Rain was coming down steadily now, the wind whipping up. Slade battled the umbrella, then walked toward the church and orphanage. She sidestepped puddles as water rushed in the gutters, gurgling down the street, and though the air was warm, the drops falling from the sky felt cool and heavy.
As they made their way, she told Slade about what she’d seen in the program, how she’d tied it to Camille’s notes. He listened, holding the umbrella, but shook his head.
“You don’t think it’s anything?” she asked.
“Anything significant? I don’t see it.”
“You think I’m grasping at straws?”
“You tell me.”
She didn’t have time to argue with him, as they’d reached St. Elsinore’s.
Lights blazed around the cathedral, washing the old bricks with an eerie illumination that seemed to magnify the decay, showing off the crumbling bricks and cracks in the whitewash. While Spanish moss danced and swayed in the gusting wind, gargoyles stood guard of the cathedral. Perched on the gables and downspouts, the tiny demons appeared to ogle the flow of humanity streaming into the heavy doors of St. Elsinore’s.
It was silly to think that anything evil lurked here, Val knew, especially with all the patrons filling the building. Wasn’t there safety in numbers?
You’re nexxxxt, the gargoyle situated on the corner of the nave seemed to hiss from his roost. There is no esssscape.
“Bull,” she said under her breath, refusing to freak herself out.
“What?” Slade leaned forward, obviously trying to hear her over the rush of the wind.
“Nothing,” she said as they walked through the hallways lined with tables covered with items that were available for bidding, the silent part of the auction that would last until the verbal auction ended. The bigger items like the trips, a vintage carousel horse, and the Wembleys’ piano would be offered once the silent auction was declared over, in this case in two hours.
People were already bidding on items, signing their names to bidding sheets, adding amounts to the dollar column. Around each table, someone from St. Elsinore’s or St. Marguerite’s was stationed.
Sister Simone and Sister Georgia, the reverend mother for St. Elsinore’s, were already in the building, but Val also glimpsed several of the nuns who were in the St. Marguerite’s choir. Sister Maura, Sister Devota, and Sister Zita were walking around the hallways and gymnasium, though she didn’t see Sister Edwina. She told herself not to worry, that Edwina had been in the choir less than an hour earlier and that her theory that CALLED, the message left in Camille’s notes, wasn’t anything. Even if the notation indicated that the sopranos were half in love with Father Frank, it all had been just in Camille’s mind.
Right?
At that moment, she saw Sister Edwina appear, walking swiftly out of the restroom.
Nothing to worry about other than her own case of nerves.
And what she had planned.
More and more people arrived, and the throng became louder, the halls more packed, the fever of bidding running hot through the crowd. Val felt her nerves tightening. Just being here brought back unwanted memories, and every time she caught a glimpse of Father Frank, she felt the pain and loss of Camille’s death all over again . . . Camille’s and her unborn child’s deaths.
Bastard, she thought when she caught him leaning forward and talking to a little girl who was with her parents. It was nothing, a friendly gesture priests did all the time, but it made Val sick. The man was a fraud.
As if Father Frank felt her gaze, he turned his head and looked at her. She expected to see a smarmy, smug smile; instead she saw eyes without life, dead and haunted.
She turned away.
As the bidding was closed on the silent items, the staff and volunteers for the parishes collected the bidding sheets. Most of those attending worked their way into the gymnasium, a cavernous room with high ceilings and open rafters. If she closed her eyes, she could smell old sweat from soiled jerseys at basketball games and the teen angst and worry, even disappointment, of girls standing at the sidelines of a Friday-night dance. The old memories hung in the air, left over from the years when, off and on, the gym had been attached to a school.
Now the crowd was excited, enthralled, the buzz of the festivities, lubricated by a few glasses of wine, evident. Rain slanted against frosted windows high over stacked bleachers, but the room was stifling and hot, too many bodies giving off too much heat.
