Authors: Lisa Jackson
Devious (12 page)
T
here was no way Val could just go about her normal life.
here was no way Val could just go about her normal life.
Nothing about it will ever be normal again,
a voice nagged at her as she walked out the back door of her little cottage and slid into her Subaru. The interior was hot; she felt as if she were climbing into an oven, and her air-conditioning was sporadic at best. She started the car, buckled up, and cranked open the window to capture any trace of cool air.
a voice nagged at her as she walked out the back door of her little cottage and slid into her Subaru. The interior was hot; she felt as if she were climbing into an oven, and her air-conditioning was sporadic at best. She started the car, buckled up, and cranked open the window to capture any trace of cool air.
Slade was still at the house—or at least his truck was still parked where he’d left it—but she’d deal with him later.
Right now she had things to do.
She planned on dropping off copies of the e-mails she’d received from Camille at the police station. Just after she had a heart-to-heart with Father Frank O’Toole, that miserable, lying son of a bitch.
“Val!” Slade’s voice chased after her as she pulled out of the short driveway and onto the street. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him striding toward his truck.
She hesitated, then ignored him. She wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with him, nor even, for that matter, a discussion. She didn’t slow down until she reached St. Charles Avenue. There, she eased into the flow of traffic, navigating around a streetcar with its cargo of tourists eyeing the gracious mansions set back from the tree-lined street, snapping pictures of the pastel Victorian with its widow’s walk and gingerbread details.
Val couldn’t deal with Slade now; didn’t want to. Later, even though his coming to New Orleans was a fool’s mission. And what was all that talk about reconciling? Ridiculous! She ignored that small feminine part of her that found him fascinating, the bit that found his stubborn determination and long drive from Bad Luck romantic.
“Pain in the neck,” she muttered, reminding herself that if it weren’t for Slade and the events that had unfolded two years earlier, Camille would still be alive. She set her jaw, and as she slowed for a red light, she glanced into her rearview mirror, past the traffic stacking up behind her, to the side street leading to the Briarstone House. Sure enough, Slade was waiting to turn onto St. Charles and wedge the old Ford into traffic. Behind her, traffic shifted, a sleek black convertible jockeying into the space behind her.
She was only slightly aware of the BMW, her attention focused on her husband and his beat-up truck. Was Slade following her?
No doubt.
Oh, for the love of God, why?
She felt a tug on her heartstrings and thought for a moment that he really did care, that he wouldn’t have driven all the way from East Texas if he didn’t still have feelings for her, that the past was the past and—
A horn blasted sharply.
“Hey, lady, it doesn’t get any greener than that!” The jerk in the Beemer was gesturing at the light.
Val punched it, disgusted that thoughts of Slade had interrupted her concentration.
As the BMW found a way to pass her, the driver gunning the engine to show his disgust, she pushed the speed limit and cut through the city.
Again, her thoughts turned to Camille and her heart twisted. She’d initially thought Frank O’Toole had killed her, but now, with a little time to think about it, Valerie wasn’t so sure. He was a priest who had broken his vows, yes; that much was true. But to take a life, not only of the woman he’d slept with, but of his own child, too? Was that possible? Even with human passion being what it was, Frank O’Toole was a Catholic priest, and murder was a mortal sin.
But if not Frank O’Toole, then who?
The short drive to St. Marguerite’s Cathedral seemed to take forever, and as she nosed her little car into a parking space on the street, the church bells were tolling again. She realized it was noon, barely twelve hours since she’d stood at her kitchen window, worrying about Camille, sensing something was wrong but not knowing that at that very second she might have been on the verge of death, drawing her last breath. In her mind’s eye, Valerie saw the image of Camille’s motionless, draped body lying on a cold slab in the hospital’s morgue, a picture she prayed would fade with time.
She steeled herself as she rolled up the window.
This probably wasn’t going to go well.
That was just too damned bad.
