"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?"
"I guess that's it for now. But if I think of anything else ..."
"Of course, Reuben. Just call." He flashed a humorless smile as he rose and walked out the door, his dark cassock billowing, a stain visible near its hem.
"Father Frank?"
The priest turned, his face supremely patient.
"There's something on the bottom of your cassock." Montoya pointed at the stain, black on black.
"What? Is there?" He glanced down, saw the almost invisible stain. "I was out in the rain... ."
Feeling oddly like a supplicant, Montoya bent down on one knee and touched the hem. A faint crust of reddish brown smeared his fingertips.
"It's blood," he said, looking up at Frank.
The priest frowned, his forehead furrowing. "It has to be Sister Camille's. From when I bent down over her body. Of course I hoped, prayed, that I could revive her... ." His voice faded and his features twisted with the memory.
"We'll need the cassock." Montoya rose, face-to-face with the tormented priest.
Frank's face was pinched, as if he were about to object, but changed his mind. "Of course. I'll get it to you."
Montoya was already at the door. "If you don't mind, Father, I'll come with you."
"You don't trust me, Reuben?"
"This is a homicide investigation, Frank. I don't trust anyone," Montoya admitted.
Books by Lisa Jackson
SEE HOW SHE DIES.
FINAL SCREAM.
RUNNING SCARED.
WHISPERS.
TWICE KISSED.
UNSPOKEN.
IF SHE ONLY KNEW.
HOT BLOODED.
COLD BLOODED.
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
THE MORNING AFTER.
DEEP FREEZE.
FATAL BURN.
SHIVER MOST LIKELY TO DIE.
ABSOLUTE FEAR.
ALMOST DEAD.
LOST SOULS.
LEFT TO DIE.
WICKED GAME.
MALICE.
CHOSEN TO DIE.
WITHOUT MERCY.
DEVIOUS.
WICKED LIES.
BORN TO DIE.