Devious (6 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Yeah, Montoya thought, he’d speak to Sister Charity again. Alone. For now, he had bigger fish to fry. To Officer Erwin he said, “I think I’m going to have a talk with Father O’Toole and see what he has to say.”
C
ruz’s brother?
ruz’s brother?
Here?
A police detective?
Sister Lucia felt the cold stone in the pit of her stomach growing heavier. She’d thought this night couldn’t get any worse when she’d stumbled upon Camille’s body, but she’d been wrong.
Detective Montoya made it so.
He looked a lot like Cruz—same sharp cheekbones; near-black, suspicious eyes; thick, straight hair; and white teeth that flashed against coppery skin. Too handsome. That’s what her father had said about Cruz. The same was true of his older brother.
At the reverend mother’s bidding, Lucia hurried to her room where she slid into her dry habit and pinned her hair onto her head. She pushed thoughts of Cruz Montoya aside as she went to rouse the other sisters, tapping on their doors, asking them to dress and meet the mother superior in the main dining hall. Several asked why, and she responded with “I don’t know any details, just that the reverend mother wants to see all of us.”
A lie—but just the first of many, she thought darkly. The evil voice that had awakened her was blackening her soul.
Sister Angela woke easily, popping her head out the door, almost as if she’d been waiting. Apple-cheeked, she pressed on a pair of thin glasses and blinked against the dim hall lights. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, just hurry,” Lucia said, lying through her teeth. Again.
“But—”
“Please, the reverend mother is waiting.”
Nodding, Angela slipped inside her room as Lucia hurried down the dark hallway to rap on the next door. Sister Dorothy didn’t respond. Lucia tried again, louder this time, but there was no answer.
The sinister feeling that had overcome Lucia earlier now coiled around her heart. What if Camille wasn’t the only one? What if whoever had killed her had also come up here and taken the life of another? Swallowing back her fear, searching deeply for her faith, Lucia fingered her rosary and called softly, “Sister Dorothy?”
From the corner of her eye, Lucia saw another door creak slowly open at the end of the hall. Sister Maura, her perpetual scowl in place, appeared. “What’re you doing?” she asked, pushing on a pair of thick glasses.
“The reverend mother has asked us to meet downstairs.”
“Why?” Deep creases furrowed Maura’s brow. She was a solemn woman, one Lucia didn’t know very well.
“She didn’t say. Please, just hurry.”
Another door opened. Sister Edwina glared at the small group. “What’s going on?” she demanded, flipping a thick blond braid over her shoulder. Taller than Lucia by five inches, Edwina was an athletic woman with a broad, Nordic face and high cheekbones. Her deep-set blue eyes were always stormy as she constantly needled a bad mood. “Why are you knocking at Dorothy’s door?”
Lucia explained, “The reverend mother wants us all in the dining hall.”
“Why? It’s the middle of the night!”
“I know.”
“What does she want?”
So many questions . . .
“I’m sure the reverend mother wants to tell everyone herself.”
“I’m sure the reverend mother wants to tell everyone herself.”
“And why are you up?” Sister Edwina demanded, glancing across the hallway to Lucia’s small room. “Why did Mother come to you?” she asked indignantly, as if she sensed a personal slight.
Lucia had no time for perceived personal affronts. She had her own worries to attend to. First there was poor Sister Camille, and then, of all the bad luck, Cruz Montoya’s brother was involved with the investigation. Her nerves were as tight as bowstrings. “Please, just dress quickly.”
“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” Edwina charged. She was always direct, always felt somehow as if she were being persecuted.
“It’s up to the reverend mother to say.”
“Right.” Irony dripped from her words.
The door to Dorothy’s room finally cracked open just a space. “What is it?” she asked through the slim opening. Dorothy, plump and always worried, didn’t sound the least bit groggy. Her voice held a whisper of suspicion.
Lucia delivered her short message. Other doors were opening as the noise in the hallway woke some of the others. Angela swept out of her room and, ignoring the sour look Maura cast her way, caught up with Lucia.
“I’ll help,” she offered while Edwina’s door slammed shut. “Don’t worry about her.” Angela turned away from Sister Edwina’s closed door. “She’s just mad because the reverend mother chose you to be her messenger.”
Lucia couldn’t respond as Sister Angela fell into step with her. Not now. Lucia was too overwhelmed by the darkness in her heart that went far deeper than keeping the news of Sister Camille’s death from them.
So much deeper.
Lucia, fingering the beads of her rosary, knew why she’d been awoken from her fitful sleep, understood why the breath of evil had whispered in her ear, and why Sister Camille, tortured soul that she was, had been murdered.
She knew, but she wouldn’t say.
Montoya found his way down the dim hallway near the apse of the large cathedral. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer.
Arms folded across his chest, a uniformed officer watched over the broad-chested man in a black cassock who sat in the amber pool of light cast by a single lamp.
Father Frank O’Toole, sequestered inside this small anteroom, seemed lost in prayer, his big hands clasped together in his lap.
As the door opened, he looked up, startled.
“Reuben?” His voice held a rasp of disbelief, his eyes flickering with startled recognition.
“How are ya, Frank?” Montoya leaned over the small, scarred table to shake his old friend’s hand.
Frank O’Toole’s clasp was still strong and athletic. “I’ve been better,” he admitted as he stood with a resigned smile, so different from the broad grins he’d flashed in high school. His eyebrows knitted. “So, what are you doing here?” he asked; then his eyes flickered as he made the connection. “You’re with the police?”
“Detective.”
“Really?” His smile disappeared. “I never would have thought . . .”
“Me neither. I never saw myself as a cop, and I sure as hell didn’t think you’d end up as a priest.”
