Devious

by Lisa Jackson

  Fools! Don’t they know she’s a fake? Can’t they tell all her pseudo-psychiatric advice is nothing but poison?

  My blood boils within my veins, and I remember how close I once got to destroying her . . . and then I look up at the gator head mounted over my cot. It stares down at me, big eyes gleaming red as a demon’s, his wicked teeth exposed, reminding me of the dozens of stitches in my leg, the work of an incompetent veterinarian, and the pain I still feel. I’ve named him Ipana, a nod to my grandmother’s favorite brand of toothpaste.

  “Nice try,” I say to the stuffed reptile, and hear Dr. Sam’s voice, smooth as silk, tell some poor girl to get out of an emotionally abusive relationship, to ditch her boyfriend of two years, the father of her infant son.

  Another piece of garbage.

  “Stay with the guy, Lola,” I can’t help but mutter. “Give him another chance. Let the boy know his dad. And give the guy what he wants in bed!” Stupid bitch! Has a kid with the guy, then decides he’s no good. Probably plans on holding him up for ransom in the form of child support.

  Something Camille would never do. She was nothing if not obedient and submissive. Oh, she had her hot streak; there was fight in her, just enough to keep the sex hot, the fire bright. Just at the thought of her, my dick twitches.

  Never had a lover been so willing. So ready. So wickedly divine.

  And now she was gone.

  A mistake.

  An evil, vile mistake.

  I nick my hand with the beads, causing blood to bloom on one finger. I’d lost just a little of my dexterity along with a piece of my thigh in my unfortunate tussle with my pal Ipana.

  Of course, Ipana lost that battle. I suck my finger, then find a bit of surgical glue before I finish filing. I tie off the last bead and I give a hard tug on my handiwork, a rosary like no other.

  It holds.

  Again I pull hard against the beads and the fastenings, but it’s strong.

  And unforgiving.

  Perfect.

  I slip it into the pocket of my backpack, right next to my sunglasses.

  The cassock is zipped safely inside.

  As a fish jumps in the water far below my cabin, I know I’m ready. I snap off the radio, open the trapdoor, and carefully step down the ladder to my waiting canoe.

  The boxes belonging to Camille were a bust.

  At least as far as Valerie could see. All five were opened, their contents strewn over the living room floor.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  If anything, the memorabilia, clothes, and few pictures were examples of a very normal life. No burning love letters, no vivid diary of a woman who confused pain with pleasure, sex with torture.

  Camille’s confirmation dress, the old pom-poms from St. Timothy’s where she’d been a cheerleader, even a framed photograph of their parents, but nothing that indicated a life that was anything out of the ordinary.

  “You’re disappointed,” Slade said as he flipped on a light, the gloom of the evening seeping in through the windows.

  “Extremely.”

  “What did you think you’d find? A message with the killer’s name scrawled in blood?”

  “I guess,” she admitted with a half smile. “Or something that pointed us in the right direction.” She discovered a rosary and picked it up, staring at the glassy beads and letting them slide through her fingers to pool, like a holy snake, on the floor, the cross as its head, the twined ropes of beads its body. “My money’s still on Frank O’Toole.”

  “Even though he’s not the baby’s father?”

  “Maybe because of it.”

  “Let’s give it a rest. I’ll take you to dinner, and we’ll come back and look at this with new eyes.” He stepped over a pile of Camille’s clothes and offered her his hand.

  She didn’t want to give up. Knew the answer was right before her eyes but couldn’t think straight any longer. He was right. “Fine,” she said, accepting his outstretched hand and climbing to her bare feet. “First, though, I’d better check in with Freya. Help out with turning down the beds.” Each night they left plates of cookies in the dining room, along with a variety of drinks. On each of the beds they left truffles that Freya made herself.

  “I’ll meet you in the foyer in”—she checked her watch—“forty-five?”

  “Got it.” He whistled to the dog, and together they walked through the back door and across the yard where a few bumblebees still buzzed over fragrant clumps of lavender in the twilit herb garden.

