Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  She peered at him, the corners of her lips tilted upward. “Not a good one, or you’d know I want to be alone.” Then she’d laughed as if she’d been joking and held out her hand. “Ava. And I only have a few minutes and I have to be back in court—translator.” She stood and gathered her things. “Bye, Detective Russell.”

  And so it began. Conversations in the halls, an occasional lunch outside. He noticed her. There was something smart and edgy that drew him in. She was funny and detached. Interesting but not interested. He found himself looking for her now and then, and was always thrilled when he happened upon her by accident. He didn’t imagine anything would come of it. It was innocent until that day he’d met her in the diner.

  And so he’d jumped stupidly at the chance to help; though he’d played impatient and irritated to Ava and Joanne, inside he wasn’t really. Inside he’d been aroused both intellectually and emotionally. Sitting with her, going out to eat with her, poring over photographs, hadn’t lessened his inclinations. Neither had her naked body in his lap. Even then, he thought he’d at least made an attempt at resisting, though he couldn’t be sure. Now his heart was dragged down with the possibility that she might be dead. But he couldn’t say the words out loud, not when he was by himself, and certainly not if he was within five hundred feet of Joanne.

  He stared at the house. Dark. And took out his cell phone. He pulled up Google Translate and phonetically typed in the phrase that was circling his brain. Sentir. How do you spell that? After two tries he hit on it. Sentir—to feel. Could he have known that, or did he make up the syllables in his dream? The last part of what he remembered Ava saying was going to be more difficult. Her French was rapid and the endings confusing to the English speaker. He kept plugging in variations but was getting nowhere. Feel what, Ava? He thought the word started with sap, so he put that in and kept altering the ending, hoping that something would hit. Then it did. The translator took his sapain and made sapin—fir. He looked at it and pressed the audio. The voice came on, pronouncing the word exactly as Ava had. Feel the fir? Like a fir tree? He knew he’d just been dreaming and tossed the phone onto the empty seat next to him.

  He reached for the door handle to start the process of breaking into the house when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman, moving fast down the path by the side of the house and then almost running when she hit the street. He knew her immediately. Joanne. He’d been right, she’d come to the house without him. She’d gone home defiant and angry and had come here and broken in somehow. He half smiled, admiring her bravery. He backed up and tried to circle around, needing to maneuver the car each time so that he was facing the other way. By the time he’d finished, Joanne was gone, turned the corner. Poof.

  He started to pull out in a rush, eager to follow her, to get to her house to see what she’d found, when he saw a flash of light inside the house, in a second-story window. He stopped and stared. Someone had turned on the light for just a second. A flick of the switch. Unmistakable. Who? Marie? He stepped out of the car and started for the door. If Marie was there, it wasn’t a big deal. He could make a million excuses for showing up. He strode purposefully up the walkway and then stopped. He saw it again—this time downstairs. A quick burst, like a match being lit, then the soft glow of maybe a candle. The sheer white curtains in the downstairs windows weren’t protecting any secrets. Why would someone light candles when the lights worked? Ambiance? Or hiding?

  The glow moved and then was gone. Russell stood motionless on the sidewalk, aware that he would draw the attention of anyone passing by. He took the stone steps quickly and rang the bell, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and waited. He could hear the bell, and was half-certain he heard shuffling noises from behind the door, but it didn’t open. He tried again, standing very still, listening, trying to watch through the glass panels on the side of the door. Nothing.

  The cold was seeping into his bones; the mist coming from his mouth warmed the end of his nose. Whoever was in there wasn’t interested in company tonight. His eyes landed on the mailbox, the flap partially closed, bursting with white envelopes, flyers, and junk mail. He reached out and opened the box—add tampering with mail to his list of transgressions, it didn’t matter at this point. He stuffed the mail under his jacket and headed down the steps. Joanne’s house was ten minutes away and undoubtedly warm.

