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.
A
fter 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 dumped 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.
She thought of nuns Cammie had mentioned: Sister Edwina, whom she thought was “the ultimate ice princess,” and Angela, who was “a silly goose. A Goody Two-shoes.” The statement would have been odd if it hadn’t been issued from Cammie, with her wicked sense of humor.
“Aren’t all nuns good?” Val had asked during one of Cammie’s first visits to Briarstone House, and Cammie had smiled, a naughty glint in her eye. They’d been standing in the herb garden, near a trio of birdhouses sitting atop poles of differing lengths, the sun so intense they were squinting.
Cammie had emitted a low chuckle. “Of course most nuns are good. Very good. It comes with the territory. Angela falls into that category, but Sister Edwina?” Cammie had held out her flat hand and tilted it back and forth, indicating that she was wavering on her opinion of the tall nun. “Not so much. And Sister Devota?” Cammie had rolled her eyes. “The perpetual victim.” Nodding to herself, she added, “There are still a couple I can’t figure out. Irene sometimes takes on the world and doesn’t care. If the meek are going to inherit the earth, then Irene’s going to end up broke. She’s like a Russian soldier one minute, and then kind and calm the next. That Irene’s an odd one.”
Cammie had thought for a second. “And Sister Zita is so . . . quiet. She’s always watching everyone. It’s a little creepy. Ever so silent until it’s time to play yes-woman to the reverend mother. It’s like she’s trying to earn points with Sister Charity, or maybe the priests or God. Who knows? It just doesn’t seem authentic, but then I should talk.” She’d walked over to one of the birdhouses and peeked inside the hole. “No one home, huh?”
“Not yet. So, do you have any friends?” Valerie had asked.
“From that group? Just Lucia, and that’s probably because we went to the same high school, you know, had kind of a ‘shared history’ ”—she made air quotes—“even though we really didn’t know each other back then.” She’d admitted, “I get along with Angela. She really is just plain sweet, I think. Pretty impossible not to like.”
“The Goody Two-shoes?”
“Yeah. Well, I guess I was just being a little catty.”
“You?” Val had teased.
“Yes, moi, believe it or not. But Angela seems real. Genuine. I’m not so sure about Maura.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. Maura’s a bookworm. Quiet. Wears thick glasses and never, I mean never, smiles.” She slid a look at Val. “I sometimes wonder if she’s really filled with the Holy Spirit. Doesn’t seem to have much joy in her life.”
“Maybe she’s just an introvert.”
“Maybe,” Camille whispered. “But the one I can’t really get a bead on is Asteria. She seems like a ditz—you know, the kind of dreamer who believes in fairy tales and frogs turning into princes, all that romantic junk.”
“And she became a nun?” That seemed odd.
“Go figure. Sister Edwina told me that Asteria had been engaged to a guy who committed suicide, so Asteria joined the order. Edwina said it was commit herself to God or to a mental institution.”
“Sounds a little overly dramatic.”
“Everyone’s story is. Except for Sister Charity, who says that she knew she wanted to be nun from the time of her First Communion. Can you believe that?”
Camille had stopped herself and sighed loudly. “I guess I shouldn’t be gossiping about any of them. I’d hate to hear what they had to say about me.”
“St. Marguerite’s is starting to sound more like a high school than a convent,” Val had observed.
Cammie had laughed without a whole lot of humor. “You don’t get it, do you?” she’d said. “Of course the convent is like high school. The whole world is like high school. Take a look around.”
What?
“Maybe in your world.”
“In everyone’s world,” Cammie had insisted, “and, trust me, the convent is no different. There’s the same pecking order, the same authority figures, the same cliques. It’s just that it’s like an all-girls’ school.” She’d looked away then, her face puckering into a frown.
Val could still see her sister as she’d been that day, dressed in plain street clothes, a simple pair of gray slacks and a white blouse, without a touch of makeup, her black hair pulled back into a thick rope and shining blue in the sun. Camille had walked to a bench and sat down. She’d seemed unbearably sad.
“You don’t have to go through with this,” Val had said. “Maybe you’re not cut out to be a nun.”
“I know.” One side of Cammie’s mouth had lifted into a sad, self-deprecating smile. “In for a penny . . .”
“It’s not you.”