  Freya was on the back porch hanging up her hat, a basket of picked herbs tucked under one arm, mosquitoes humming, one moth flitting around the porch light. “Find anything?” Freya asked. Earlier Val had told her that they were opening the boxes Cammie had left in the attic over the garage.

  “Nothing earth-shattering.” Val leaned against the porch rails and noticed the neighbor’s cat slinking through the hedge of crepe myrtle. Bo, despite having some bloodhound in him, didn’t seem to notice. Val said, “Thought I’d help you with the turndown.”

  “Too late,” Freya said, glancing at Slade. Questions darkened her eyes, but she didn’t ask any of them. Instead, she said, “I already took care of it, and I’ve put out the brandy, port, and decaf with the pralines and napoleons.” She glanced at Slade, then back at Val. “Turned down the beds, too.” With a smile, she added, “Just call me Ms. Efficient.”

  “And proud of it,” Val said.

  “Hmmm. You can return the favor.”

  “Never,” Val teased.

  Freya said, “So it’s official. You can have the night off.”

  “Hey, whoa. Time-out.” She tapped the fingers of her right hand against the palm of her left, making the time-out signal. “So now you’re the boss?”

  “Not just now.” She grinned. “I’m always the boss.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Slade interjected. “I’m gonna run through the shower and meet you in the foyer.”

  “Ooooh,” Freya said as he walked through the kitchen, the door slapping shut behind him. Bo stayed behind, tail wagging, eyes on Freya. He’d learned who was in charge of all treats. “Hot date, huh?” she asked.

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “You know me, I only call ’em as I see ’em.” She glanced at Valerie’s wrinkled T-shirt and capris. “So what’re you wearing?”

  “Whatever I want. We’re divorcing, remember?” But she was already down the steps and heading toward the carriage house, Bo at her heels.

  Freya’s voice followed after her. “I wonder about that,” she said.

  Val wondered, too, but she didn’t let herself think about it too much as she left the dog on the back porch of her cottage. He was sloppily lapping water from his bowl when she stepped inside.

  Cammie’s things were still strewn over the table, and Val picked up a long-forgotten brush. Something had to be here, right? Something important. Something she and Slade had missed. But the items were still the same: her baby shoes that had been bronzed, several report cards, old CDs, even some cassette tapes from the eighties, a set of mini-cassettes from the summer she’d spent learning Spanish, a boy’s class ring she’d never given back, and a Barbie doll, her first from the looks of it. Barbie’s hair was mussed and frayed, and her face had grayed with dirt. She could definitely use a scrubbing.

  So what was it? What was it she was missing?

  Val set the brush down, rocked back on her heels, and glanced at the items. She got nowhere. Even after looking them over for another ten minutes.

  Her cell phone rang, and she swept it out of her pocket. “Hello?” she said, but no one was there. The only message left was labeled Missed Call, with no caller ID.

  “Huh.” She thought the person might call back, but the phone didn’t ring again. Telling herself it was a wrong number, she silently perused Camille’s belongings one last time and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Calling herself a really poor excuse for a cop—check,
make that ex-cop—she stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and headed for her phone booth of a shower tucked into a corner of a tiny bathroom.

  The pipes groaned as she turned on the water, then pulled her hair into a small bun that she secured on the top of her head. She cranked the window open, as the steam from the shower was as thick as the fog in San Francisco Bay, then stepped through the opaque glass door.

  Once under the spray, she washed off the sweat and grime of the day. Lathering up, she rubbed the kinks from her neck, letting the hot needles of water massage her muscles as she wondered why in the hell she’d agreed to go to dinner with Slade.

  It wasn’t really a date; Freya had gotten that part wrong.

  But . . . it might be more intimate than was a good idea.

  And what’s the problem with that? she asked herself. Slade has been nothing but supportive since he rolled into town and blocked your car in the driveway. And face it, Val, you’re still attracted to him.

  God, it was complicated.

