Devious - Lisa Jackson [176]
“It’s a real reunion here tonight,” the taller of the men, red-haired Ned, enthused.
His wife, even-featured with a pile of blond hair, agreed while a pinch-faced woman, Connie, couldn’t quit talking about the horrible goings-on at St. Marguerite’s as she drank two—or was it three?—glasses of wine.
It was all Val could do to hold her tongue, especially when Camille’s name came up.
“I heard she was pregnant, you know,” Connie said, her eyebrows rising at the scandal.
“Really?” the third woman, a brunette with wide doe eyes, said, shocked.
“Shhh.” Connie’s husband, Vince, scowled.
“I will not! They claim the father is the priest, and I don’t blame her—look at him!”
“Connie!” Vince rebuked, his face suffusing with color. “Please.” But Connie, tipsy, was eating up Father Frank with her eyes. “I wonder about that other nun who was killed. Maybe she was having a thing with the priest, too!” Connie laughed and nearly fell off her chair. “And now I heard from my friend who works there that another couple of the sisters are missing. What kind of a convent is that? They’re dropping like flies over there!”
“Shhh!” The husband was angry now. Embarrassed.
Val couldn’t stand it. Despite a warning glance from Slade, she said, “Camille Renard was my sister.”
“Of course she was. She was everybody’s sister,” Connie said, her eyes a little glassy as her fingers held up a wobbling glass of Chardonnay. But Vince stiffened, and the other couples went completely silent, setting their forks on the table.
“No, I’m not talking about her being in the convent and taking vows. She was my blood sister,” Val said evenly, and saw the shock register in six pairs of eyes. Slade looked as if he wanted to throttle her, but Val wasn’t about to back down now. “We both were brought to St. Elsinore’s when our parents died. She was a lovely woman, and I miss her terribly.”
“Oh, dear God,” Ned’s wife whispered.
The other crossed herself.
“But she was preggers, right?” Connie had lost all sense of propriety.
“I’m so sorry,” her husband said, and to his wife, “Come on, honey, let’s go.”
“But the auction hasn’t even started.” She was slurring her words now, and Val, irritated and ready for a fight, wondered how many drinks she’d had before she’d walked through the hotel doors.
“I’ll be good, I promise,” she said, trying to appear cute.
Her husband wasn’t having any of it, and he herded his tipsy wife out of the room. They wove their way to the doors while the rest of the people at the table picked at their food, a silent, awkward table in the midst of noise.
Slade placed a hand on Val’s knee and warned her with his gaze to not make a scene. He was right, of course. Especially when she considered what she planned to do later. She didn’t want anyone to notice her. Or miss her.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd again, and she noticed several people from the police department. Her gaze locked with Bentz’s for a second, and she saw Montoya leaning against a post and eyeing Father Thomas, who, just as dessert of Bananas Foster was served, introduced Sister Charity and the St. Marguerite’s choir.
The reverend mother seemed to have shrunk in the past few days, her skin paler than Val remembered, the starch drained out of her.
“As you know,” Charity said into the microphone after she’d tapped it to see that it was still live, “we’ve suffered some terrible losses at St. Marguerite’s lately.” Her voice was clear and strong, even over the feedback of the mic. “Our choir, too, has been affected, but in honor of those who have passed and those who are missing, for the glory of God and this great cause, we will perform.” The corners of her mouth tightened a bit as she paused,