His lips twisted as they reached the truck. “Everything’s fine.”
“But I thought you got a call. . . .”
“Yeah, well, that was an excuse. I called myself.” He climbed in behind the wheel as she slid into the passenger seat.
“You what?”
“You were getting nowhere with the reverend mother. The same old runaround, and I decided I needed an excuse to leave and snoop around again. So I faked the call.”
“You’re downright devious,” she said as raindrops fell, pinging against the roof of the old Ford.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Do.” She was surprised at his deception. “So did you find anything?”
He flicked the ignition, and the truck’s engine rumbled to life. “Yep.” Checking his mirror, he pulled into the street.
Her heart raced just a bit. “Okay, what?”
He slid her a glance. “Look in my jacket pocket,” he said, turning off the side street and into heavier traffic heading south.
She was already reaching into the space behind the seats where he’d tossed his jacket. Digging into the pocket, her fingers brushed against a plastic bag, and inside, the spine of a book. In her mind’s eye, she saw Camille’s empty cupboard. She felt a second of regret as she pulled out the slim bound pages, the cover as plain and black as a prayer book. “Camille’s diary?”
“Looks like.”
“You stole it?” she said, disbelieving. She’d been certain the killer had taken the diary to hide his identity.
“Borrowed. We’ll have to give it up to the police once we’re done with it.”
“Have you read it?”
“Only enough to confirm it was Cammie’s.”
“And you had an evidence bag with you?”
“I found some ziplocks in a drawer. Figured we didn’t want to destroy any evidence.”
Valerie swallowed hard. Through the plastic, her fingers caressed the soft leather binding, and she had the distinct feeling that when she opened the first page, she’d catch a glimpse into her sister’s private thoughts, maybe even her soul. She hesitated, afraid of what she might find. “This seems wrong. Like we’re trespassing.”
He slid her a glance. “I thought you wanted to find out who killed her.”
“I do.”
“Then?”
She stiffened her spine. “Yeah, I know.” As the wheels of his truck reached the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, rain began to spit faster from the sky.
“There are gloves in the box.”
“Really?”
“It is called a glove box.”
“Yeah, I know. But for you . . . Oh, never mind.” She opened the compartment, and sure enough, along with a flashlight, a wrench, pliers, a pocketknife, and a bag of dog biscuits, there was a box of latex gloves.
“I do examine livestock, y’know. Give ’em shots, clean ’em, help pull calves and foals.” He shrugged. “It’s just better to be prepared.”
“Besides, you never know when you’re going to steal evidence and hope to convince the authorities that you didn’t taint anything.”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
They both knew the police would be ticked off, but she didn’t argue, just pulled on a pair of oversized gloves and gingerly opened the cover to her sister’s private world as the rain began to pour and the waters of the lake frothed wildly.
“You’re going to hell, you know.”
He cranked the wipers up a notch and grinned. “Oh, ya think?”
“Yep. When the Devil finds out what you’ve done, he’s gonna take your soul. No doubt about it.”
“Let him come.” Slade slid her a wicked little glance that caused her pulse to jump a little. “Somehow I think he’ll be lookin’ for you, too.”
“So it’s going to be you and me, together in hell?”
“Yep.” He winked at her as he hit the gas. “Consider it a date.”
CHAPTER 32
The baby was fussy.
Again.
“Teething,” Olivia said, and Bentz believed it, walking his tiny daughter around the house, jostling her as she cried. “Here, let me take her,” Olivia said as she put aside her book, a paperback guide to the first year of a baby’s life. She walked into the kitchen where, from his cage, Chia, the parrot she’d inherited from her grandmother, Virginia “Ginny” Dubois, the baby’s namesake, squawked.
“Hey, there, sweetie,” Olivia whispered. “It’s okay.”
It was definitely not okay, and Ginny let her mother know it. But Olivia was calm, though this was her first child. Bentz had another daughter, a grown woman now, from his first marriage. Kristi was a quarter century older than her half sister, and Bentz had the battle scars to prove it.
