Devious - Lisa Jackson [129]
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