EXECUTION IN E Page 15

  “Oh, dear,” Rosalie said. “Hope I didn’t spoil things.”

  Gethsemane spun on the bridesmaid. “What are you? A witch? Conjure woman? Sorceress? Magician?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You. You’re wrong. You show up at odd times, usually inopportune ones, you give cryptic warnings, try to talk me into a tarot card reading, and pretend you don’t recognize occult symbols, when, clearly, you do.” And, Gethsemane added to herself, you set off my warning bells. “What are you? And why are you here?”

  “I’m Rosalie Baraquin, one of Sunny Markham’s maids of honor.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard all that. Skip the press release. Who are you, really? You’re from New Orleans, Agnes told me. But you’re not part of that gang—”

  “Gang.” Rosalie made a noise. “Interesting word choice.”

  “Gang, group, crew, squad, unit, bunch. I meant Ty, Theophilus, Brian, Agnes, and Verna.”

  “I know who you meant. And gang was the appropriate label. It implies criminality.”

  “Criminality. They committed some sort of crime in New Orleans?”

  “I didn’t say that. And just because I hail from the area around New Orleans doesn’t mean I know everyone who passes through the city. It’s a big place.”

  “But you know more than you’re telling.”

  “Does any of this concern you?”

  “Damn it, it concerns my friend. My good friend who’s already had his heart broken and his life nearly ruined by one woman with secrets. I’m not going to stand around and watch that happen with a second woman.”

  “Everyone should be lucky enough to have a friend as fiercely devoted as you. What’s the verse? John fifteen-thirteen? Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

  “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a threat. I do know you’re being coy.”

  Rosalie said nothing.

  “At least tell me how you know Ty? Agnes said you introduced him to Sunny.”

  “I know them both from New York. Another big place with lots of people. People come to New York from all over. You never know who you’ll run into. A girl from Louisiana might meet a guy from Dublin in New York.”

  “Did you have a secret thing for Ty, too?”

  “Lord, no. I have better taste in men than Agnes and Sunny. My relationship with Ty was strictly professional. We were both in finance.”

  “And your relationship with Sunny? How did you meet her?”

  “Sunny Markham’s not the only one from old money. We struck up an acquaintance at a mutual distant cousin’s debutante ball.”

  “And you thought she’d be perfect for Ty.”

  “I thought they deserved each other. You might say, it was in the cards. Speaking of which, my offer of a reading still stands.”

  “No, thanks, maybe some other lifetime.”

  “Then I’ll bid you goodnight. All this drama’s exhausting.” She swept past Gethsemane.

  Gethsemane called down the hall after her. “What do you know about that sigil I showed you in the church yard?”

  Rosalie spoke over her shoulder as she stepped into her room. “I know enough to leave it alone.”

  “Is it meant to warn you about someone? Or to warn someone about you?”

  The thunk of the deadbolt was her only answer.

  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.”

  Twenty

  It was closer to four when she, Frankie, and Verna pulled away from the garda station. She drove. Frankie and Verna, exhausted from their marathon interrogation, sat in the back seat. She watched them in the rearview mirror, the glow from instrument dials and the satnav system illuminating the car’s interior. Frankie held Verna’s hand in both of his. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  Gethsemane forced aside the guilt pangs that niggled the back of her mind. She had to do this. Frankie’s happiness, and possibly his freedom, hung in the balance.

  “I took Vivian’s prescription to her, Verna, like you asked.”

  Verna sat forward in the seat. “You took it to her? You didn’t just tell her it was ready?” She glanced at Frankie, who’d sat forward as well. “Er, I mean, thank you. That was out of your way. You needn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “No trouble. Vivian and I got to chatting.”

  “About what?” Verna leaned back.

  Gethsemane’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “About tattoos. Did you know Brian has one covering his entire torso?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Verna said. “He only had a small one on his shoulder when I knew him at uni.”

  “How does Vivian know about Brian’s tattoo?” Frankie asked. “It doesn’t show.”

  “Oh, Brian was there. In Vivian’s room.”

  Verna looked at Frankie but said nothing. Frankie looked out the window.

  “Viv always had a thing for fellas with tattoos,” Verna said.

