“And neater,” observed Lucy.

“Yeah. So let me see it.”

Lucy produced the license and Barney leaned over it. “He looks a lot like Tommy Stanton,” Barney said.

“I know. I think they’re related. I think he came to town because of Mimi.”

“So you think whoever killed Mimi also killed him? That it wasn’t an accident?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to people who saw him around town and nobody mentioned he was ever drunk, and there was no sign of liquor in his little campsite in the woods.”

“You can show me where it is?”

“Sure. So how about getting his name and address?”

Barney picked up the phone and within minutes he was copying the information in his big block letters: Thomas Preston O’Toole with an address in Jamaica Plain. “The license expired in 1985,” he said, sliding the paper across the table to her.

“Mimi named her sons after him,” said Lucy. “Who do you think he was? A brother?”

“The age is right. He was about forty. She was a little older.”

“I wonder what happened, what split them apart?”

“I can run a records check,” offered Barney, just as his name was called on the station intercom. “I gotta go,” he said, “I’ll call you later.”

Lucy felt exhilarated, and slightly frantic, as she hurried back to the Pennysaver office. It was exciting when a story began to gel and she found the pressure both exhilarating and scary. But it was already Tuesday. Could she pull it all together by noon tomorrow?

Google was no help at all. There were no matches for Thomas Preston O’Toole, no matches for Preston O’Toole and 4,830 matches for Thomas Preston, most of which seemed to be random notations that included the name Thomas.

“Lucy, what exactly are you doing?” demanded Ted, who had been watching her scroll through the listings for some time.

“I Googled the homeless guy, but I’m not finding anything.”

“Uh, that’s a surprise,” he said, rolling his eyes. “He was homeless, that means he wasn’t connected to society, right?”

“Well, everybody’s in Google, right? Even me. And he might have been somebody important before he became homeless. Or he might have been named after a famous relative.”

“I think you’d be better off with a criminal records check,” said Ted.

“Barney ran one for me. It came up empty.”

“Call the parish priest,” advised Phyllis, oracle-like from her spot behind the reception counter.

“What?” Lucy was puzzled.

“O’Toole is an Irish name and Jamaica Plain is in Boston, that means he’s most likely Boston Irish. They’re usually faithful churchgoers. I bet the parish church has some information, baptism, first communion, stuff like that.”

Lucy remembered Mimi’s funeral service at the Catholic church, and the fact that O’Toole had attended it. “That’s a good idea,” she said, casting a questioning look in Ted’s direction. “Just one phone call?”