If a fire marshal had been around, Valerie believed he would have closed the place down. As it was, people were jockeying for position, and Father Thomas had climbed to the auctioneer’s platform, a few steps higher than the crowd.
At his side was Sister Georgia, in her habit, and a slim woman with dark red hair that was almost auburn and a smile that lit up her face. She was introduced as Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist for WSLJ. Her program, Midnight Confessions, Father Thomas insisted was one of the most popular in not only New Orleans, but also most of the Gulf Coast.
Another couple of introductions were made before one more prayer, this time led by Father Paul, and finally the oral auction was officially open. Sister Georgia made the announcement.
First up, a trip for two to Las Vegas. But that wasn’t all—there was a pair of matching wingback chairs donated by a local furniture store, a carousel horse that had been owned by a famous actress, and, of course, the grand piano. . . .
Montoya was on Valerie Houston like glue. He’d seen her leave the hotel early, and with a quick signal to Bentz, took off after her. She was with her husband, so that was good, but he was still worried about the message she’d received earlier, the threat claiming she was to be the next victim.
Was it possible that it was a prank?
Sure.
But he didn’t think so.
His gut told him to follow her, so he gave Bentz the high sign, then called him on his cell. Bentz was on Father O’Toole, while Brinkman, Zaroster, and several other undercover cops were watching the group as a whole.
Everyone in the department thought the killer wouldn’t be able to stand it, would be lured out of the shadows by all the festivities and media attention. If he was going to go after Valerie Renard Houston, Montoya intended to be there.
He followed her and the husband to the church and watched as they mingled with the other guests; he even went so far as to hang out in the gymnasium where the oral auction was beginning. One of the guests of honor was Samantha Leeds Walker, the radio psychologist and original target of Father John ten years earlier.
As he watched Dr. Sam step up to the microphone, he felt a tightening in the back of his neck, the foreboding that something bad was about to happen. If Father John was truly here, if he was the monster they were chasing, the killer who’d strangled Grace Blanc with a rosary, wouldn’t he turn his attention to his original target?
Ten years ago, that sick son of a bitch had killed women who looked like Dr. Sam, who he made to look like her. Was she the primary target, or was Valerie Houston? Was the call to Valerie a way to throw the police off his real target?
Val, sta
nding near the back of the gymnasium, took it as her cue. She’d already scoped out the building and knew that stairs leading to the basement were located in the office and on either end of the building. The office was being used by volunteers from an accounting firm to tally up the bids of the silent auction, so that was out. The south entrance was too close to the gym, it would be too easy to be spotted, so she would use the stairs to the north.
“Did I mention that this was a bad idea?” Slade said as they ducked beneath a velvet rope and slipped quietly along the hallway leading away from the gym.
“Only about a thousand times.”
“Make it a thousand and one, okay?”
“Duly noted.” She hurried around a corner to the staircase, which, of course, was locked. “Damn,” she said, pounding a fist upon the door. She’d thought—well, hoped really—that it would be easier than this. Of course, she’d figured that might not be the case.
“Okay, let’s take that as a sign.”
“To give up?” She was shaking her head no way. “Maybe the door at the south end . . .” But what were the chances? The grounds were locked tight. Disgusted, she let out a frustrated sigh. “I know this might not be a big deal to you,” she said, disappointed, “but it is to me. I think that somewhere in the archives down there”—she hooked a thumb at the basement door—“is the answer to a dozen questions about myself and about Camille, maybe even a clue as to who killed her. I tried going through the church, and Sister Georgia stonewalled me. And if you tell me to talk to the police, it will take forever. By that time, this place could be a pile of rubble.”
“The archdiocese won’t destroy the records,” he argued, but she saw him wavering.
“Not on purpose, maybe, but someone definitely doesn’t want me to know the truth.” She leaned her head back against the panels of the door. “Oh, hell,” she muttered, and Slade touched her on the shoulder.
“I’ve got a Pomeroy lock-pick set in my truck.”
