She gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry; I don’t know anything about it.”

That opened the floodgates. The three Tritons on the porch gave vent to a confused mishmash of conspiracy theories about Thad’s death, fueled by grief, anger, and beer, compounded by reports of Thad’s restless ghost protesting the chief’s presence at his memorial service.

Lurine and I listened wide-eyed, prompting them until I was reasonably sure none of these three knew anything.

I wanted to ask about Matthew Mollenkamp and the Masters of the Universe, but I didn’t want to press my luck without an opening, and there were more Tritons inside the house.

“Mind if I use your restroom?” I asked when there was a brief lull in the outpouring of grief and fury.

“I could use a potty break, too,” Lurine added.

“No, yeah, of course not.” Dale put one hand on the small of my back. “Come on; I’ll show you where it is.”

Inside, he introduced us to the six or seven Tritons lounging on battered furniture and milling in and out of the kitchen.

Bingo.

I recognized Matthew Mollenkamp as one of the funeral attendees, and I’m pretty certain I would have ID’ed him even without the introduction. For one thing, he was older, in his mid-twenties and likely an alumnus, but mostly it was about the way the others deferred to him and the air of entitlement he exuded, even slouching in an armchair with a beer in one hand. Also, he was the only guy in the house with the balls to check out Lurine blatantly.

“Sisters, huh?” He gave us a weary half smirk. “Come back and talk to me, Trask sisters. I could use some consoling on this bleak motherfucking day.”

“Amen, brother,” one of the Tritons on an adjacent couch muttered.

Lurine and I ducked into the bathroom, which was . . . gah. Pretty much what you’d expect from a frat-house bathroom. I wondered what it was like during the regular school year at full occupancy. Using a square of toilet paper, I flushed the toilet gingerly, then waited a decent interval while Lurine peered at her face in the mirror, wrinkling her nose with displeasure.

“He’s the one, right?” she asked me. “Mollenkamp?”

“Uh-huh.” I flushed the toilet again.

“Okay, baby girl.” She applied a fresh coat of lipstick. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”

At the outset, not much. Despite his request, Matthew Mollenkamp was content to slouch in his armchair, drinking steadily while the other Tritons shared fond memories of Thad, most of which involved booze-fueled exploits.

Outside, the sunlight began to fade, dusk rising.

“Enough beer,” Matthew said abruptly, and the room fell silent. “Let’s have a real toast. Denny, get the scotch.”

A Triton in a backward-facing baseball cap hurried into the kitchen, returning with three bottles of Macallan and a stack of paper cups. Yeah, I know. Sacrilege.