“Well, I don’t know exactly. Let’s see, the first Zagørjič book came out…gosh, I can’t believe it. It’ll be twenty years ago next year. I don’t know if she would have been living here while she was writing the series or before. And I don’t know how long before it was published she wrote the first book. She’s very private.”

Don and Maisey wore matching contemplative scowls as they stared at each other, like they were doing a particularly rigorous calculation.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Don said finally. “If she was here in the summers, I wouldn’t know. So many tourists come through then, everyone wanting a book for the ferry.”

“Smart lady living on the island twenty years ago,” Maisey mused. “Well, you know who you should ask, sweetie.”

This was to Ash, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded tightly without making eye contact. “I’m gonna.” Ash nodded at Bruce, then outside, and swept through the door.

“Sorry we couldn’t help, dear,” Maisey said. “But do browse and see if anything catches your eye.”

Truman dearly wanted to browse, but a glance outside at Ash told him it wasn’t the moment.

“I’ll be back,” Truman assured her. “Oh, and you should definitely stock the Dead of Zagørjič series. It’s dynamite. Thanks!”

The icy air stole the warmth of the Queen Bee within seconds of going back outside, and Truman pulled his borrowed coat tightly around himself.

“So what’s New Orleans like?” Ash asked. “I’ve never been.”

“Warm,” Truman said bitterly, burrowing even further inside his outerwear as they walked back toward Thorn. “There are touristy areas that are loud and crowded, but mostly it’s relaxed. There’s great music, great food. It’s beautiful. I love the cemeteries…”

Truman had loved spending time in the cemeteries of the city from the moment he arrived for his freshman year at Tulane. He’d grown up in Metairie, near enough to New Orleans that he’d always known he’d go there for school but far enough away that it seemed like a whole other world from the shopping malls and mowed lawns of his childhood.

He’d arrived for new student orientation and been disappointed to recognize a dozen people from high school. In an attempt to leave those days behind, he’d accepted the invitation to party in the French Quarter when one of the girls on his hall had asked him. He’d had fun for the first hour or so, but the longer they stayed out, the sloppier people got.