In high school, when Montoya was flirting with the wrong side of the law, his love for athletics was one of the few reasons he’d avoided serious crime. Through sports, Montoya had the good fortune to hook up with Frank O’Toole. A star on the soccer field and basketball courts, an A student in the classroom, Frank O’Toole had seemed to have it all. He’d run with the popular crowd and hailed from a privileged background, his father a prominent attorney.
Frank had caught Montoya hot-wiring his car—a classic Mustang—when he was only fifteen and had threatened to go to the police. Montoya and he had nearly come to blows but had worked things out; Montoya had spent six Saturdays washing and waxing the damned car while O’Toole had let the younger kid cruise through the streets of New Orleans with him. Their friendship had been tenuous at best, Montoya’s envy for Frank’s lifestyle and popularity always under the surface, and Frank’s fascination for Montoya’s rebellion never quite fading. It was almost as if Frank got off hanging out with a kid who was always one step away from serious trouble with the law. Montoya had suspected that the college-bound senior had gotten a vicarious thrill from hanging out with a juvenile delinquent. The preppy and the rogue.
O’Toole let out a long sigh. “You saw Sister Camille?” His hands clenched into fists, his thumbs rubbing his knuckles nervously.
“Yeah.” Montoya nodded. Camille’s image, in death, was branded into his memory. At some level, it would be with him for the rest of his life.
“It’s a shame,” the priest said, rolling his gaze to the ceiling, as if he could literally look to God for answers. O’Toole still possessed the striking physique Montoya remembered. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair and a few more lines near the corners of his eyes, and his nose wasn’t as straight as it had once been, but, in Montoya’s estimation, the signs of aging only gave Frank O’Toole a more mature and interesting appearance.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Something flashed in the priest’s eyes. Regret? Anger? The start of a lie? “I wish I knew. I was out with a sick parishioner. Arthur Wembley. Stage-four lung cancer. I spent the evening with him and his wife, Marion. When I returned, I ran into Sister Lucia just outside Father Paul’s door. She was in a panic, asking us to come into the chapel.” His jaw tightened and his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. “We followed her”—his voice lowered to a whisper—“and found Sister Charity saying prayers over Camille’s body.” He cleared his throat. “The first officer and the EMTs arrived within minutes.”
“Why the cassock?” Montoya asked.
“The Wembleys are old school. They like tradition. I wore it for them. I usually don’t.”
“Why do you think Cam—er, Sister Camille was wearing a bridal gown?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, biting at his lower lip, thinking hard. “The dress looked old. Not overly expensive, I’d guess. Like the kind a nun might wear when she was taking her vows and becoming a bride of Christ.”
“Seriously?”
O’Toole lifted a shoulder. “It’s an old custom, and St. Marguerite’s is steeped in tradition, far more than the other parishes nearby. The nuns wear habits, parishioners still abstain from meat on Good Fridays . . . though that’s something that’s coming a little back into vogue, isn’t it?” He glanced away before Montoya could read any more in his expression.
“Did you know Camille in high school?” Montoya asked.
“No,” he said convincingly, finally returning Montoya’s gaze again. “She’s . . . she was younger than me. I never met her back then, but I did know her older sister.”
“Valerie?”
“Yeah.”
“Date her?”
“No.” A look passed between them. Back in the day, Frank O’Toole, athlete, hunk, and ladies’ man, had cut a swath through the girls at St. Timothy’s. How in the world had he turned to the priesthood, a life of celibacy? It didn’t make a lot of sense to Montoya.
As if he understood, Frank said, “When my older sister, Mary Louise, was stricken with lymphoma, I made a deal with God. I’d go into the priesthood, take my vows, and dedicate my life to him, as long as he spared her.”
“And how did that work out for you?” Montoya asked, trying to remember Mary Louise O’Toole.
“Mary died last year. But not from the disease. With God’s help, she seemed to beat it. She was hit in a crosswalk by an old man who stepped on the gas rather than the brakes.” He sighed and rubbed his face, the stubble of his whiskers scraping against his fingers. “Thankfully she died instantly.”
“Do you think God held up his part of the bargain?”
“Hard to say,” he whispered. “I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m so important that the Father would sacrifice my sister as a pawn in a faith-based version of Truth or Dare. But for me, Mary Louise’s death was a test of my beliefs, of my calling.”
“And did you pass?” Montoya asked.
The corner of Frank’s lips twitched, though his countenance remained grim. “That’s for God to decide.”
“What about the victim? What do you think happened to her?”
“I wish I knew,” Frank whispered fervently, though he glanced away, avoiding Montoya’s glare.
“So you knew Valerie, but not Camille?”
“In high school, yes.”
“And Valerie lives in Texas?”
“No. She’s here.”
“Here? In New Orleans?” Montoya asked, making a mental note. Hadn’t Sister Charity claimed Camille’s sister lived in a small town in East Texas?
The priest was nodding. “Owns a bed-and-breakfast in the Garden District, I think. I can’t remember the name, but Sister Camille mentioned that Valerie had moved back to New Orleans sometime in the past couple of years.” His voice was soft, far away. As if he were remembering the conversation.
“Camille talk to you often?”
“Sometimes,” Frank said.
“How often?”
“A few times a week, sometimes less, other times more.”
“Did she ever mention any old boyfriends?”
“You mean, besides you?” Frank cocked a dark eyebrow.
Montoya held on to his temper. “I mean anyone who might want to do her harm?”
“No.”
“Enemies?”
Father Frank shook his head. “I didn’t know that much about her personal life,” he said. “If you’re asking about her confessions, those are private, between her and God.”
“And you.”
“Or Father Paul.” His smile held little warmth. “You might want to talk to Sister Lucia or Sister Louise. They all seemed to be close.” He appeared suddenly tired, almost irritable. “Is there anything else?”
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