Devious - Lisa Jackson [57]
When she supposedly knew all about her life.
Val had been stunned.
Worth looking into.
Once he’d checked the mileage to St. Marguerite’s, he’d driven through other parts of New Orleans, some still scarred and abandoned, as empty as an evacuated war zone, the resulting destruction of Hurricane Katrina years before.
He’d taken the time to familiarize himself with the city where his wife had grown up and now called home.
That thought stung like a bitch, and he wondered, in light of Camille’s murder, if Val would ever return to his ranch near Bad Luck.
Probably not.
Once he was finished with his tour, he’d wound up here in the Plug Nickel, a honky-tonk that was about as glamorous as its name.
The bartender swabbed down the scarred bar, revealing tattoos that seemed to be inked on every inch of her exposed skin. Her over-processed hair was piled high on her head and tied with a red scarf. A tank top and shorts gave ample view of the body art that was scrolled on her arms, legs, and neck. So far, the spiderweb that climbed up her throat hadn’t reached her face.
A good thing, in his estimation.
“You need another?” she asked, offering him a bright smile as she replaced his nearly empty bowl of salty Chex Mix with a full one.
“Still workin’ on this one.”
“Just let me know.” She took a drag on her cigarette, then jabbed the filter tip out in an ashtray near the soda gun and moved down the bar to wait on other customers. Two women in their twenties laughed over a couple of glasses of wine. Farther down, another single guy nursed a scotch while surreptitiously watching the female patrons’ reflection in the mirror that ran along the wall behind the bar.
Bottles glistened like jewels in the soft light, and pool balls clicked as a couple of guys in jeans and T-shirts played a game of Nine Ball at one of the two pool tables.
A television mounted high in the corner had been tuned to a local station. The five-o’clock news was just airing the big story: nun murdered at St. Marguerite’s.
Oh, hell.
Every muscle in his body tensed.
The volume on the television was set too low to hear much over the conversation in the bar, but Slade caught the drift. A male reporter stood in front of the cathedral, explaining details of the crime. A close-up of the crime scene tape around the doors of St. Marguerite’s gave way to an image of Camille. In the photograph, she wasn’t dressed as a nun. It was a photo Slade recognized, a posed senior portrait, which was over five years old. The same photo Valerie had displayed on the mantel at the ranch when they’d lived there together.
Slade’s jaw slid to the side as the screen changed to a series of black-and-white photos of nuns as the reporter quickly went through some of the history of St. Marguerite’s.
The barkeep saw him watching the screen.
“A helluva thing,” she said, scooping ice into three empty glasses, the small cubes rattling loudly. “Who in their right mind would want to kill a nun?” She poured healthy shots of vodka over the ice. “I mean, really.”
“No right mind was involved,” the single guy at the end of the bar interjected, then added, “She sure doesn’t look like any of the nuns I had in grade school.” He smiled, hoping to engage the women sitting near him.
They ignored him, as well as the TV.
Slade didn’t say anything. That Camille was beautiful wasn’t an issue in her death.
Though it had been part of her undoing in life.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her again as he had the last time he’d been with her—long, perfect neck, dark hair falling in thick, coiling waves that skimmed the tops of her naked breasts—full, round, with large pink nipples standing at attention, begging for the touch of his fingers and tongue.
A long, knotted rope of pearls had