Devious

  He stepped around the small, bony cot. Surely this tiny bed wasn’t where Camille and Frank O’Toole had made love? It seemed unlikely, but anything was possible. When passion ruled, all bets were off. Common sense had a tendency to fly straight out the window.

  But as he studied the mattress, he noticed something. One of the buttons pinching the stuffing beneath it together was missing. No big deal. Hardly noticeable. Yet, he found an evidence glove and yanked it on, then felt near the tiny hole where the button’s threads had raveled.

  The tip of his finger encountered a bump, the tiniest of imperfections in the ticking. “What’s this?” he said, and saw that the mattress had been mended with tiny little stitches. Carefully, so as to disturb as little as possible, he withdrew his Pomeroy 5000, a utility knife with several blades, and sliced through the hand-sewn seam.

  He felt inside the slit, and his fingertip touched the edge of something made of paper. Carefully he retrieved a long, slim envelope, wrinkled slightly from being wedged beneath the sheath covering the mattress.

  No address on the outside, but the envelope had been sealed, a red-brown stain over the flap where it was glued down.

  “Blood?” Bentz asked.

  “Looks like.”

  Bentz said, “Could be a print.”

  “Got it.” Montoya wasn’t messing with the seal. Saliva, the blood, or fingerprints could be on the envelope. Using the thinnest blade of his utility knife, he sliced one thin end of the envelope and flexed it open to retrieve a single sheet of paper, a letter, written only to “My Beloved” and signed by “C.”

  The paragraphs between the greeting and single-letter signature were written in a cramped, seemingly hurried hand, and they described in graphic detail what the writer, a woman, wanted from her lover. Rather than flowery and sickeningly romantic, this letter was a demand for sexual favors, specific in their intent, all indicating bondage was involved.

  Even Montoya, a seasoned veteran, was surprised.

  “Is this Sister Camille’s handwriting?” he asked, and the mother superior, her lips drawn together as if by purse strings, scanned the note with disgust.

  “It could be,” she admitted. Then her veneer of revulsion gave way to pity, and she made the sign of the cross over her chest. “Camille was a tortured soul.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Val sat in her favorite chair, her legs tucked beneath her, notes about Camille on the nearby table. A solitary lamp burned as the night encroached, and the television, tuned to an all-news station, was flickering quietly while Bo lay snoring in a tight little ball on the floor at her feet. She’d just hung up with Detective Montoya and was still processing the information when the dog, lying near the French doors, lifted his head and growled low in his throat.

  “Stop it,” she said, but Bo climbed to his feet and pressed his nose to the paned glass. Again he growled, a deep, warning rumble.

  “Hey!” she said. “Knock it off.”

  But the hound’s gaze was glued to the window, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, his lips curling.

  “What is it?” she asked, and snapped off the light beside her so that she wasn’t backlit as she walked to the window and cautiously peered outside and into the darkness.

  The grounds were illuminated by the porch light and a few dim landscape bulbs that cast bluish pools over the walkways that spanned the grass. Oak trees cast weird shadows, but nothing seemed out of place. Warm lights glowed in the windows of Freya’s rooms and the main hallway, even one of the guest rooms, though the uppermost floor, where Slade was staying, remained dark.

  “It’s nothing,” she told the dog, and tried to convince herself that he’d only caught the scent of a marauding possum or raccoon or maybe a neighboring cat.

  And yet she, too, was a little jittery, her nerves still on edge as she snapped on the lights and made her way into the kitchen where she heated water in the microwave, then found a tea bag.

  She’d just settled back into her chair and shaken off her case of nerves when Bo’s ears pricked, and he let out a soft little bark.

  “Enough,” she said. “Okay?” Then she heard the low rumble of a truck’s engine. She knew before she glanced out the window that Slade was back.

  Great. Just what she needed on top of everything else. Ever since her phone conversation with Detective Montoya, she’d been second-guessing herself. Reexamining her life.

  She closed her eyes for a second and fought that tiny little urge deep within, the absolutely ridiculous feminine part of her that Slade still touched.

  Quit fighting it. Be glad he’s with you. He might be able to help you find Camille’s killer. If not, at least he’s moral support.

  She scoffed at herself. Moral support? From the man who’d tried to seduce her sister?

  What a joke.

  Then again, Cammie might have lied about what really happened. Hadn’t Val already considered that as a very real possibility? Either way, dealing with Slade would be difficult.

  Bo was going nuts, wiggling and whining at the door. Sure enough, through the crack in the blinds, Val watched Slade get out of the truck and, instead of heading for the main house, turn and make a beeline for her cottage.

  “Here we go,” she said, walking to the door just as he rapped on it. Bo was beside himself as she unlocked the dead bolt and tugged open the door.

  Slade stood under the porch light on the other side of the screen. His face was all shadowy planes and angles, his jaw set and beard-shadowed. He offered her the hint of a smile, a crooked twist of his thin lips. “So did I give you enough space?”

  “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  There was no denying Slade Houston’s presence. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway, reminding her of how solid and wide his body was. “Be nice,” he said.

  “I’m always nice.”

