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Barrett College. It’s his whole fucking life. Then he retires.”
    Lou nodded. “Okay.”
    Ray glanced around and then raised his eyebrows. “Think about it. There he is, puttering around the house, carrying in his head the answer to the biggest mystery in the history of his college. What’s the fun of a secret like that if you can’t share it with at least one other person? But who? He’s got no wife. He’s got no kids. He’s got no lover. Who’s left?”
    Lou pursed his lips and nodded. “It’s possible.”
    â€œGood a guess as any.”
    â€œWas he close with his sister?”
    â€œDon’t know. But she was his nearest living relative.”
    Lou thought it over. Henry Washburn had not merely been a president of Barrett College. He was the president on May 29, 1959, which is when Sirena made her final appearance. That was the night of the senior banquet for the Class of 1959. Midway through the evening’s festivities, a team of freshmen, accompanied by several armed Pinkertons, burst into the banquet hall and abducted her. During the ensuing automobile chase through the hills of western Massachusetts, one of the cars overturned. Its two occupants—both seniors—were killed, instantly, and gruesomely. One was decapitated. His head was never found—presumably carried off in the night by a wild animal.
    The police brought Sirena back to the college the next morning, and there she remained, under heavy guard, until the wee hours of June 17, 1959. Out on the quad the following day, Henry Washburn opened his commencement address by announcing Sirena’s departure. She had not been destroyed, he assured the buzzing audience. Instead, she was in transit at that very moment, heading toward her final resting place. She was gone, he declared, and she never would return.
    After a heated debate at a special meeting later that day, the board of trustees affirmed Washburn’s actions in a resolution that now hangs in the foyer of the Plympton Administration Building. It decrees that Sirena shall be and is hereby removed from the premises of the College to her final destination, her location known only to President Henry Emerson Washburn and, upon his death, to none other.
    Lou asked, “When did Washburn die?”
    Ray pointed to the date above the obituary. “Six years ago this July.”
    Lou began to smile. “So Abigail lives in St. Louis?”
    â€œIn Lemay Gardens.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œA nursing home. In the south suburbs.”
    â€œHow’d you track her down?”
    â€œEasier than you’d think. Took one of my guys just two hours.”
    Lou finished his beer and set the mug on the table. “And she’s willing to talk to us?”
    Ray shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t asked. Visiting hours are one to four tomorrow. I thought maybe we’d just kind of show up and introduce ourselves to the little lady.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œSure.” Ray smiled. “We’re talking mega-bucks for the school, dude.”
    â€œAnd don’t forget the money for the finders,” Brandi said.
    Lou sat back in his chair and stared at Ray. “Henry Washburn’s sister, eh?”
    Ray gave him a wink. “I got a good feeling about this one.”

Chapter Seven
    By the time the Soulard Blues Band took their second break, Brandi was yawning. Big gasping yawns. She was entitled. The night before she’d done her three regular shows at the Seahorse plus a night-owl special for a San Diego Padres bachelor party. She didn’t get to bed until after four in the morning. They flagged the waitress and paid the bill.
    In the hotel lobby, Brandi gave Lou a big hug.
    â€œIt’s so wonderful to see you, Louis.”
    Ray turned to Lou. “Wait here a sec.”
    Lou watched them walk toward the elevators. They were a wonderful pair, he thought, and wonderfully