Kristi was a firecracker—trouble from the get-go. Just like her mother. Bentz loved her fiercely, despite the fact that Kristi had taken years off his life with her antics, everything from teenage angst and rebellion to life-threatening injuries . . . Oh, God, he hoped Ginny’s life was calmer and easier.
Now, Kristi was married to Jay McKnight, who worked for the state crime lab and taught classes on criminology at All Saints’ College in Baton Rouge, the place he and Kristi had met again after being high school sweethearts.
The baby stopped crying and began to coo in her mother’s arms, and Bentz’s stupid old romantic heart swelled when he witnessed Olivia holding Ginny; their gazes locked.
“See, it just takes the right touch,” Olivia said, and Bentz couldn’t help feeling a wave of happiness. God, he loved this woman and this child, even thought he knew any kid was going to put him through the emotional wringer. It was humbling how much he cared for this tiny, new little person.
Funny, he thought now, how he’d been against having another child, how he’d argued with Olivia, but when she’d ended up pregnant, his life had changed for the better. Now he couldn’t imagine a world without little Ginny, fussy thing that she was. Blond, like her mother, her scalp visible through her wisping pale curls, her eyes wide and interested in the world, she was crawling all over the place, terrorizing Hairy S, their aging little dog—another animal inherited from Olivia’s favorite grandmother’s menagerie.
Bentz saw years of happiness on the horizon.
“Okay,” he said, “you win. You are the better parent.”
Olivia laughed and he walked into the den where he picked up the phone to dial his son-in-law. Maybe Jay could push things through a little faster on the Camille Renard case. They still needed a tox screen, and Bentz wanted to double-check the blood work on the unborn child against that of Frank O’Toole’s again, just to be safe.
An uncharacteristic pang cut through him as he settled into his worn desk chair. He thought of Camille and her baby, the child’s life cut off before it drew its first breath.
Little Ginny, free of her mother’s grasp, had made her way in that speedy crawl of hers into the den. She looked up at him and grinned, showing off two bottom teeth, obviously proud of herself to have located him.
Behind her, standing in the doorway, stood Olivia.
“Come here, you,” he said. Bentz grabbed his daughter again, kissed her tiny head, then plopped her onto his lap. While she was busy shredding a small notepad, he dialed Jay.
It was time to find out more about Camille Renard’s condition at the time of her death. Were there drugs in her bloodstream? What about the marks on her back?
And who, of all the men she knew, had a blood type that was consistent with that of her child’s father?
“Kinky stuff,” Slade said. He sat across the table from Valerie as they read the photocopied pages of Camille’s diary.
“It should be burned.” Valerie, her glass of wine untouched, flipped over a page and sighed. “Too personal.”
“The police will need it.”
“I know, I know.” She was resigned to the contents of her sister’s life, of her most private thoughts, being reviewed, studied, and noted, but it was d
ifficult. He understood. Camille Renard was the antithesis to everything a nun should be. At least in his opinion.
He’d carefully photocopied the pages on Val’s clunky printer and had left the original diary intact for the police. Though he’d expected the pages to reveal some of Camille’s inner thoughts, he hadn’t been prepared for the graphic nature of her affair. There were a few names scattered throughout the pages, but none of them were connected with her romantic or sexual relationships, at least not directly. And there were what appeared to be initials, maybe just notes, indecipherable, at least to him.
Val finally took a sip of her wine. Her countenance was troubled. “Some of the notes are in code.” She frowned, then pointed out a note. The quickly scribbled line read C U N 7734, RM CV.
“What? Is that part of a phone number?” he asked. “Or a license plate?”
“RM CV—Room 105?” she thought aloud. “Is it partly RM—room, then CV like in Roman numerals?”
“Maybe. They could use them at St. Marguerite’s. At least more often than on the outside.”
