“
Y
ou know Frank O’Toole
and
Camille Renard?” Bentz asked, his eyes narrowing on Montoya.
“Yeah. High school.” Montoya still couldn’t believe it. How did so many people he recognized from a small high school end up here at St. Marguerite’s, with the girl he’d dated for over six months dead at his feet? He swallowed hard as he glanced to the floor, where someone from the ME’s office was bending over the body. Montoya’s gaze found Bentz’s again. “And that isn’t all of it,” he admitted, not liking the turn of his thoughts. “That nun over there.” With one finger, he indicated the shivering Lucia Costa. “I didn’t really know her, but for a while she dated my brother, Cruz. He’s a couple of years younger than me. She was a few years behind him, I think. I was out of high school before she started her freshman year.”
“So it’s old home week?” Bentz’s eyes thinned speculatively.
“Beats me.” Scowling, stepping away from the body, he asked, “Who was the first officer to arrive?”
“Amos took the call,” Bentz said.
Montoya spotted the officer talking to the shivering girl. New to the force, Joe Amos was a six-foot black man with a wide girth and mocha-colored skin accentuated by a shotgun blast of darker freckles across his face. Montoya walked in front of the first pew to a pillar where Amos was listening to Sister Lucia.
“. . . and so Father Paul and Father Frank and I ran back here, to the chapel and—” she was saying, but her gaze strayed to Montoya and her chain of thought was interrupted. “And . . . Oh, dear God.” Her eyes rounded and she took a step back.
“And what?” Amos asked.
Lucia blinked, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “You’re Cruz’s brother,” she whispered, appearing as if she might faint.
“That’s right.”
Even more lines of worry showed between her eyebrows. “Raymond or . . .”
“Reuben. I’m with the local police department now. Detective.”
Amos pinned Montoya with a glare. “You two know each other?”
Montoya shook his head. “Went to the same high school. Years ago. She dated my brother.”
“You look a lot like him,” Lucia said, fingers pulling the cape closer around her body. “Like Cruz.”
“So I’ve heard.” Montoya couldn’t deny the obvious, having heard it for years—the family resemblance ran strong.
Amos held up a hand. “Okay, so let’s get back to your statement. Let’s see, you ‘heard something,’ you said. What was it?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “Something sharp. It woke me and I felt troubled, like I needed to pray.”
“A scream?” Montoya asked. “Or a call for help?”
“No . . . nothing I can really identify.”
Really?
“But you left your room?” Amos pressed.
“Yes, as I said, I was upset, like I’d had a horrible dream that I can’t remember. I knew I wouldn’t go back to sleep, so I thought I’d go pray in the chapel. It’s calming sometimes.” Lucia looked frightened and small, as if she wanted to disappear into the shadows.
Amos glanced down at notes he’d scribbled in a nearly illegible hand. “So then you find the body, see someone leaving, call for help, meet up with Sister Charity, go to the office, make the call to nine-one-one, then run back to the chapel after waking the priests. Oh, only Father Paul. Father Frank was already up. Right?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly.
To get her story straight or because she was trying to remember?
Amos scratched his chin. “What happened then?”
“Oh!” Lucia dragged her gaze away from Montoya. “Then . . . we, um, waited. Father Paul checked Sister Camille’s pulse again. Then we all prayed for her.” Lucia’s voice grew husky, her nose reddened, and tears filled her eyes. “Then . . . then . . . a few minutes later, I heard sirens and you arrived.” She took in a long breath, pulled the cape even tighter around her, and clammed up.
“You found the body?” Montoya asked.
“I just told him all about it,” she said, looking toward Amos.
Montoya wasn’t going to be put off. “So bring me up to speed.”
She seemed to withdraw, as if her body were shrinking for a second. Then she gathered her breath and explained her version of the events of the night yet again. After the mother superior had answered her cries for help, she’d called the police, run into Father Frank in the cloister, awoke a sleeping Father Paul, and had returned to the chapel with the two priests.
“But you said something about seeing someone leaving the chapel when you arrived,” Amos interjected.
“I . . . I think so.”
Montoya asked, “You’re not sure?”
“No . . . sometimes I kind of sleepwalk, so . . . it can be kind of”—she lifted a small shoulder—“blurry, I guess.”
“Wait a second. Sleepwalking?” Montoya said. “You didn’t say that before.”
“No, I know. . . . It was different than that, but . . .” She looked close to tears and blinked. “Hard to explain.”
“But, in the chapel, you did hear a door close over the sound of the midnight bells tolling?” Amos persisted, not one to be put off by anything, even female tears.
Lucia seemed flustered. And scared as hell. “It seems that way.”
Not exactly firm testimony, Montoya thought. He’d never really known Lucia, though one of her older brothers, Pedro, had been in his class at school. What was it about her that Cruz had found so intriguing? Not just her looks, but a bit of ESP or something. But maybe Cruz made that up. Montoya’s younger and wilder brother had been known to tell more than his share of lies.
They asked a few more questions to piece together the chain of events and time frame; then Montoya and Bentz left Amos to wrap things up.
“Pretty,” Bentz mentioned. “What happened between her and your brother?”
“Car wreck. Cruz was at the wheel. Nearly killed them both.” But there was more to the story, Montoya thought; he just didn’t know it, had been off at college when the accident had occurred.
They met up with the mother superior in the hallway near the chapel, where she was being interviewed by one of the uniformed officers.
Sister Charity’s voice was hushed and well modulated despite the tragedy. In the dim candlelight, her face seemed far more youthful than the sixty years she claimed to be as she responded to Montoya. “I already told one of your officers, Ms. Erwin, here, everything I know.” Her words, though spoken softly, were underlaid with a thread of steel.
