The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,11
Kingsley’s like a brother to me. Same father, in a way.”
“Foster father?”
She seemed to think good and hard about that.
“More like a godfather.” She smiled behind her glass.
“I see.” Cyrus wrote all that down. He saw her rub a spot of paint off her arm with her thumb. “You’re repainting the house?”
“Just the nursery,” she said.
“No offense, and I’m sure you’re a fine housepainter, but I’d think a man with Mr. Edge’s money could hire a whole team of professional housepainters.”
“He could. But he’s feeling extra protective of Juliette lately. He’s not comfortable with strange men in the house, even to paint. I offered to do it.”
“Wouldn’t I count as a strange man in the house?” Cyrus asked. He watched her over the water bottle as he took a sip.
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Are you strange?”
“Stranger than I look. I might not be the best judge of that, though.”
“Strange but not dangerous. You’re not even carrying a gun.”
“People might think threat of force is a good way to get to the truth,” he said. “But it’s not. People lie more when they’re scared, not less.”
“I’m not scared,” she said. “I’ll be honest with you if you’re honest with me.”
“That’s a good deal,” he said. “Should I start?”
“Please. I’m sure you didn’t come here to hire me for my painting skills.”
“I’m here about a dead priest.”
Her reaction wasn’t what he expected. She set her glass down with a thud that sent water spilling over the lip. Then she sat—almost falling—onto the sofa, her lips parted in a gasp, her eyes wide with shock and horror.
“What?” she breathed.
“Father Isaac Murran. Do you know that name?”
She took a shuddering breath and leaned over, head on her knees.
“Ma’am? Ms. Sutherlin?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She held up a hand. “Give me a minute.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
The dog trotted over to his mistress and rested his head on her knee. She sat up and exhaled through her lips.
“I’m all right, boy,” she said to the dog.
“I assume you know Father Ike then?” Cyrus asked.
The woman shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“That was a strong reaction over the death of a total stranger.”
“I know a few priests. I thought…I thought maybe it was one of them.”
“How do you know priests?”
“I’m Catholic.”
Cyrus snorted a laugh.
“What?” she asked, anger flaring into her eyes. They looked black now in the low light, not green.
“You’re Catholic?”
“Of course I’m Catholic. This is New Orleans, right? Everybody’s Catholic here.” She leaned back on the sofa and stuck one leg out, sprawling for a moment like a woman who’d been expecting a death sentence from her doctor and instead heard the word “benign.” She laughed a little drunkenly.
“Don’t scare me like that, Mr. Tremont.”
“Sorry about that.” He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa from her, watched as she rubbed her forehead between her eyes. He saw she wore a silver saint’s medal, which rested between her ample breasts. He had to wonder if this particular saint had ever imagined his reward for a life of godliness would be an eternity pillowed in beautiful cleavage.
“It’s not your fault. You’re doing your job,” she said.
“What saint do you wear?” Cyrus said as she sat up and adjusted her necklace.
“Saint Ignatius.”
“Interesting choice for a saints medal,” he said. “Patron of soldiers and the Jesuits. You have someone in the service? Or the Jesuits?”
“You know your saints,” she said, which didn’t answer his question. He waited. “This medal belongs to my lover. He’s on a long trip right now. I wanted something of his close to my heart.”
“Your lover? That’s what you call him?”
“I’d call him my ‘owner,’ but that would make probably make you uncomfortable.”
“A little, yeah. Something wrong with calling him your ‘boyfriend’?”
“He’s fifty-one. There’s no boy in that man. Although I am seeing a twenty-seven-year-old as well.”
“And he’s your boyfriend?”
“No. He’s my other lover.”
“You’re playing with me.”
“I always play with handsome men. It’s my job.”
She patted her dog on the head and stood up, went straight to the wet bar, and poured herself a drink. Not water this time, but whiskey from the looks of it. She downed the shot in one take.
“Now I believe you’re Catholic,” he said.
“By the way, I don’t usually drink bourbon before brunch. You gave me a shock.”
“Sometimes you have to shock someone to get their attention.”
She seemed to be considering taking another shot of her whiskey. Instead, she screwed the lid back on the bottle and took a seat