Devious

by Lisa Jackson

  So what was the connection between the two victims, other than the obvious that they were two novices at St. Marguerite’s Convent here in New Orleans? Were they close? Closer than other members of the cloister? He ran a hand around his face, felt the beard stubble surrounding his goatee. His eyes burned.

  He finished his cup of coffee and turned toward his computer monitor again where he’d put up the two pictures of the victims on the screen. Both lying supine, rosaries clutched, dressed in ancient bridal dresses, with the distinctive pattern of blood dropped around the necklines.

  Both scenes were staged.

  The altar cloth on the first placed by the mother superior.

  One in the chapel, under the looming figure of Christ upon the cross, the other in a cemetery, near a tomb where a sculpted angel rose high into the night sky.

  Was there more of a link between the two victims?

  Why were they culled out of the habited flock?

  “Come on,” he said, as if the two images on the computer could hear him and talk. “Come on.”

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Bentz appear in the doorway. His partner held his favorite old coffee cup in one hand and a plastic ziplock bag in the other. Inside the bag, a book was visible. “We’ve got company,” Bentz announced. He looked ragged around the edges, freshly showered, his hair still wet, but the creases near the corners of his eyes more pronounced.

  “Hopefully not a reporter.”

  “Nope. Better. Vic one’s sister and her husband. They brought us a present.” He handed Montoya the plastic bag.

  “What’s this?” Montoya asked, but he knew. Before Bentz told him, he realized he was looking at Camille Renard’s diary.

  “The book we’ve been looking for.”

  “Where the hell was it?”

  “St. Elsinore’s. In her locker or cubby or whatever. The husband lifted it yesterday.”

  “He did what? Oh, for the love of God, what an idiot.” Outraged, Montoya was on his feet, the bag still in his hand. “What the hell was he thinking? He should have just left things alone, called and let us handle it. Now there’s no evidence chain—we can’t prove that someone else didn’t get a hold of the diary since it was put in the locker.” Montoya was furious. Fuming. The frustration of the case that had been building inside exploded white-hot. “A defense attorney will have a heyday with this. Even if Slade Houston swears it was with him from the moment he pulled it out of St. Elsinore’s, it creates doubt, no police record. Shit!” He kicked his chair back to the desk. “He probably contaminated evidence and compromised the whole damned case.” Raking fingers through his hair, he forced himself to calm a bit. “Where are they?”

  “Interrogation room one.”

  “Let’s go!” Hauling the plastic bag and diary with him, he was out of his office in an instant, impotent fury propelling his long strides. “Wasn’t she a cop or something?”

  “Detective with a county in Texas.”

  “Detective? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t know how they train ’em in Texas, but she should have known better!” Montoya was striding down the short hallway. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Son of a goddamned bitch!”

  Val knew she’d be hung up by her hamstrings for taking the diary, and she wasn’t disappointed. Detective Montoya was rabid in his anger as he stood in the interrogation room, the plastic bag and Camille’s diary on the table in front of her. “This is a police matter; there are rules that we have to abide by so that our case isn’t compromised, so that all parties are protected.”

  “We found it and brought it in,” she said, her hackles already raised as she sat in the stiff, uncomfortable chair next to Slade. So far they hadn’t split them up; that was probably coming, but who cared. Their stories would match. They were only telling the truth. “Someone else was killed last night, another nun from St. Marguerite’s,” she said. “It was on the news this morning.”

  Montoya hesitated for a second, slightly derailed. “Sister Asteria McClellan.”

  “Oh, God,” Val whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as she remembered the fresh-faced girl with the red hair and freckles, the one who, in the garden, had gazed up at Father Frank O’Toole with such open adoration as she’d held out a single white rose to the priest.

  Val felt sick to her stomach. “Oh, no.” She shook her head.

  “You knew her?”

  “No, but I met her.” She told Bentz and Montoya about running across Asteria in the garden with Father Frank.

  “I couldn’t judge his reaction,” she admitted, though just the thought turned her stomach. “But it was obvious she was in love with him. She handed him the flower and seemed to bathe in just being around him.” Hearing herself, she shuddered. “Sorry. I maybe way off, but that’s the way it appeared to me.”

  “You were the only one there?”

  “The mother superior, Sister Charity, she’d let me into the garden where they were meeting. And probably Sister Zita; she was the first one I talked to.”

  “She’s the African American nun.”

  “One of them—maybe the only one,” Val said, nodding.

  Montoya didn’t appear to like the connection to O’Toole again. Val read the disbelief in his dark eyes. Frowning, he asked, “Was Asteria close to your sister?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Montoya persisted, “Did she ever mention her?”

  “Maybe . . . but just in passing.” She shook her head, honestly perplexed.

  “They weren’t close?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, then glanced at the bag in his hands. “But then there are a lot of things I didn’t know about Cammie.”

  “You should have left this where you found it,” he said, indicating the ziplock and diary. “Take anything else?”

  “That’s all there was,” Slade said.

  “Have you looked through the diary, Detective?” Val asked. “You might be interested in the fact that it pretty much lists all of her lovers, starting with her first. Not hard to figure out.”

