I
t was late afternoon by the time Val and Slade headed to St. Elsinore’s convent. The sun, hidden partially by clouds, was hanging low in the sky, threatening rain again as Slade drove toward the parish where Valerie and Camille had been adopted.
Most of the day had been filled with taking care of paperwork, guest registrations, and Internet reservations and helping Freya in the kitchen and with the laundry and guest rooms that the part-time maid couldn’t get to. Though they didn’t serve lunch, there were evening displays of wine, cheese, and crackers, along with something special Freya baked. This afternoon, she’d whipped up batches of her signature pralines and ginger cookies. The aromas of ginger and vanilla seeped through the airy rooms.
Any other time, Valerie would have been tempted by the scents and tasted the warm cookies, but today she hadn’t been interested, and a part of her still couldn’t believe the world just kept on turning, people going about their lives, while Camille was now lying in a morgue, waiting for Valerie to make arrangements.
She just couldn’t go there yet, hadn’t totally accepted that she’d never see her sister again, never hear her laugh, never catch her eye at a private joke.
“Get over it,” she’d told herself, but the sadness was still with her, lying in wait on the fringes of her consciousness, ready to play havoc with her emotions.
So she’d kept busy.
Today, as she’d worked, her cell phone had been near and she’d kept checking, hoping Montoya had called to tell her that Cammie’s murderer had been caught.
But that was more complicated than she’d originally thought.
When she’d first heard about Camille’s murder, Val had been certain Frank O’Toole had taken her sister’s life, but the more she thought about it, the less likely she thought him capable of murder. She’d seen it in his eyes when she’d talked to him, his abject despondency at Camille’s death.
The priest had vowed he’d loved Camille with such fervency that though she hated to admit it, Valerie almost believed him.
Almost.
But if not Frank O’Toole, then who had hated Camille so intensely as to kill her in the chapel, dressed in a wedding gown?
Someone with intense hatred.
Someone with a point to make.
Someone with access to and knowledge of the parish buildings.
Someone who could make Camille do his bidding.
Someone strong enough to control her.
“Damn it all to hell,” she whispered as she considered the fact that with each passing minute, she believed the killer was getting farther and farther away. She couldn’t let it happen. She had to be proactive in finding Cammie’s killer.
Now Slade drove his truck out of the city on I-10, heading northeast, across the smooth waters of Lake Pontchartrain. Seagulls skimmed the water and wheeled in the sky where the hazy clouds hovered, diaphanously blanketing the sun.
Val’s stomach was tight as they drove; her palms itched with her case of nerves.
The chapel came into view first, whitewashed bricks and stained-glass windows, a steeple rising high into the hazy day. Upon closer inspection, she saw that there were cracks in the steeple and that some of the glass panes had been covered in plywood, the whitewash dingy and streaked.
Through the fence, she saw a few children playing on old equipment as Slade pulled into a potholed parking lot. Val told herself that she was being ridiculous, that St. Elsinore’s was a parish with an orphanage and the people who worked here were God-fearing and well intentioned.
High-pitched voices, squeals, and laughter rang through the play yard and into the quiet neighborhood surrounding the parish. Large trees, their leaves and gnarled branches creating a thick canopy, allowed sunlight to dapple the ground and the cracked sidewalks leading to the old, scarred doors of the orphanage.
Telling herself she was being an idiot, Val made her way up the broad steps and into the vestibule where the smell of warm bread and cinnamon invaded the dark hallways. She saw the office door with its pebbled glass window and pushed it open to find a woman sitting at a desk in front of a glowing computer screen. She looked up as they entered. “May I help you?” she asked, rising and extending her hand. “I’m Sister Philomena, the receptionist here.” Her eyes were bright, her smile wide, her handshake firm. She was wearing slacks and a light sweater, her hair cut in a stylish bob.
A far cry from the black-draped, somber nuns Val remembered thirty-odd years earlier.
She introduced herself and told the nun that Slade was her husband, not bothering to try and explain her complicated relationship with him. “My sister was Sister Camille Renard, and I was told she worked here.”
“Oh, yes. I’m so, so sorry for your loss.” Sister Philomena seemed sincere. “Camille was a delight.”
Tears threatened the back of Val’s eyes at the compliment, surprised at the nun’s kind words and her own reaction. With the new, emerging image of her sister, she was grateful that someone besides herself had seen the good in Cammie. “Thank you,” she said, not so much as glancing at Slade.
Clearing her throat, she added, “I’d really like to talk to some of her coworkers.”
“Or the priest?” she asked. “You know, Father Thomas is extremely understanding and can help you through your grief.”
She wasn’t here for grief counseling, but, of course, Sister Philomena didn’t understand that. “Maybe later. For now, I’d like to speak with her friends. I know she worked here often.”
“Of course.” Sister Philomena was nodding. “We should start with the reverend mother.” She turned, then rapped gently on an inner door, slipped inside, and within seconds, she returned, a tiny woman bustling after her.
Barely five feet, with curly brown hair shot with gray, the mother superior wore a navy blue skirt and a matching jacket over a white shell. Energy seemed to radiate from her. Her face was creased and tanned, as if she spent hours in the sun, and a gold crucifix dangled from a tiny chain around her neck, while reading glasses were perched upon the end of her small nose.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, introducing herself as Sister Georgia and taking Val’s hand in both of hers. Her face was a mask of concern. “This is a hard time for all of us. Come on into my office and we’ll talk.”
They followed her into a small room where they were motioned into worn chairs positioned at the front of Sister Georgia’s desk. The room was compact but filled with light from several windows, one of which looked over the enclosed play area, now empty of children. Books lined one wall, and an antique globe was suspended in its own carved, wooden stand near a pot containing a burst of dark-throated orchids.