  Is it, is it really? The voice again. Now you know for certain that Cammie was the liar, the seducer, that Slade didn’t cheat. So are you going to blame him forever? Remember your wedding vows? Would it be so hard to start over? To trust him again? To allow yourself to love him as you so want to do?

  “You’re pathetic,” she whispered, but felt the little fissures in her resolve begin to crack, allowing herself to let him into her heart again.

  Refusing to think about her crumbling marriage or any thought that it might possibly be repaired, she shampooed and rinsed her hair. Turning under the showerhead, she let the warm water run over her shoulders and down her spine.

  You love Slade! You always have. Don’t punish yourself or Slade because of the lies of a dead woman.

  “Oh, Cammie.” Val closed her eyes, and images of her sister ran through her brain.

  Cammie as a child, chasing their little calico kitten and climbing high into a tree where power lines cut through the branches. Valerie had been frantic, screaming for her to climb down, but both Cammie and the cat were trapped. Cammie frozen and crying, the kitten glued to the bole of the tree, tiny claws digging into the rough bark. The little calico had finally scrambled down the willow’s trunk, and Valerie, fear pounding through her ten-year-old heart, had climbed up and hauled her sister back to safety. She’d scolded the five-year-old, but Cammie, already stubborn and independent, hadn’t cared. Once the danger was over, she’d acted as if it had never existed.

  Then there were the high school years, when Cammie, an A student, on the girls’ soccer team and cheerleading squad, had begun dating boys. Older. Younger. It didn’t matter. Their mother had said only two words: Boy crazy.

  Which had summed it all up.

  She’d stolen her best friend’s boyfriend—maybe he was the kid who had given her that gaudy class ring with the winking red stone; then, while still “in love” with Ben, she had been caught with a student teacher. It had been Cammie’s senior year at St. Timothy’s, and Val had already moved away and graduated from Ole Miss, had already taken the job in Texas, but she’d heard about it. Since Cammie had already passed her eighteenth birthday, no charges had been leveled at the teacher’s aide, who was in his last year of college, but he had been sent packing.

  Years later, after Cammie had finished a two-year course in accounting at a junior college, she had had several jobs as well as boyfriends.

  Eventually, she’d come to visit Valerie and Slade, and the rest was history. There was the blowup at the ranch, and the next thing Val knew, her sister had decided to become a nun and landed at St. Marguerite’s.

  How odd they’d both ended up back in New Orleans.

  Or was it destiny?

  They’d patched things up as well as could be expected, and Cammie’s things had wound up in the attic over her garage. “What will I do with them?” Val had asked her as she’d helped Cammie stow the cartons under the rafters. It had been hot as hell that day, the small space sweltering, spiders and wasps already claiming space.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure you won’t want anything?”

  “Not now, and if I do, I can come and get it.”

  First Cammie, then Val, had climbed down the rough ladder that was built into one side of the garage. Val had pulled the trapdoor shut.

  “You’ll be in the convent.”

  “I know, but it’s not a prison. I can come and go as I please.”

  Val had dusted her hands as they’d walked out the garage door and into the bright Louisiana sun. “I kinda got the idea that once you were in the convent, that was it. There wasn’t much getting out.”

  “Maybe back in the Dark Ages. But Sister Charity has told me I can work in the clinic at St. Elsinore’s or with the kids there, if I want to.”

  “Do you?”

  Cammie had shrugged. As if it hadn’t mattered. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But trust me, Val, if I want to leave, I will. It’s God’s house. There are no locks on the doors.”

  Now Val wondered about her sister’s insistence that there was freedom at St. Marguerite’s. It seemed unlikely since Camille herself had referred to the mother superior as “the warden.”

  So the locks were all in the minds of those inside the cathedral and convent’s walls. Is that what Camille had inferred?

  Valerie wasn’t convinced.

  What was the often quoted line? She stood under the shower, and the old pipes moaned again as it came to her. “Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage . . .”