  His grin widened. “Right. Nice people invite people standing on their porch inside.”

  Bo yipped, then quieted with a sharp look from Slade.

  “Fine,” she said, opening the creaking screen door and stepping aside. “Come in. I’ve got something for you.” She walked to her small desk where she noticed a few past-due notices in the stack of bills she’d been ignoring. She picked up a large envelope from her attorney. “This is what I’d been working on,” she said. “Preliminary.” She handed him the envelope, and he glanced at the return address. “Still some details to hammer out, and since you’re here . . .” She shrugged, trying to summon her outrage, her need to sever all ties with him, her desperate desire to let him know that she wasn’t going to let an ill-fated marriage ruin the rest of her life. But she couldn’t. All of her hot emotions had run cold with the loss of Cammie.

  “Already got a copy in the truck.” He tossed the envelope onto her coffee table. “This isn’t a good time.”

  He was right about that. “Just so you know where I stand.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it.” His face had gone hard. “But right now, we’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t ya think?”

  She nodded. “Okay. Sure. Truce, for now.” She waved him into a chair. “I just wanted to make things clear.”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good.” Walking into her small galley kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “I’ve got tea or coffee or a soda.” She opened the refrigerator door, then peered over it as she looked into the living room where he was bending over and scratching Bo behind the ears. Her heart tugged a bit at the familiar sight. How many times had she seen him in just that position on the porch of the big old rambling house at the ranch? With the setting sun throwing him into dark relief, Slade had leaned over and petted the hound before kicking off his dusty boots and padding into the kitchen hundreds of times.

  Once inside, he’d always taken the time to kiss her. He’d either quickly buss her cheek or, more often than not, sweep her into his arms and press hot, hungry lips to hers. “I think we have time for a quick one,” he’d whisper against her ear, only hal
f joking. The scent of hay, horses, and dust had clung to him, and in that first year of their marriage, she’d usually take him up on his offer. “A quick one what?” she’d teased. And then, laughing, would find herself lifted from her feet and carried into the bedroom, where he’d made love to her, and not in a hurry.

  Other times she had come home from work to find something barely edible simmering on the stove while he tended to the pots. At the sound of her footsteps, he had looked over his shoulder, then, in mock surprise, threw his hands high into the air. “I’m innocent, Detective,” he would say, appearing guilty as sin, his eyes flashing dark.

  “I doubt it,” had been her usual response. And, as if on cue, he had always turned around, hands extended behind his back, his neck twisted so that he could pin her with a wicked gleam in his eye and suggest, “Cuff me anyway.”

  Again, they had ended up in bed.

  So how had they gone from that lighthearted crazy-in-love banter to this—total mistrust and simmering fury?

  The answer was simple:

  Camille.

  Val met his gaze and wondered if he, too, was tripping down the painful cobblestones of memory lane. “There’s a beer in here, too.”

  “That’ll work.” He followed her into the kitchen, took the bottle of Coors from her outstretched hand, and twisted off the cap. He took a long swallow and followed her into the living room where he landed on the small sofa, she in her chair. Tucking her legs beneath her, she decided that it was probably safe to confide in him about Cammie.

  “I talked to Detective Montoya a little while ago.”

  “Any news?”

  “No answers,” she admitted, “just more questions.” She told him that the police were looking for a cell phone or BlackBerry and a diary or notebook. “I know she had some kind of phone, and I guess I never really thought it was odd, but I have no idea where it is. And I don’t know anything about a diary.” Ignoring her rapidly cooling tea, she added, “The oddest thing he brought up again was that Camille had been looking for our birth parents. I heard it earlier but couldn’t believe it. We’ve always known that our parents were killed. They were relatives of Nadine and Gene, our adoptive parents, who took us to visit their graves.”

  “You never questioned it.”

  “Never.” She was shaking her head slowly as she picked up her cup. “We were adopted out of St. Elsinore’s when we were really young, and I never had a reason to doubt they had really died.”

  “But Camille did?”

  “I guess.” Valerie was still processing the information. “But that’s crazy. I mean, it was never hidden from us. We knew we were adopted and where we’d come from all our lives,” she said.

  “You sure of that?”

  “Of course.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She took a sip from her tea, not liking the conclusions she was drawing. “From everything I’ve been told . . .”

  “And you never considered that Gene and Nadine Renard may have lied about the truth?” he asked, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “People make up stories all the time, especially when it makes them look better.”

  She saw the doubt in his eyes and quickly turned away as denial swept through her. This had to be wrong. It had to be! How many times had her mother, Nadine, told her the story of their adoption, the red tape that they’d fought to claim Valerie and Camille as their own? She remembered her father, at the kitchen table, recounting the story of talking to the parish priest, demanding that he be allowed to adopt his “blood kin.”

  “I was there today,” Slade said, and she snapped back to the present.

  “Where? At St. Elsinore’s?” she asked. “Why?”

  “I had time to kill.”

  “A lot. That’s miles away,” she thought aloud, remembering the whitewashed church and high wall surrounding the playground of the school where church bells never rang. The empty bell tower had been as run-down as the rest of the buildings.

