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.”