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?”