  He shut the car door and pulled the mail from his jacket. Credit-card offers for Claire, a host of real-estate cards, even more home-improvement advertisements, and one lone envelope addressed to Occupant, address typed, no return address, postmarked Philadelphia. Russell sucked in his breath. This was exactly what Joanne had described when she was here before. And that envelope had contained a Polaroid of Jack Quinn’s house. No, no more death. Please.

  He slid his finger along the seal and ripped it open. His worst fear was realized when a picture fell out. It wasn’t the front of a house. It wasn’t a house at all. It was a body.

  Russell dropped the Polaroid onto his lap and peeled out onto the street.

  CHAPTER 58

  Joanne was panting and sweating, and couldn’t breathe. Years ago she’d suffered from asthma attacks but hadn’t had any in so long she’d gotten rid of her inhalers. She was leaning over the kitchen sink, the wheezing audible and getting worse. The harder she pulled at the air, trying to get it into her lungs, the more panicked she became. She was getting dizzy, seeing the walls start to spin, when she felt a hand on her back.

  “Slow it down, Joanne.” His voice was low and calm.

  She bent her head lower. “Asth—” was all she could manage before a paper bag was pushed up against her face.

  “Breathe into the bag.”

  She shook her head. He thought she was having a panic attack. She wasn’t. But he held the bag against her mouth, giving her no choice. And after a few minutes her breathing slowed until she could push off the sink and make her way to the couch. She held the bag against her face herself and continued to breathe.

  “Are you okay now?” he asked. Joanne shook her head. He flicked the picture up and down against his leg. “You need to stay with me, Jo. I hate to say this, but I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

  She pulled the bag from her mouth. “Doug,” she said.

  “No, I need both you and Doug. For different things.” He got up and went into the kitchen, poured cold water into a glass, and brought it to her. His eyes kept landing on the candlestick sitting on the coffee table. “We need to go over what we have—”

  “What’s the point, Russell? Ava’s dead.” Her hand gestured to the photograph. “And someone took a picture of her body for proof. And you don’t seem all that upset.”

  He glared at her. “You don’t think I’m upset? I am. But the only thing I can do about it is move forward. There’s a killer still on the loose. Still killing, I’d say. Marie may be the next target, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s over.”

  Joanne threw the paper bag down onto the couch next to her. “The other photograph said Now I am done. It’s over. Quinn and Ava are dead. Done.”

  “Why would someone send photographs to Claire’s house? If they were intended for Marie, why not send them to the convent? It makes no sense. Claire’s dead—”

  Joanne stood up. “She’s not. I saw her. I saw her like I’m seeing you. She’s living in that damn house. Making coffee, eating a sandwich, taking a shower. Go see!” She jabbed her finger at him. “I only got out when she went into the bathroom and shut the door. I was scared for my life.”

  “Sit down or I’m gonna bag you again.” She obeyed. “Claire being alive is impossible. She had a funeral. A viewing too?” He eyed her sideways, waiting for an answer.

  “No. A memorial service. The grandmother took the body back to France for burial.”

  He dropped his head and rubbed at his hair, deep in thought. “If she faked her death, the question is how. And, of course, why.” He looked up. “And did Ava know?”

  “She di
dn’t. I saw her face after Claire died. So where do you want to go from here, Russell?”

  Russell glanced at the phone, the candlestick, and the cigarette pack. “Why’d you steal her jacket? She wore this a lot.” He ran his hand over it.

  Joanne nodded. “I didn’t mean to take it, but it was in my hand.”

  He picked up the candlestick by the top. “We need to compare this to the one in the crime-scene photos. Won’t be exactly a scientific match, but—”

  “We know she’s in the house, so we need to get her out. Somehow. Get the gas company to say there’s a leak. Set it on fire, I don’t know.” She stood up and started to pace. “Or maybe we could just go and break in. Confront her? What’d we have to lose?”

  “And—”

  “Then figure out the identity of the woman who was killed with Father Callahan.” She looked at Russell. “We could use help with that.”