After locking the Subaru, she jaywalked across the street to the looming edifice, a stone and brick building whose spires rose as if in exaltation to the heavens. The main part of the cathedral was well over two hundred years old, having withstood wars and storms and scandal. Rimmed by expansive grounds and guarded by a wrought-iron fence and gnarled live oaks, St. Marguerite’s Cathedral was a reminder of ages past, a society locked away, a world unto itself.
There were no news vans parked along the street, and if the police were still on the premises, Val didn’t see any of their vehicles. However, the massive doors of the cathedral were sealed with yellow crime scene tape strung through the handles, and the trampled grounds were evidence of last night’s assault by hundreds of feet during the start of the investigation.
Of Cammie’s murder.
Oh, God.
She followed the wrought-iron fence that guarded the church grounds, heading toward a back alley and a gate that Cammie had mentioned once, an entrance used by delivery trucks and the few nuns who occasionally left the convent.
She found it next to a solitary oak.
Locked tight.
An eerie feeling washed over her, a breeze that tickled the hairs of her neck and caused her to look upward toward the dark windows of the building. Like soulless eyes, they seemed to stare down at her, almost daring her to enter.
Being here, she had the sense that she was trespassing, that if she ever walked through these locked gates, she would be treading where she shouldn’t.
So what? Could anything be worse than Cammie’s murder? Pull yourself together!
A raven flapped his black wings and cawed before landing upon a gargoyle shaped like a snarling demon, and Val told herself it wasn’t an omen.
Just a coincidence, imagery from too many horror movies that had terrified her as a child.
Just like the monster with hot eyes and tiny teeth who creeps through your nightmares?
She gave herself a quick mental shake, located a buzzer, and jabbed it with her finger.
Waiting, she ignored the sensation that she was being observed by hidden eyes.
No one answered.
“Oh, come on,” she said under her breath, and gave the buzzer a long, hard poke. “Hey! Is anyone there?” she called.
Waiting, she felt a slight breeze as it rustled through the alley behind her, a cool breath against the back of her neck. She twisted her neck to glance behind her, certain she would find someone staring at her from the other side of the narrow backstreet.
No one.
Not even a cat slinking through the garbage bins that lined the buildings. She was completely alone, the sounds of the city distant. Squinting upward to the steep gables and turrets of the old compound, she saw no one lurking in the umbra, no hidden set of eyes following her every move. The gravel path wedged between the buildings on the other side of the gate was empty.
And yet . . .
Her skin crawled.
The shifting shadows from a breeze sliding through the trees caused the dappling on the ground to move, as if a ghost had passed quickly by.
Goose bumps rose on her flesh, though the temperature outside was over eighty. “Come on, come on,” she said, and jabbed the button for the third time.
Within a minute, a slim African American woman in a nun’s habit hurried toward the gate. Valerie watched her through the black bars.
“Can I help you?” the nun asked. Tall and regal-looking, a patient smile pinned to her lips, she peered through the wrought-iron bars. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I’m Sister Zita.”
Zita. The name rang a bell. Hadn’t Cammie said she and Zita worked together, along with another nun, Sister Louise, at St. Elsinore’s parish?
“I’d like to speak with Father O’Toole, and the main entrance to the cathedral is locked,” Val said, offering up a little explanation, then added, “I’m Valerie Renard, Camille’s sister.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, but didn’t move to open the gate. A glint of suspicion was evident in her dark eyes as she glanced behind Val, as if she thought there might be someone with her. “I’m not supposed to allow anyone inside. We’re in mourning and—”
“So am I,” Val cut in, irritated. She didn’t doubt that the convent was on their own form of lockdown, that the nuns, priests, and everyone associated with the church was wary of police and reporters. Everyone within the order was probably scared for their own safety. Everyone was probably under orders to keep her mouth shut, a new twist to the vow of silence, not only because they might compromise the investigation, but also to ensure the sanctity and privacy of the parish. If Camille was right in her assessment of the mother superior, then Sister Charity would insist the convent become a fortress to avoid someone fanning the flames of scandal. “Please. I know that Father O’Toole was . . . close to my sister.”