  As she rubbed the kinks from her neck, she thought of Camille’s diary, the graphic images of sex and submission. Was it possible that she’d confused her obedience to God with submission to men? Had sex and religion been all mixed up in her mind? Were sin and sex synonymous? No, that didn’t make any sense. But what did? Those cryptic notes to herself?

  The heart shape with the single word CALLED inside?

  And what about TO BF 2 M&M? To best friend two Em and Em. So why didn’t the message read 2 BF 2 M&M. Why was “to” not put in numerical form like the rest? And wasn’t it BFF? Best friends forever?

  She didn’t really know the lingo.

  The other message bothered her even more.

  “C U N seven, seven, three four R M C V,” she said aloud, the water spraying around her. It meant nothing. Just weird letters put in front of letters. She repeated the message again as steam filled the room. Her mind kept turning the message over and over and . . . Wait! She repeated the scribbled note again. When she said the numbers aloud, she remembered something from her childhood, something from the orphanage at St. Elsinore’s. One little girl, the one who had barred Val from the slide—hadn’t her name been something like Darlene or Eileen?—had said slyly, “You know what seven-seven-three-four is, don’t you?” She looked sideways at her curly headed friend with the massive overbite. “It’s hell.”

  The other girl had giggled wildy. “No.”

  “Sure.” Glancing over her shoulder to make certain the old nun on the playground was looking the other way, the snotty girl had drawn the numbers with a stick. “Read them backward!”

  Overbite had whooped, then placed her pudgy fingers over her mouth and curled her shoulders inward. “You’re right!” she’d whispered, reading the letters in the dust just as the nun, Sister Anne, the kind one on playground duty that day, had looked over.

  Quickly, the snotty girl had scribbled through her naughty little note. “Seven-seven-three-four,” she’d said to Valerie, then run off, dropping her stick as the horrid loud bell had clanged that recess was over.

  “Hell,” Val said now, and heard Bo give out a sharp, gruff bark. She barely noticed as she remembered the weird notations in the diary. C U N hell, C V. So . . . “See you in hell?” Was that what Camille meant? “See you in hell a hundred and five?” What did that mean? In a hundred and five years? No, that wasn’t right.

  But it was close. . . . She just had to think hard
. She took the loofah to her shoulders, sudsing up, rubbing hard against her skin. “What, Cammie? What were you—”

  Bo barked again. More loudly.

  And then . . .

  Val stopped scrubbing, the loofah tight in her hand, water raining over her. Her ears strained over the sounds of rushing water and the gurgling drain.

  Did she hear something?

  Her wet skin crinkled.

  Her muscles tightened.

  Was the sound inside the house?

  Her throat closed.

  There it was again. A soft scrape. Footsteps?

  Lather and warm water ran down her back, and she felt a needle of fear prick her brain.

  It was probably Slade.

  “Hey, I’ll be out in a sec!” she called.

  But hadn’t he said to meet him in the foyer of the main house? Creeaaak.

  Definitely the floorboards groaning with someone’s weight.

  “Hello?”

  She waited, water dripping from her chin and elbows.

  No answer.

  Nothing.

  Just the shower’s spray hitting her body and the tile walls.

  She swallowed hard, listening.

  Had she locked the back door?

  Even latched the screen?

  She couldn’t remember.

  She rarely locked it during the day, running back and forth to the main house, but at night, throwing the dead bolt was usually automatic . . . except that she’d left Bo on the back porch. Oh, God!

  She hadn’t even latched the bathroom door, probably even left it ajar.

  Heart pounding, she reached for her towel, and through the frosted glass of the shower, she saw a movement—a shadow in the doorway. A figure in black, not unlike the demon of her dreams, the one with its tiny rodent teeth and malicious eyes.

  What!

  The hairs on her nape rose.

  She shook her head to dispel the image and sucked in her breath, taking in moist, hot air. She wished to hell she had her sidearm. The steam in the room was so thick, but it was beginning to clear and . . .

  She heard the shuffle of feet. Definitely feet running, hurrying away, a quick, disturbing gait scurrying through her small house.