  “Tell me what you saw again. When you were in the closet? In detail.”

  “Someone came up the steps. They muttered ‘merde’—shit in French—then words I didn’t know. I saw her turn—saw the side of her face. It was Claire. I know what she looks like.”

  “No lights, right? So you were seeing this in the dark?”

  She nodded. “It was dark and she had on a big coat. Shortish dark hair.”

  “And you’re sure it wasn’t Marie? The two look alike, even in the light.”

  “I don’t think so.” She was shaking her head violently. “Don’t try and confuse me.”

  “But the two are the same height, from pictures I’ve seen. Same basic shape. Both have dark hair. And Marie’s been crawling all over that place. Burning things. I just think maybe you were mistaken.”

  “No . . .” Her eyes landed on the photograph. It was taken from a short distance away; Ava was on her back, her head turned slightly toward the camera. Eyes partially open in a dead stare. Blood covered her neck and part of her face. Her arm was extended outward, enough of the hand visible that you could see defense wounds on the palm. Even in black-and-white grainy film. The picture was taken at almost ground level—pine needles surrounded the body.

  “I think it was Marie. In any case, we need to call that number, see who answers, keep an eye on that house. Eventually she has to leave.” He stood up. “I had this dream about Ava. It was so real.”

  Joanne’s eyes went from the photograph to Russell. “What was it about?”

  “The night before she disappeared. She was sitting in my lap. Saying weird things. Like, ‘You’re almost there. We had to start at Loyal’s house. Then go to Saint Francis de Sales. It’ll lead you back to Claire and Marie.’ Then she said she was going to die.”

  “God.” She put her hand across her mouth.

  “She used this French phrase that I must have made up, because it makes no sense. Sentir le sapin, I think. I looked it up. It means to feel the fir, like a fir tree. The whole dream was so real I didn’t know if it was a memory.”

  Joanne was listening intently. “Really?”

  “But it must have been just my mind, making up crazy things.”

  Joanne’s eyes were moist. “What if it wasn’t? What if she knew—”

  “Ava also said she let you choose me. Like she orchestrated it. Is that possible?” Joanne had turned on her phone and was engrossed with the screen. “What’re you doing?”

  “Just looking,” she answered. In less than a minute her head snapped up. “Sentir le sapin is an idiom. Literally it means feel the fir, because they used fir trees to make coffins. It means not long for this world, or one foot in the grave. Russell?”

  “I didn’t make it up,” he whispered. “She dragged us into this on purpose. Then the rest of it has to be true too.”

  Joanne felt like her lungs were going to collapse again, so she sat very still. “What now?”

  Russell picked up the photo from the table and started walking toward the door. “The dead woman with the priest is the key.” He put his hand on the doorknob and turned to look at her. “And everything leads back to the Lavoisier sisters. I’m going to find Doug.”

  CHAPTER 59

  She thought he knew her—the way he kept staring at her. A member of the church, maybe? A friend of Claire’s? He was two bar stools away, but his eyes followed her, either by directly looking at her or by watching her reflection in the mirror. He had a round, youngish face, blue eyes. Nondescript hair that was neither brown nor blond, buzzed short to his head. Marie had finished her third drink and realized maybe too late that everything was getting fuzzy. But it felt so good after the tension that came with hypervigilance and heightened anxiety.

  “Do I know you?” She stood up but held the back of the stool to steady herself.

  He smiled. “I should know you, I think. You’re very beautiful.”

  Marie snorted and started to walk toward the entrance. Just another man in search of something she was never going to give him. But something about this one was odd. He was obvious, bold, and his dress too casual for this hotel. Not the usual clientele. She turned and walked out of the bar, her purse slung over her shoulder. Her head was steering toward the front desk. Refuse to leave. Find safety, she was telling herself. But her wobbly legs instead took her right out into the lobby, to the elevator banks.

  He was behind her. His long legs keeping stride with hers, though he gave off airs that they weren’t together, that he was just headed in the same direction. Until they were standing side by side. He was only an inch taller, looking directly into her eyes.