“You talk like it’s a prison.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not according to Camille. She told me that no one forces them to stay inside, just their own conscience and commitment.” Frowning, she shook her head as she read the notes. “But who knows?” she said, disturbed. Then, flipping one of the copied pages, she said, “Here’s another: ‘TOM BF 2 M and M.’ ”
“BF—isn’t that ‘best friend’ in kid jargon?” Slade asked.
“Seriously? You’ve been keeping up with teen-speak? How do you know this, Cowboy?”
“We do have computers at the ranch, you know. I do have a cell phone. I have heard of Facebook.” He winked at her. “Even in Bad Luck, Texas, kids text. Sometimes, I think, adults do, too.”
“Wise guy!”
“Everyone who’s conscious on this planet knows the whole BF and BFF thing. Even nuns in St. Marguerite’s, despite its archaic facade.”
“It’s not a facade—trust me.” She rolled her eyes, but at least she scared up a smile. “Okay, Mr. Text, then if TOM is ‘Thomas’ someone, like the priest at St. Elsinore’s, what’s the rest of it? Best friends to M and Ms? The candy?”
“A lot of people are,” he deadpanned.
“I know. I think I qualify.” She thought hard. “Tom . . . Do you think?”
“That she was involved with the priest from St. Elsinore’s?” He shook his head. “What are the chances that she found two priests who were willing to break their vows? What’s that say about them?”
“Or her?”
“We already know about her,” he said, and instead of arguing with him in the no-win battle, she sipped from her glass, found no answers to the cryptic notes, and saw another—a doodle really. A heart shape, with a message inside: CALLED.
Val studied it. Had someone—her lover—called? Was the heart meaningful? And why no name? She sighed, seeing how the heart was outlined over and over again, surrounding the single word.
Oh, Cammie, she thought. Was this a message, or just the idle musings of someone who was dreaming of phoning her lover; or had the lover called her? Who knew?
And finally, there was a note that only said Reverend Mother, with half a dozen little arrows pointing at the word, like angry arrows, as if Camille truly hated Sister Charity.
Without any concrete answers to the cryptic notes that really could be no more than idle doodles, Val flipped another couple of pages. “Uh-oh. Even you made mention in the hit parade.” She twirled the stem of her glass of Pinot between her fingers, and her smile slowly disappeared. “Looks like I owe you an apology.”
In the diary, Camille had admitted to trying and failing to seduce a “particularly stubborn rancher who took his vow of marriage as seriously as he did his long Texas heritage.”
“Unless there’s another cowboy out there.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “Like who? Trask? Zane? Last time I checked, they were both single. She definitely mentioned the marriage vows.” She took another sip, and he was caught again by her beauty, made more so by the simple fact that she didn’t realize how breathtaking she was. Never as flashy, flamboyant, or outwardly sexy as her younger sister, Valerie Renard had been and still was blessed with a more subdued and classic beauty and a sensual intelligence he’d always found fascinating.
“What if she’d lied in this diary?” he asked, leaning back in his kitchen chair, hearing the wood squeak as he reached for his beer. “What if she’d said that I’d gone after her, that she’d just not been able to say no to me? Would you have believed it? Or condemned me?”
Val didn’t answer.
“She’s still running the show, Valerie,” he said, the quiet fury that had been pushed aside rising again.
“What are you saying?”
“That you should have trusted me. Known that I was telling the truth, but you didn’t. You believed her, and now you’re believing her again. Her handwriting says it was a lie, and you believe her.”
“I’d think you would be happy that I understand. Thrilled, even.”
He held her gaze. Recognized the fire in her hazel eyes. Felt himself weakening, a crack slowly splintering his determination to work this thing out between them on his terms, not terms dictated by a dead woman.
“These pages,” he said, pointing to a particularly vivid sexual scene, “could be pure fantasy.”
“You’re saying she’s lying in the diary.”
“I’m saying she could be. That’s all. Don’t take anything at face value.”
“Including your innocence.”
“Yeah.” His chin clenched so hard it ached. “You need to trust me, Val. Just because I’m me. Because I’ve proved myself. I never lied to you. Never.”
