Devious - Lisa Jackson [56]
Or prove him innocent.
Was it possible?
If so, then who would hate her so badly to kill her?
Let the police handle it. Isn’t that your motto? When she was with the sheriff ’s department, she’d hated it when novices got involved in her investigations.
But that was different. She wasn’t a novice, not by a long shot. She had investigative experience, and now her sister was the victim. She couldn’t sit around and wait for the likes of Montoya and Bentz to plod through their job.
No, Val had to take charge.
“I say fresh-baked goodies can cure just about anything,” Freya called through the screen door as she appeared with a small plate of blondies, which she set on the short table beside her chair.
Although Val appreciated the gesture, both women knew there was no way to soothe the loss of a sister, the end of a life. And when murder was involved . . .
Freya bit into a square and declared, “Oooh. Maybe my best batch ever.”
“Modest, aren’t you?” Val took a bite of the warm confection, and immediately bits of chocolate melted in her mouth, pecans crunching between her teeth. Bo, with his big, sad eyes, began to drool.
“Here ya go,” Freya said, and reached into her pocket for a dog biscuit, which Bo licked with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
It was so like Freya to have something to appease everyone. “So now, Val, all old, ridiculous promises aside, let’s hear it. Why the hell is it that you think the hunk you’re married to is evil incarnate?”
A few blocks off the river at a watering hole in the French Quarter, Slade worked on his second beer. He’d spent some time familiarizing himself with the city, figuring it was good to avoid the bed-and-breakfast for a few hours and give Val some space after their last confrontation at the cathedral.
He’d even driven as far away as St. Elsinore’s, the parish on the other side of the bridge that spanned Lake Pontchartrain. Built of stucco, its once-white exterior had darkened from years of grime. Giant willow trees draped over the walls guarding the orphanage, convent, and parochial school attached to the church. Not an inviting place, it looked deserted, closed for the day.
But there had been one door left ajar for a maintenance man, and Slade had slipped into the cool, dark interior and walked the mostly empty hallways, acquainting himself with the layout. A few doors were locked, of course, and he avoided areas where he heard voices, but he did get a general feel for the place, had taken note of the office for the parish and the orphanage. He’d seen evidence of children, a few toys and artwork on the cracked plaster walls. He’d seen a flyer taped to the windows announcing a charity auction and the fact that the building was about to be condemned, the orphanage moved. The disrepair was palpable—cracks in the walls, stains near the ceiling, the smell of mold beneath the stringent odor of disinfectant. Like St. Marguerite’s, St. Elsinore’s appeared antiquated and dark, in its death throes.
He’d climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, then hurried down an outdoor stairwell, studied the sorry playground and layout of rooms, the connections between the buildings. He’d even tried a few locked doors but hadn’t taken the time to try and break any dead bolts.
At least not yet.
He hadn’t stayed at St. Elsinore’s long, hadn’t wanted to be confronted and forced to answer awkward questions about why he was there. He really couldn’t explain it. Yes, there was a need for a glimpse of the crumbling building and grounds, the place where Valerie and Camille had lived for a short while before the Renards had adopted them, but there was more to it than that. Camille had worked at St. Elsinore’s recently, had taken a job with the children in the orphanage, a place Val had rarely spoken of.
What was the deal with that?
After the trek across Lake Pontchartrain to St. Elsinore’s, Slade had returned to the city and