  He lifted his shoulder. “The parish office was closed. But I did find this.” He handed her a flyer for the upcoming charity auction that was advertised as a gala event for the express purpose of raising money for the new orphanage.

  “And the reason you went up there is . . . ?” She knew it was no coincidence that he had visited the orphanage today.

  “First of all, you made it pretty clear that you needed some space. So I decided to back off and see some of the places you mentioned, places from your past. I went by your old house, and the schools, too.”

  Her skin prickled with uneasy goose bumps. She tried to conjure a kind face or a tangible memory, but all she came up with were blurred images of confusion and fear, of not understanding what had happened to her parents, of worrying for her baby sister. There had been hands touching her, trying to calm her as disembodied voices tried to explain that her parents were gone. She remembered strangers’ blurred faces filled with compassion and worry, soft whispers and words that were used to placate her when she’d been scared and alone.

  “Everything will be all right,” an elderly woman had whispered, patting her shoulder.

  “It’s not up to us to question God’s will,” a man in embroidered robes had cautioned.

  “God moves in mysterious ways,” yet another woman with curly bluish hair had intoned.

  But all Valerie had known was that her life would never be the same. And then, out of nowhere, Gene and Nadine Renard had appeared, saviors who would adopt not only her, but her baby sister as well. “This is all so surreal,” she admitted now as she stared into her cup, where the tea settled dark against the white enamel.

  Slade asked, “Do you remember your biological parents at all?”

  “Of course. I was four when they died. Almost five.”

  But did she?

  Of course, she had images of a couple, but nothing concrete. There had been a backyard with an empty concrete fish pond and a battered picnic table and chairs. She remembered her mother—wasp-thin and dark-haired—lounging in short shorts, the end of her cigarette glowing beneath the drooping, shifting branches of a willow tree. Her father always seemed to be working in the garage, hammering noisily, and there had been a basement, right? Stairs twisting down to a dark, dank-smelling vestibule with a locked door . . . or had those images been dreams, conjured memories that had never really existed?

  Her throat went dry.

  “Do you remember your adoptive parents ever talking about visiting them?”

  “No. They weren’t close . . .” Her voice faded as she glanced up at him. “You know all this.” They’d discussed it once or twice during their marriage.

  “I don’t remember ever seeing any pictures of your biological parents.”

  “It was before computers and camera phones and the like. Any pictures were lost. . . .” Or so she’d been told. She wanted to argue with Slade, and her stomach knotted at the thought. This whole new scenario, that her adoptive parents had lied to her, shook her to the core.

  “But you know your parents’ names? Your name?”

  “Yes. Mary and Michael Brown.”

  “Common names.”

  “Yeah, I know. But why would they lie? Mom and Dad—Nadine and Gene—what would they be hiding?”

  “Maybe that’s what Cammie was trying to find out.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, thinking about her sister. Cammie always did have a flair for the dramatic, an overactive imagination.

  Slade tilted his head back, and she watched his throat move as he took another long pull from his bottle. “Maybe that was why she was killed.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. It happened so long ago. . . .” She tried to pin down the facts, the details of her parents’ deaths. She’d been told that a plane crash had taken her parents’ lives. A day trip. Valerie and Camille had been left with a family friend when tragedy had struck and the plane had gone down. With both sets of grand-parents already dead, the small, grief-ridden family had to scramble to find a s
uitable home for the children. Valerie and Camille had been sent to St. Elsinore’s until the family could sort things out.

  The end result had been placement with the Renards, as Nadine was a third cousin to Mary Brown, the only relative with the means or desire to take in a preschooler and an infant.

  “Cammie didn’t tell you she was looking into your biological parents?”

  “No.” Val shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I would have told her she was nuts, that she was chasing ghosts.” A dry, penetrating wind swept through her soul, upward through the cracks in the foundation of her life, sweeping aside all the memories she’d held as true. Her throat closed in on itself as she met Slade’s gaze. “Because if it’s true, if Mary Brown wasn’t our mother,” she whispered, the flyer crinkling in her fingers, “then my entire life has been a lie.”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession,” Sister Asteria whispered the words that were so familiar while making the sign of the cross. On the other side of the screen, deep in the shadows, a priest was ready to listen. Father Paul, thank goodness, rather than Father Frank. She tried to ignore her trip-hammering heart as she folded her hands and took in a steadying breath.

  At the whispered encouragement from the priest, she closed her eyes and began to unburden her heart. “I was once in love with a man who turned out to be married, and as soon as I found out, I left him.”

  His face was hidden, unrecognizable in the semidarkness, but she knew she had his full attention. He sat, rapt, as she continued.

  “I was determined never to make that mistake again, to never fall in love with a mortal man, to follow Jesus as my savior, as my strength, as . . .” She felt tears fill her eyes. Her voice caught as she let out a shuddering breath.

  “Slowly, my child. Gather your thoughts and confess.”

  She did, pouring out everything that had been torturing her for the past few weeks. “My thoughts have been impure,” she admitted, “and my actions—” Her voice caught, and she steeled herself. Whatever the penance, surely it would be easier to bear than the burden of her private, sinful secrets.