“How can I help you?” the reverend mother asked after everyone was seated.
“I’d like information about my sister,” Val explained. “I know she worked here some of the time, and I heard that she was looking into our birth parents.”
“Ah, yes, she was obsessed with finding out who they were.”
“But we knew. I remember my birth parents!” Val said, and repeated the story she’d been told about her adoption. The reverend mother listened patiently, not interrupting, only once in a while glancing at Slade, who sat in the chair next to Valerie.
Once Val was finished, Sister Georgia said, “Of course, all the adoption records were sealed long ago. I couldn’t help Camille except to counsel her, as I do with a lot of the people who come here searching for answers.” She frowned slightly. “As for the validity of the story you were told . . .” She shrugged.
“But you could find out.”
Georgia nodded. “Yes, but I’ve taken an oath. As I said, the files are sealed.”
“Then find a way to unseal them,” Val insisted, realizing that this kindly nun was just as rigid in her own way as Sister Charity was in hers. “This is my life”—she jabbed her thumb at her chest—“and I think there’s a chance my sister was killed because of what she was looking into!”
The reverend mother’s face remained impassive.
“Please. You can understand. I need to know the truth.”
“Of course. It’s just that I have responsibilities. Obligations, if you will—”
Slade’s cell phone rang just as he was reaching into his pocket. “Sorry,” he said quickly as Sister Georgia’s lips tightened. “Excuse me,” he said quickly, and made his way out of the office. Val heard him say, “Hello? Oh, damn. Which horse? . . . Look, I’m still in New Orleans. Call the vet . . .” And then his voice faded, cut off by the door as it closed behind him.
“How are you dealing with your loss?” the reverend mother asked, her composure once again intact. Concern etched her features. “It’s difficult. I know.”
“Yes,” Val said, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk about grief or pain or funeral arrangements. She’d come here for answers, and though this mother superior was a warmer, kinder person, she was as much of a road block as Sister Charity. She toned it down a notch, calmed herself, and said, “I really would like my birth records, and I would like to speak with the people Camille worked with, anyone who might have some idea of what happened to her.”
“Isn’t that what the police are doing?”
“Of course, but . . .” Val’s hands clenched and opened as she tried another tack to get through to the woman. “Sister Georgia, do you have any siblings?” Val asked, tired of being stonewalled.
Sister Georgia nodded. “Five, actually.”
“And what would you do if one—the baby?”
“My brother Patrick.”
“What if Patrick was murdered in cold blood? Wouldn’t you try to do anything in your power to bring his killer to justice?”
Georgia’s lips turned into a wan, patient smile. “I understand your need to do something, to find answers, to seek retribution, but sometimes it’s best to make your own peace, through God’s counsel.” Sister Georgia reached across the desk and took Val’s hand. “Sometimes that’s the only way we find answers. I would try my best to trust in God’s wisdom.”
Val drew her hand away; she was tired of the placating, the sincere, helpful words meant to appease her rather than offer any real answers.
“I’m not asking for much.” She held the older nun’s gaze and tried like hell not to cry or scream or rail to the heavens in frustration; instead she managed to keep her cool, the same calm she’d used when she’d been a detective in Texas. “This is a personal tragedy for not only me, but for the church as well. I’m only looking for answers, trying to understand my sister’s death. I’m not trying to get in the way of the police or in any manner thwart the authority of the church.”
Georgia heaved a long sigh and tapped her fingers on her desk, then seemed to come to terms with Val’s request. “I do understand,” she said, seemingly sympathetic, “and I’m certain some of the people who worked with Sister Camille would love to talk to you.” She wrote a few names on a notepad, then stuck the note onto a flyer that was identical to the one Slade had taken earlier. “I can’t open our records for you, and even if I wanted to, it would take time. Those records are a quarter of a century old, before we were on computer. They’re stored in the basement, I think. I’m not even sure.”
Val thought that was a lie, but she wouldn’t call the reverend mother on it—not yet.
Georgia offered a kind smile. “I do hope you’re coming to the auction. As someone who was adopted out of St. Elsinore’s, you have a special connection here, and we’re encouraging everyone associated with the orphanage to participate.” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’ll be, well, I hate to say ‘fun’ in this time of your sorrow, but let’s just say it’s a worthwhile project. We’d love to have you join us. In fact”—she reached into the top drawer and found an envelope from which she withdrew two tickets—“I just happen to have a couple of complimentary passes. Please come as my guest.” She gave Val the page, flyer, and tickets, then even went so far as to walk her through the hallways and paths that connected the church, playground, and gardens.
Being inside the walls of St. Elsinore’s was difficult. Though the buildings had changed a bit, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking backward to her past and the terror she’d felt as a preschooler who’d just lost her parents and was brought here.
The orphanage itself, a two-story building with rows of long windows, caused her skin to crawl. She remembered the ward, just vaguely, a bright, gleaming white room by day that became dark and frightening when the lights had been turned off. Above each metal cot was a crucifix, and the sheets were scratchy and stiff, smelling of bleach. She recalled all too vividly lying in bed, the covers pulled over her head as she heard the sound of footsteps pacing the hall, crepe soles squeaking, dark shadows passing and cried softly for her parents.
She’d been scared to death, and the girls in the ward had only stared at her with wide, haunted eyes. Most of the nuns, who then wore habits, had been kind, if busy, pushing her through her day, but there had been a few who had seemed ill-suited to tend to children.
The playground, too, was a place she remembered feeling left out and awkward. The other kids had their own cliques, a caste system where she, as the newest member, was ignored or made to feel alien.