Nineteen

“A crime.” Gethsemane tossed her purse onto the couch. She plopped down next to it and pulled up an internet browser on her phone. “Ty committed a crime in New Orleans and the rest of that crew is covering for him.”

Eamon materialized next to her. “Welcome home. What are you on about?”

“Something Rosalie Baraquin said when I ran into her at Sweeney’s Inn. She made a joke about criminality. Which got me thinking, what if Ty Lismore committed some crime when he was in New Orleans with Verna and the rest of that bunch covered for him?”

“That makes no sense.”

Gethsemane frowned at the ghost. “You’ve got a better idea about why they get so weird whenever anyone mentions the Big Easy?”

“Yeah. Another one of them, one who’s still living, committed a crime and Ty Lismore covered for them. Probably for a price, seeing as Lismore was a heartless wanker.”

“Okay, I give it to you. That is a better idea. But which one? Theophilus, Brian, Agnes, or…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Eamon finished the thought. “Or Verna. That would explain why she stood by him after her brother’s death, chose him over her family. She couldn’t hold a death against him if he didn’t hold one against her.”

“A death? You think she killed someone?” Gethsemane set her phone down. “Hard to picture Verna killing someone. Except Ty. But only because it’s hard to picture anyone not killing Ty. I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. But if she did kill someone, why would the others cover for her, especially after she left the group? Ty was the eye of that hurricane. He was the one who wielded a strange, irresistible influence over others. If they were going to cover for anyone, it would be Ty.”

Eamon pointed at her phone and levitated it to eye level. “What are you googling?”

“Googling?” Gethsemane stared in surprise. “When did you learn that word?”

“Just because I’m dead, doesn’t mean I’m brain dead. I listen and read and study. If I’m going to be around for the rest of eternity, I may as well learn something new.”

Gethsemane grabbed the phone. “I’m googling ‘New Orleans,’ ‘unsolved,’ ‘crime,’ and—what year do you think they graduated from college? Theophilus said they met during their last year at university.”

“They’re all what, early- to mid-thirties? They’d have graduated in the early aughts.”

“Don’t ’spose you could pop into someone’s room and take a peek at their ID.”

Eamon vanished.

“Kidding,” Gethsemane called.

He rematerialized. “Just google ‘2000-2007.’”

She typed the years into her phone’s browser. A list of links filled the screen. “Six hundred thousand hits. It’s under a million, anyway.”

“Scrolling through all that may take you awhile.” Eamon’s amused green aura matched his grin.

“You’re the one with eternity on your hands.” She cleared the browser in frustration.

“Why don’t you try it again with some of that lot’s names?”

“Another good idea. Score two for the ghost.” She typed. “Who should I try first?”

“Lismore.”

She shook her head.

“Nishi.”

“Nothing relevant.”

“Derringer.”

“Plenty of guns, but, no.”

“Haywood.”

“Bupkis.”

“Cunningham.”

She hesitated, then typed Cunningham, Verna, Vivian. She held her breath and hit enter.

“Well?”

“Nothing there.” Did she feel more relieved or confused?

Eamon’s aura transformed to a surprised brown flecked with puzzled sienna. “That’s all of them. Maybe we’re on the wrong track.”

“Or maybe not.”

“Not on the wrong track or not all of them?”

“Both.” She typed again. Baraquin. Rosalie claimed she didn’t know Ty in New Orleans. But that didn’t mean she told the truth.

“Baraquin,” Eamon read over her shoulder. “That’s the other bridesmaid.”

“The strange one. The stranger one.”

“Anything?”

“No unsolved crimes, but…” Gethsemane clicked on one of the links. “A list of Creole family names pops up. Baraquin is Creole.” Gethsemane read some of the other names. “Badet, Bajoliere, Barthelemy, Bastien, Arige, Arnaud—”

“Fabulous restaurant,” Eamon interrupted.

“Try to stay on topic. Anglade, Archer, hey!”

“Hey is a name?”

“No, hey, is an interjection, as in ‘hey, Amotte’s on the list.’ Malcolm spells his without the ‘e’ but it’s close. Think he’s Creole? I did detect a hint of Louisiana under the practiced accent.”

“Think he knew any of them back then?”

“I got the impression he didn’t know any of them until Sunny hired him to photograph her wedding. No one’s mentioned knowing him before that. And let’s face it, the only ones who’ve concealed their past connections are the Cunningham sisters.” She let the phone fall to the couch and covered her eyes with her palms.

“It’s been a long day,” Eamon said. “You can’t do much more this evening. Why don’t you turn in? I’ll pop over to Sweeney’s and see if I can suss out any secrets.”

Gethsemane peeked at him from beneath a palm. “Since when do you ‘pop’ anywhere? I thought you ‘translocated’?”

“Pop, translocate.” Eamon winked. “I guess I’m spending too much time listening to your American English. It’s beginning to rub off on me.”

  

Beethoven’s “Fifth” woke her at three a.m. She fumbled her phone to her ear. “Zeb?”

“Frankie.”

“Frankie?” She hauled herself up in bed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s happened, at least nothing new. I’m just calling to ask you a favor. Would you bring my car ’round to the garda station? If we wait for one of the uniforms to drive us home, we’ll be here until supper. I’d ask Niall, but,” he sighed, “at the end of the day, he’s still a guard.”

“You’re still at the station?”

“Yeah, Sutton finished with us around midnight. Then he managed to drag the paperwork out for a few hours, out of spite, I’m sure.”

“But I thought—” Verna had called Vivian hours ago; she’d assumed to tell Vivian that Sutton had released them and ask for a ride home. But if they were still there…Why had Verna called her sister?

“Thought what?”

“Nothing. Typical Sutton, I shouldn’t be surprised.” She wasn’t surprised, not at Sutton, anyway. “Still keep an extra key to your apartment under the statue in the garden?”

“Yeah. You’ll be okay going to St. Brennan’s on your bike this time of morning?”

Eamon materialized at the end of her bed. “You’re fecking kidding, right? You’re not really going anywhere at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said to Frankie and Eamon. “I’m your man.”

“Thanks,” Frankie said. “I know this is asking a lot. I owe you. Verna and I both do.”

“Everyone should have a friend they can call for a ride home at three o’clock in the morning. And Frankie?”

“Yeah?”

“I am your friend.”

She ended the call, then waggled her fingers at Eamon. “Vanish, please. I need to get dressed.”

“You’re actually going to fetch Grennan and his bure? At this hour? You’re going to ride your bike to the school, drive to the station, drive back to the school, then ride your bike back up here? Nobody’s that good of a friend.”

“I am.” She threw back her covers. “Frankie needs me. And in that wee span of time between the garda station and Erasmus Hall, I’m going to confront Verna with our theory about New Orleans.”

“There’s a method to the madness,” Eamon said.

“And I’m not worried about riding from here to school and back because you’re coming with me. If any boo-hags jump out of the bushes, you’ll blast ’em with an energy orb or two.”

“That’s not funny. I’m not sure an orb would stop a boo-hag.”

“Good thing it’s only humans I’m worried about, then. We know the orbs will stop them. Now will you please leave so I can get dressed? Before Frankie and Verna find another way home.”