Valerie’s throat worked. Her gaze wavered, then slid away, and it was all he could do not to cross the few feet of battered hardwood floors to take her into his arms.
“Okay . . . so you’re right. This diary could just be her imagination. Pure fantasy.” Val’s eyebrows drew together, and she bit at the corner of her lip. “But I don’t think so.” She was shaking her head as she thought aloud. “First of all, she talks about all her lovers. The first one?” She set down her wineglass in disgust. “In high school? Who do you think that is?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”
“Athletic. From a large Hispanic family.”
“Could have been anyone.”
“Reuben Montoya,” she said, and when she recognized doubt in Slade’s eyes, she pushed. “I know it.”
“You said they’d dated.”
“They damned well did more than that!” She tapped a finger on the copied pages. “According to this, he was her first, still in high school. Then a string of boyfriends, a one-night stand or two, all without names; then you’re so conveniently mentioned and finally a priest. And we know who he is.”
“Frank O’Toole.”
“Bastard,” she said, scooting out her chair and walking to the kitchen where she poured the rest of her wine down the sink in a quick, angry motion. Bo, ever the traitor, tail wagging slowly, followed. “Montoya shouldn’t be on the case. It’s too personal. And Frank O’Toole should be behind bars.”
“You’re sure he killed her?”
“Yes! Oh . . . God. No, not really.” She shook her head, and the light over the sink caught reddish glints in her hair. How many times had he left their bedroom, seeing the summer sunlight as it streamed through the window to cast fiery sparks in her tangled hair? How many times had she opened a sleepy eye, caught him gazing at her, and slowly grinned, an open invitation that he’d never refused? If he tried, he could smell the scent of their sheets, dried in the hot Texas sun and smelling of her perfume and sex. He felt a tightening in his groin and denied it.
This was definitely not the time.
“That’s the problem,” she was saying. “Frank O’Toole doesn’t seem capable. Hell, I believed him when he sai
d he loved her and I can’t . . . I just have trouble thinking of him with her. At least like that.” She glanced at the pages on the table, and her lips tightened.
He knew what she meant. The sexual acts, more dark than loving in Camille’s descriptions, didn’t fit with the man who helped the sick in hospitals, spent time with children in St. Elsinore’s orphanage, gave of himself to help build homes for the needy here in New Orleans after Katrina and in other places as well. Her lover had been strong. Sexual. And, it seemed, had a sadistic bent that was more cruel than kind.
Frank O’Toole?
But who really knew what a person was capable of?
Outwardly normal, inwardly twisted and dark.
He’d once seen a picture of a prim little churchgoing woman in her fashionable skirt and suit jacket. Her hair had been a blondish white and perfectly coiffed in the little-old-lady helmet style, her smile as sweet as Georgia peaches. She had to have been pushing eighty. But the next shot was of her naked, tattoos and piercings over every inch of her skin, her nipples pierced, her pubic hair shaved, her look turned raggedly sexual. It wasn’t her placing body art all over her body that he found so odd; it was the fact that she’d allowed the picture to be taken and placed on the Internet.
Maybe it had been Photoshopped.
Maybe she hadn’t allowed it.
Maybe her head had been put on someone else’s body.
It didn’t matter. The image stayed with him and reminded him that no one really knows what goes on in someone else’s head. Otherwise, why would there be so many confused neighbors who couldn’t believe the man next door had been a wife beater, a pedophile, or a murderer? Too many times he’d witnessed people convinced that the accountant next door had been the perfect neighbor.
So Frank O’Toole, priest or not, could certainly be the man who liked to bind Camille’s wrists to an iron bed as he poured oil over her body and the man who had found ways to keep her aroused far into the night with objects that tickled, delighted, and caused just a tiny bit of pain. O’Toole could be the lover who had spread her arms and legs and flogged her back, getting hard before thrusting into her from the rear, waiting as she arched up to him, her desire more acute with the threat and sizzle of torment. He could also be the man who would ultimately be proved to be Camille’s killer.