  “I’d push the button and get on if I were you. Now.”

  Her gaze was straight ahead. “And if I don’t?”

  “Why do that? This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

  Marie’s head whipped around to face him. “What?”

  He pushed the button and the elevator opened. “That’s what I call service. Come on.” He stepped inside.

  She hesitated. Her mind was trying to sort out the facts. She took a tentative step forward, then abruptly turned and ran, her body off-kilter in boots with three-inch heels. She pushed open the hotel door and tore outside into the darkness. Sansom Street was narrow and alleylike, not a great place for making an exit, but she hadn’t been paying attention. Marie knew if this man got her alone, he was going to kill her.

  She’d gone and done it—hired a hit man with her seven hundred dollars.

  Marie needed safety, an open restaurant, a place with people. The street was dotted with shops and stores, all closed up for the night. She was sweating, the alcohol slowing her movements and increasing her panic. Then there it was, the Dandelion, a restaurant on the corner with the lights still on.

  She pulled the heavy glass door open and rushed past the bar to the bathrooms in the back. The stall shut and locked, she put her back to the wall and tried to breathe. How did he find her? Follow her? Was it that easy? She had to get her car and get out of here. But everything was in her hotel room at the Sofitel. Everything. She’d reserved for three nights to give herself time and space to think, not expecting this. Leaving all her things was out of the question. She had clothing, cash, and personal items. And then really essential items that couldn’t be left behind.

  She heard movement in the stall next to hers—she stood completely still, waiting for the sounds of normal use, which didn’t come. She clutched her purse tighter, knowing she had her car keys and wallet with her; for now that was enough to get away. But why have her killed? Marie had intended to give her the money she needed, had done everything she’d asked. They hadn’t really argued at the Bayside, had they? Even if they had, was this what it had come to? She rubbed her face and tried to clear her thoughts. The alcohol was making her dizzy.

  Again she heard a noise in the next stall. How fast did she need to move to lose him? She tried to visualize where she’d deposited the car, which direction to go when she got out to the front door. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of her eyes. She counted to five, flung open the bath
room door, and raced toward the entrance. Too late or not late enough. He was standing there, outside the restaurant entrance, a look of bored impatience on his face. He hooked his arm around hers when she charged out, and started walking back toward the hotel, pulling her along with him.

  “That was fifteen minutes of my life I’ll never get back, lady. Not a wise choice,” he hissed in her ear.

  “What do you want with me?” Marie stopped full tilt in the middle of the sidewalk, resisting against his pull. “I’ll scream right now.”

  “A chat, Marie. I thought we’d have a chat in your room, that’s it. It’s actually important.”

  “Talk here.” She moved over closer to the buildings, looking for some way out. But everything around her was dark, damp, and empty. “She sent you here? You’ve followed me?”

  He dropped his head and pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt. “She said her name is Claire, so I’ll go with that.” He reached out and pulled up her hood too, obscuring her face from any passersby. “And yes, I followed you.”

  Marie pulled her arm from his grasp. “Why? Why would she want me dead when I’m the only person who can help her now?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t get so dramatic. We’re just talking . . .”

  Marie tried to keep her face neutral, but her brain was darting from fact to fact. If this man had been sent to kill her, Claire had probably told him too much. Hired him to erase the last pieces of this story. “Go back to her. Tell her I have access to more money. Whatever she needs. Tell her I’ll help her,” she blurted. “I can get more money from Anais if that’s what she needs. I know I can.”

  Marie knew she was going to die, either right on the sidewalk or maybe in her hotel room if he could get her back there. Either one, her life was over. Her mind started flashing back to how she’d spent her time. To her childhood in France. To Anais and Claire, when things were so much simpler. To her father, how little she’d known him and how she’d wanted to.

  To the dead woman, naked and pale, found with the priest. The night Ross showed up in Brooklyn, bloody. Telling his story. The woman’s purse in his car.