“I’m sorry.” Again the overly patient smile along with a hint of fear. “I really don’t know where Father O’Toole is. If you could leave your phone number, perhaps he will call you.”
“Perhaps?” Val repeated.
“I can’t speak for him.”
“What about you?” Val asked, changing tacts. “You worked with her at St. Elsinore’s, right?”
“Sometimes.” Her face was a mask of sorrow. “I wasn’t close with your sister,” she said as clouds passed in front of the sun.
She was getting nowhere fast with this woman. “Fine, then, please, let me talk with Father O’Toole.” Val wasn’t going to be put off. She heard footsteps arriving, a heavy tread crunching the gravel.
“What’s going on?” a sharp voice inquired as a large woman, dressed in a stiff habit, rounded the corner. Tall and solid, she had an imperious demeanor, with searing eyes that bored right through the lenses of her glasses. “Sister Zita?”
“I was just explaining that—”
“I’m Valerie Renard,” Val interjected. She knew in a heartbeat that the authoritarian with the harsh voice was Sister Charity, the mother superior Camille had referred to as “the warden.” Val met the older woman’s assessing glare and noticed some raw emotion skate across her eyes, an emotion quickly disguised. “Camille’s sister.”
As Zita stepped aside, the older nun’s eyes narrowed, as if seeking confirmation of bloodlines through resemblance as she stopped just inches shy of the gate. And there was something else in her assessment, too. Fear?
“I’d like to speak with Father O’Toole,” Val pressed.
“I see.” She nodded. “I’m Sister Charity, the mother superior here.” Her face softened a fraction, and Sister Zita, as if hearing unspoken orders by the older nun, quietly drifted away, leaving Valerie alone with the reverend mother. Recovering slightly, Sister Charity said, “We all feel so badly about Sister Camille. My condolences. It’s time to draw on your faith, child.”
“And that’s why I’d like to speak to Father,” Val lied easily. Mother superior or not, the woman was working her.
Again that beatific, peaceful smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Right now, Father is unavailable.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a police investigation.”
“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Val tried to hide the agitation in her voice. She was tired, grief-riddled, her nerves strung tight. The older nun was really getting under her skin, though she tried not to show it. She sensed that impatience would not win points with Sister Charity. Antagonism would only make the iron-willed nun more determined. “Would you like to see my ID?”
“That’s not the issue,” the older nun said.
“Then what is?”
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,
she reminded herself, a phrase Val’s grandmother had told her on more than one occasion. “Look, Sister Charity, I know this is a hard time for everyone here.” She reached into her purse, half expecting the older woman to stop her. When the nun didn’t object, she pushed her driver’s license through the wrought-iron bars for inspection.
she reminded herself, a phrase Val’s grandmother had told her on more than one occasion. “Look, Sister Charity, I know this is a hard time for everyone here.” She reached into her purse, half expecting the older woman to stop her. When the nun didn’t object, she pushed her driver’s license through the wrought-iron bars for inspection.
Still scrutinizing Val as an intruder, the older nun snapped the ID from her fingers. Her eyebrows slammed together, and her lips pursed tightly as she studied the information, as if searching for signs of fraud. Did the reverend mother really think she would have a fake ID made just to get into a convent? Get real.
The seconds ticked by, but Val wasn’t about to be intimidated by silence. She met the older woman’s gaze without flinching or looking away.
“All right,” the mother superior finally said on a sigh. “Come in.” Reluctantly, she unlocked the gate and allowed Val inside. “We’ve been plagued by reporters and the police,” she explained as she handed Val back her license. The gate clicked shut behind Val; then Sister Charity led the way along a path that cut through a garden abundant in blooms. “Come along. You can wait in my office. I have no idea where Father O’Toole is or how long he may—Oh!” The older nun stopped short near the center fountain, and Val nearly ran into her.
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