  “Did you talk about anything else?” Frankie asked, his gaze fixed on his reflection in the glass.

  “I asked Vivian about New Orleans.”

  “I don’t think she’s been there,” Verna said.

  “No, but you’ve been there. That’s where you, Ty, Theo, and Brian met Agnes.”

  “Is there some point to this, Gethsemane?” Frankie asked. “She’s admitted knowing them.”

  “I mention it because I ran into Theo at the inn. Sunny must have rented a block of rooms for the wedding party. Anyway, Theo and I got to chatting, too. About New Orleans. About the time you all spent down there.”

  Gethsemane and Verna locked eyes in the mirror again.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Verna asked. “I just want to be happy. Is that wrong of me? After all Ty put me through, don’t I deserve that?”

  “Watch the bloody road,” Frankie said, “before you crash us into a tree.”

  Gethsemane concentrated on driving. Then, “Theo started to tell me about something that happened in New Orleans. Something bad, I think.”

  “You think,” Frankie said.

  “Well, Rosalie Baraquin interrupted us before he could tell me what happened.” She drove for a moment before adding, “She thought whatever happened might be criminal.”

  “Rosalie wasn’t there,” Verna said.

  “No, but she’s a good guesser.” Or something.

  Frankie pulled away from Verna and crammed himself into the opposite corner of the seat. “Jaysus, Vern, for feck’s sake, just tell us what the bloody hell happened in New Orleans. I’m sick of the lies.”

  “I’m not lying to you, Frankie.” Verna grabbed for his hand. “I just—”

  Frankie evaded her grasp. “What. Happened?”

  Verna covered her face and let out a sob. She spoke without raising her head. “It wasn’t only me. It was all of us.” She sobbed again. “We killed a man.” She lowered her hands and glared at Gethsemane. “Are you satisfied now? I said it. We—Ty, Theo, Brian, Agnes, and I—killed a man in New Orleans.”

  “Stop the car.” Frankie raised his voice. “Stop. The. Car. Now.”

  Gethsemane pulled over and put the car in park.

  Frankie turned to Verna. “What do you mean, you killed a man?” />
  “It was an accident, Frankie, I swear.”

  “What did you do?”

  Verna looked back and forth between Frankie and Gethsemane, then looked down at her hands. “It was an accident. We’d been drinking, a lot. Me, Ty, Theo, Brian, Agnes, and Jared.”

  “Jared?” The name slipped out before Gethsemane could stop herself. “Who’s Jared?”

  “Jared Ely. He is—was—Agnes’s boyfriend.”

  Her boyfriend, the “guy she was with” whose name she claimed not to remember. Gethsemane bit her lip. Interruptions risked derailing the story.

  “Was her boyfriend,” Frankie said. “Past tense. What happened to Jared?”

  Verna’s voice trembled when she spoke. “L-like I said, we’d been drinking. We were ossified, the lot of us. Someone suggested—I suggested—we drive up to Lake Pontchartrain. Jared didn’t want to go. We, the rest of us, talked him into it.” She fell silent.

  “Go on,” Frankie said.

  “You can guess what happened.”

  “I want to hear it from you. All of it.”

  Verna hung her head. She said nothing for a full minute, then spoke barely above a whisper. Gethsemane strained to hear her. “We never made it to the lake. We had no idea how to get there. We were too fluthered to stop somewhere for a map or to ask for directions. We took a wrong turn somewhere and…”

  “And?”

  “And the car ended up in a bayou. In the water.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Ty got out first. He left the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Brian and Theo helped Agnes and me. Broken glass caught Theo in the face. That’s how he got the scar. But he and Brian made it out, too. Jared didn’t. He couldn’t swim.”

  “That’s it?” Frankie asked. “The whole story?”

  “Not quite the whole story,” Verna said. “When the rescue squad and the police came, we told them Jared had been driving.”

  “You lied?”

  “Ty was the driver. He convinced us to say Jared had been behind the wheel.”

  “You lied.”

  “What good would have come from telling anyone that Ty was the driver? Jared was dead. He couldn’t be charged with anything. If we’d told the truth, that Ty was driving, he’d have been arrested, prosecuted, sent to prison for years. His life would have been ruined. All of his plans—”