“I don’t think the police will allow that,” Val said. “My sister was murdered, Sister Charity. There’s a homicide investigation going on.”

“Understandably,” Father O’Toole interjected. “And we’re cooperating fully.”

The mother superior wasn’t budging. “Be that as it may, you are not an investigator, Ms. Renard. What we all need now is some time for spiritual healing.”

“Sister,” O’Toole admonished to the mother superior, and she stiffened slightly.

Slade said, “What we need now is the truth.”

Charity’s smile was weak. “And that comes only through the grace of our Lord.”

“The same guy who talks about ‘an eye for an eye’ and ‘thou shalt not kill’? That guy?” Slade demanded.

“There is no need for this,” Father O’Toole said, but not before the big nun bristled, rustling the fabric of her habit, the corners of her lips tightening ever so slightly. “I hardly think of the blessed Father as a ‘guy.’ ”

“And I’m not talking about ‘the truth’ in some kind of spiritual revelation,” Slade pressed as a plumber packed up loops of a hose and disappeared under an archway. The double doors from the back of the cathedral opened, and two nuns, dressed in full habits, walked through the garden.

A heavy-set nun hummed softly, while the other, thin and pale, scowled behind thick glasses.

“Sister Louise!” the mother superior snapped.

Both women stopped short near the fountain. As water splashed, the humming abruptly stopped. “Yes, Reverend Mother?” the big nun asked, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

“You and Sister Maura need to grant us some privacy.”

“I . . . we . . . didn’t know that anyone was here . . .” Louise glanced at the small group of people as if seeing them for the first time. She looked positively stricken. “Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. Of course.”

“Wait!” Val sidestepped Sister Charity. “You’re Sister Louise,” she said to the woman who had been humming. “You . . . you’ve worked with my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Louise said, casting a worried glance at the mother superior. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m Camille’s sister. Valerie.” She implored the nun with her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Again, Louise looked over Val’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Sister Maura seemed to retract into her wimple, as if to hide behind the reddish curls poking out of the edge.

“She spent time at St. Elsinore’s.”

“At the orphanage, yes. She liked working with children. Like me,” Sister Louise said. “We were both sad that it’s going to be closed. And Sister Camille, she was all about finding her birth parents.”

“Wait. What?” Val said, stunned. “But she knows . . . knew who our biological parents were.”