“We’re going to need to interview everyone in the building,” Officer Erwin said.
The older woman shook her head slowly. “Everyone was asleep. I can’t see what good waking them will do.”
“They might have heard something. Or maybe someone was up, passing through the hallway on the way to the restroom. There’s a chance someone saw something,” Randi Erwin insisted. “Or maybe one of the residents could shed some light on motive for killing Sister Camille.”
“Oh.” The mother superior crossed herself, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of the tragedy. “I’ll talk to each of them,” the reverend mother offered. “Father Paul will offer them guidance—”
“It’s not about guidance,” Montoya said crisply as he wondered if the woman was being intentionally obtuse. “Before you speak to them, we need to interview them.”
“All of them?” She seemed surprised.
Montoya nodded. “We want to talk with anyone who lives here and anyone who may have been on the property tonight. They’ll need to give their statements to officers.”
Erwin said, “And I’ll need more information on the victim.”
“We’re a very private order.” Sister Charity frowned. A roadblock.
“With one of your own dead? Murdered. I’d say that overrules privacy.” Barely thirty, Randi Erwin was tough, a small, wiry woman who wore little makeup and kept her brown hair cut short and feathery. Once a gymnast in college, she was now a martial arts expert and took no guff, not from older guys in the department who tended to tease her and not from this imperious nun. “I’ll need a list of the victim’s friends. Can you think of anyone who held a grudge against her?”
“There are no enemies here.” The older nun threaded her fingers in resignation, finally getting it that the police weren’t just going away.
Bentz snorted. “Surely you don’t believe that. People are people; they make others angry, hold grudges, seek revenge, whatever. A lot of wars have been waged in the name of religion.”
She bristled. “Not here.”
“Why is she dressed in that dress?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where did she get it?”
The reverend mother’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know,” she said, just as Officer Chris Conway approached.
“The press is here,” the officer said. “A reporter from WKAM.”
“Tell them to wait for a statement from Sinclaire,” Bentz said. Tina Sinclaire was the public information officer. “And that’s not going to happen until we notify the next of kin. They know it’s a homicide if they’ve listened to the police band, so don’t try to stonewall the reporter—just ask him to wait.”
“Got it.” The officer strode across the chapel toward the exit.
Montoya turned to the mother superior. “What about Camille Renard’s next of kin?” he asked, barely remembering the dead woman’s parents. Wasn’t the dad older, a guy who worked with the railroad, the mother a part-time teacher?
“Her parents are gone. She has one sister, who lives somewhere in East Texas, I believe. A small town, I think. I can’t recall now, off the top of my head.”
That was right. Camille did have a sister, a year or two younger than Montoya. “Do you know her name?”
“I should, but . . . Veronica? Something like that. I’ll check.”
Veronica didn’t sound right, but Montoya could picture her. Around five-seven, if he remembered correctly. Taller than Camille, with big eyes and a stare that cut right through you. Where Camille had always been outgoing and a flirt, her older sister was studious but outspoken, someone who didn’t suffer fools or the stupid teenage antics of her peers. The sister was a girl Montoya avoided, but he remembered her.
“Was it Valerie?” he asked, and the nun looked at him sharply, the corners of her mouth tugging downward.
“Yes.” She nodded, her wimple not moving a bit. “Valerie. That’s it.”
“We need her address.”
“Of course.” She glanced to the doors leading to the chapel and seemed suddenly saddened by the events of the night. More people had arrived. Despite Sister Charity’s objections about outsiders trespassing on holy grounds, the crime scene techs went about the business of collecting evidence. Photographs and measurements were taken; the area dusted for prints; Luminol sprayed; and the floor, walls, and pews analyzed for footprints or scuff marks. The crime scene investigators worked with relentless precision.
“This is such sacrilege,” Sister Charity murmured, her eyes imploring. “Really, it has to stop. The chapel is a holy place, not meant for . . .” She lifted a hand, palm out, almost in supplication toward the chapel where the medical examiner was examining Sister Camille’s body. “We follow rules and a strict schedule of devotion, and we cannot have . . .” Her voice cracked, and Montoya didn’t know if the emotion was grief for the death of Sister Camille, concern about the black mark a murder would make upon St. Marguerite’s reputation, or simply an act. “This disruption is unacceptable,” she said, but the conviction in her words was fading. “You’re upsetting everyone here, making a mockery of our chapel, yellow tape and people meandering so close to the holy tabernacle.”
“One of your own is dead,” Montoya reminded her, letting loose a fraction of his irritation. “Looks like a homicide. We have a job to do here, and we’ll do it as quickly and thoroughly as possible, but we will do it. It would be best if no one impeded the process.”
Her chin worked as if she wanted to say something, lambaste him for his impropriety and lack of respect. Instead she whispered, “So be it. I must attend to the novitiates. But please, remember this is the Lord God’s house.”
“And something very evil went down here.”
“We don’t know what happened,” she said in a crisp tone that allowed no argument. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the sisters.” As she bustled off, skirts rustling and rosary beads clicking, her outfit was meticulous but for the hem of her habit, which showed more than a trace of dirt.
Odd.
Otherwise she was impeccably put together—now, in the middle of the night.
Did the old mother superior sleep in her habit? Montoya made a mental note to speak with her later, when she’d had some time to cool off.
“Sister, wait up!” Bentz said, lunging to catch up with her. “I need to see Sister Camille’s room.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“We don’t know that.”
She paused, then nodded stiffly. “Come along, then.” She was already leading him up the stairs to the living quarters of the convent.