  To her surprise, Montoya flinched a bit, almost imperceptibly, but it was there just the same.

  “Does it list O’Toole?”

  “Camille was discreet—didn’t name names.”

  She noticed Montoya’s tense shoulders sag a bit at the news. For that, she didn’t blame him. They all hoped that the book would be key, that it would point out the person who had killed Camille.

  “I didn’t recognize him, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I’m sure he’s there along with a list of others.”

  “So you went through this page by page?” Montoya accused.

  Slade said, “We used gloves.”

  Montoya’s lips were white as they flattened over his teeth. He was trying and failing to rein in his anger.

  Bentz, from his spot near the door of the small room, asked, “Did you recognize anyone in the pages?”

  “Not really. Just put two and two together.” She swung her gaze back to Montoya and saw a tired, angry man. “You know, you’re pretty good at pointing fingers and telling me what I shouldn’t do, but do you really think you should be investigating Camille’s murder since it’s pretty clear that you were lover number one?”

  Beneath his swarthy skin, Reuben Montoya colored, but he didn’t miss a beat as he leaned over the table. “Since you looked through the pages, I would appreciate knowing if you saw anything that might indicate who her last lover was.”

  “I already told you: Frank O’Toole.”

  “And he admitted to it, but here’s the kicker,” Montoya said without an ounce of satisfaction. “There’s no way he could be her baby’s father. Not according to the laws of science. So, if not him, who do you think it might be?”

  Sister Charity had been struggling for hours. Sitting at her desk, she was bone-tired, her muscles ached, her eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed in grit. She’d dozed twice, there at the desk, with her open prayer b
ook beside her and poor Eileen hammering away at the typewriter when she, too, was beside herself.

  “What happened?” she’d asked earlier, then held her thin fingers over her mouth and squeaked in disbelief as Sister Charity had explained what she could about Sister Asteria’s horrid demise.

  “Dear, dear. Poor sweet girl.” Eileen, eyes brimming, had held her hand and they’d prayed; then, tissue box next to her little angel mug often filled with peppermints, Eileen had tried to go about her work.

  Sister Charity was beyond exhausted. After dealing with the police in the predawn hours, she’d spent the rest of the night talking with Father Paul and Father Frank, not trusting either man completely. Both were weak. Paul unable to stand up to the archbishop or some of his more domineering parishioners, especially those with large wallets, and Frank . . . well, because of his weakness.

  At the first sign of his true nature, she should have called him out, put an end to things, but she hadn’t.

  And now two of her darlings were dead.

  Guilt tore a hole in her heart as Eileen’s fingers tapped their irregular cadence beyond the slightly open door, and Charity knew, deep to the center of her soul, she’d been at least partially to blame for Asteria’s death. She squeezed her eyes shut hard at the admission to herself.

  She should have been more forthright with the police, less secretive and protective. She felt the scars on her back, long healed, and knew she had to pay her own penance for her sins. “Forgive me,” she whispered for the hundredth time since Asteria’s body had been discovered and realized dawn was casting its brilliant rays over the city.

  She’d spent the early morning hours kneeling on the cold floor of the chapel, praying to the Father for guidance, clasping her hands together so hard her old knuckles showed white, the bone so close to her pale skin.

  She had to be strong, she’d told herself, and had slept so very little since the horror of finding another one of her flock, the women she sincerely considered her charges—no, her children—had been murdered.

  Her muscles ached as she pushed back her desk chair and walked through the back door of her office and through the halls she’d loved so deeply. This, St. Marguerite’s, was as much a part of her as the family home she’d never had.

  Few people knew that she was an orphan, that she had grown up at St. Elsinore’s, never adopted out. She found her calling into the service of the Holy Father. The nuns at St. Elsinore’s had both frightened and inspired her, and she’d never thought twice about taking her vows.

  Until now.

  The halls of the convent were quiet now. The police had once again created chaos here, but, for the moment, it had passed, most of the police officers having left but the cemetery was still cordoned off.

  Most of the nuns were spending the day in contemplation, the rigidity of their daily routine interrupted until this evening when they would all gather together in the chapel and Father Paul and Father Frank would conduct a special Mass.

  Charity should rest—her body was reminding her of that very painful fact—but she couldn’t, not yet. She walked through the doors to the garden and the fountain she loved so dearly. In the shimmering water, she caught a glimpse of her reflection distorted by her own shadow, rippled by the water’s movement and the glints of gold when the fish darted through the pool’s tiled depths.

  She was a relic in her habit and veil. Archaic. Clinging to the old order that was becoming a distant memory. And yet she knew deep in her heart that she was following her true destiny, that she had helped so many like herself, those abandoned, for reasons both good and evil, by their families.

  “Sister?” A male voice brought her up short, and she nearly gasped, so deep was she in her reverie. On the other side of the fountain stood that incorrigible Detective Montoya. She didn’t trust him for a second. “May I have a word?”

  At least he was being respectful.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend Mother,” Sister Devota said, and looked truly rueful. “We”—she indicated her companion, Sister Irene—“were returning from the orphanage, and he was waiting at the gate.”