“I get it. I know I went into the convent for all the wrong reasons.” She’d lifted her ponytail and readjusted the band holding the thick hank of hair away from her face. “I’m just kidding about the other nuns. Some of the women there are so devout, their faith so secure, it makes me wish I had that same trust in God. I pray every day that I find it, but . . . I don’t know.” She’d shaken her head, a few lines evident between her eyebrows. “Sisters like Louise and Angela and Dorothy, they belong. Even if they’re all half in love with Father O’Toole—he’s the young, hot priest, and all of the sopranos seem to be under his spell.” She’d grinned. “Maybe even me.” She’d picked off a piece of chipped paint from the pole of the birdhouse.
“Seriously,” she continued. “But they’re good people. Take Louise, for example. She’s one of those terminally upbeat people I just don’t get. Musical, too. Always singing or humming, which bugs the reverend mother. Big-time.” Camille had smiled, as if amused at the thought. “She works with me at St. Elsinore’s sometimes.” She’d cast her sister a look. “I know, you think we should avoid the place, but I think it’s a good spot to start giving back.”
“Really?” St. Elsinore’s wasn’t a place she liked to think about too much. A parish far outside New Orleans and built on higher ground, St. Elsinore’s worked hand in hand with St. Marguerite’s, and together the two convents staffed the orphanage.
“Really.” Camille had flashed a bright smile. “See, I’m trying. But”—she’d shrugged, her grin fading—“the truth is, it’s a struggle to belong.”
“More than the others?”
“Who knows? Lots of the others don’t seem like typical nuns. Take Irene. I mean, she was a ballerina. Go figure. Athletic and strong and not particularly even-keeled.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a diva nun,” Val had said.
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Meaning?”
“She has a dark side, I guess.” Camille’s face had turned pensive. “Maybe we all do.” She’d squinted and watched a hawk circle high overhead. “But the thing is, they all seem to think they’re doing the right thing—fitting in.”
“But not you?”
“Uh-uh. Not me.”
“No one’s put a gun to your head and said you had to stay. There’s plenty of time to change your mind.”
“And where would I go?”
“Anywhere, Cammie. You’re young and beautiful and smart as a whip. If you want to take your vows, fine. If the convent life is for you, great. But if you think you don’t belong there, then leave.”
Camille had looked away then, gazing across a fragrant clump of rosemary to a place only she could see. “Well, now, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t think I belong anywhere. . . .” She’d pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slipped the dark lenses over her eyes.
Val had felt her heart rip. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said, her throat thick as she recognized her own culpability, how she’d played a part in her sister’s decision. “I shouldn’t have thrown you out that night. I should have talked to you, listened to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Camille had scoffed at the thought. “I was with your husband. And that’s something that the mother superior probably shouldn’t know. I’ve confessed my sins to the priest, but . . .”
“You lied to Sister Charity.”
“Omitted some information is all.” Camille had sniffed loudly, as if fighting tears, though when Val had checked to see if she were crying, her eyes were hidden by sunglasses.
“It was all a mistake.”
“The story of my life,” Camille had said before hurrying out the garden gate.
Now, nearly a year later, Valerie’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of how she might have saved her sister’s life. If she had responded differently that day, would it have changed what happened to Camille?
Probably not. But the guilt stayed with her, hanging close, never completely disappearing.
Val wrote a few notes to herself about Camille’s comments on everyone at St. Marguerite’s and added her own impressions of the people she’d met earlier in the day. Then she skimmed the other names she’d previously jotted down: Father Paul Neland, Regina St. James, Terri Sue Something-or-Other, people Camille had mentioned at one time or another. Laypeople who worked at the parish. There were other people on staff, as well as volunteers, but she didn’t know their names. While making a mental note to obtain a complete roster, she caught a glimpse of Frank O’Toole’s name on the legal pad where she’d scrawled it earlier.
Conjuring him up, she decided Father Francis O’Toole was an enigma. He was too handsome not to attract notice, too strong to forget. She wondered what it was like to make a confession to him, and the thought was unsettling.
She circled his name with her pen, around and around, dark lines of ink, as if she were physically zeroing in on him.
Well, she was, wasn’t she?
Who else would want her sister dead?
Who else had so much passion?
Valerie didn’t know.
But as she stared at his name on the legal pad, she vowed that she’d find out. And soon.