  “It’s all right,” she said to the worried novice. Devota bit her lip, then hurried off, her gait slightly unsteady. She was a difficult woman, full of impassioned faith that concealed her own doubts about herself. Irene’s faith was just as solid, and she was the antithesis of Devota. Tall and lithe, with an almost regal possession of her body. Her fluid movements made Devota’s awkwardness more pronounced.

  All so different; all the same.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked the detective, surprised to find him alone. They usually talked to her in pairs, but then, the police department was probably stretched thin with these recent horrors. “I thought I answered all your questions last night.” Her voice was dry and sounded weak.

  “It’s something that I found out today,” he said, jumping right in. “You told me that Sister Lea De Luca left New Orleans and joined a convent in San Francisco.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know that she decided against taking her final vows.” Montoya seemed surprised as he rounded the fountain. “I don’t know the details, but I got a card from her last Christmas saying that she’d decided to become a teacher. A lay teacher. She didn’t say why. She’d left the order.”

  “Do you have the name of the parish?”

  “St. Dominique’s . . . No, no, that was someone else. Oh! Our Lady of Sorrows?” she said in a question, scouring her memory. “Yes, that was it.”

  He shook his head. “The SFPD checked all the parishes. No one remembers Sister Lea.”

  Charity felt her lips purse. “I said she gave it up.”

  “They were specific. No one named Lea De Luca in the last decade.”

  “But . . .” Charity felt the very foundations of her faith begin to quiver. What was the officer saying? “I don’t understand. As I said, I’ve gotten correspondence.”

  “But she hasn’t called or visited?”

  She pinned on her overtly patient smile, the one she knew to be intimidating, the one that silently called the person asking her a silly question an idiot. But she was certain Detective Reuben Montoya was no one’s fool, even though, as he squinted against the hard sun, the ridiculous diamond in his earlobe glinted in ostentatious flamboyance and that small beard of his—a vanity. Her lips pursed. “This is a convent,” she reminded him. “One with certain values and decorum, but you know that. We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “The correspondence,” he said. “Do you still have it?”

  “The latest was a card at Christmas, but I’m not certain,” she admitted. “Come with me into the office and I’ll look.” He walked with her along the path and through the cool, dark hallways to her office where he waited while she opened the drawer in which she kept her personal correspondence, a pitifully slim folder.

  She sifted through the few envelopes and found it, a white envelope and inside a card, showing the blessed Virgin Mary holding a perfect little Christ child, halos glowing around them, a lamb at Mary’s feet. The message was a simple Bible verse and the card was signed “Peace be with you in this holiest of seasons. Sister Lea” in her perfect, Catholic school cursive scrawl.

  “May I have this and the envelope?” the detective asked, and when she answered, “Of course,” he slipped them both into a plastic sleeve, as if the card were of some great importance.

  There was a knock on the open door, and the receptionist with the frizzy blue hair poked her head in. “I’m sorry, Sister, but there’s someone here to see you . . . Oh!” Her eyes rounded at the sight of Montoya as he and the reverend mother entered through a small back doorway.

  “Thank you, Eileen. Detective Montoya and I are almost finished.”

  “Detective?” Her graying brows drew together behind the glasses that made her eyes appear owlish. “But the man who’s here says he’s—”

  Mo
ntoya’s partner, the heavier-set fellow, appeared behind Eileen.

  “It’s all right,” Charity said, waving him inside. “I think I need to talk to both detectives.”

  Eileen had shifted slightly and Bentz entered.

  “Please, close the door,” Charity said to Eileen, and as it closed, she motioned to the two chairs facing her desk. “I’m glad you’re both here,” she said, finally ready to unburden herself. “You see, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “It’s as if I didn’t even know her,” Valerie said as they walked into the mausoleum. Slade’s boots rang against the polished marble floors, and, as always when she visited here, Val felt cold, her skin chilling as if the ghosts of the dead haunted the wide hallways of the mausoleum where the ceilings rose twenty feet and the walls were polished stone. Tall windows on either end of the edifice let in natural light, today a filtered sun. She had the feeling she was walking through a long tunnel, the walls of which were inhabited by the dead.

  Her parents’ ashes were sealed here, on the east wall, along with dozens of others who had died. Gene Richard Renard and his wife, Nadine Lynne Bates Renard, held permanent residence in a vault on the fifth row from the bottom in a wall of veined marble.

  Val ran her fingers over the etched letters while Slade leaned against a tall ladder that was used to reach the higher spaces. She’d come here often after they’d died, first her father of throat cancer and less than two years later, her mother of a brain aneurysm, just after Christmas, the very year that Camille decided to live with Val and Slade in Texas for a while, then left to join the convent. Though Gene had been nearly seventy when he died, Nadine had been much younger, only fifty-eight when she’d died. Val had sometimes wondered if the aneurysm had been caused by the stress her daughters had put Nadine through, though every doctor she’d talked to had dissuaded her of the idea.

  God, that was a bad time for all of them.

  Val shook off the memory and said, “I mean . . . it’s almost like Camille was two people. Or . . . something.”