Page 100 of Whiskey Kisses

Even though I trust everyone that has flown down here from Boston over the past couple of months, we keep Evie’s part in Danny Deschamps’ death a secret except for a select few. My parents; Finn, Alex, Malachi and Timmy, obviously, because they’re my inner circle. And Lucky, of course. As far as everyone else knows, and until the news goes public, Danny was offed by somebody else.

“There’s a saying,” Mom says, the morning we hear about Danny. “A woman in love is fierce and powerful, capable of anything.”

“Fierce and powerful,” Dad echoes, arms crossed as he watches Eviestir her coffee. “Never underestimate what we’ll do for the people we love.”

We prepare for the worst, but that day turns to night, and then a week passes without a word from the Deschamps camp. Still, I keep scouts out all over Savannah, watching their family home as well as Mama Avanelle’s, which remains shuttered with a “temporarily closed” sign on the main door. We keep an eye on every location we’ve seen Cole frequent, even the house in the Starland District, where I saw him with Maribelle. The distillery, the warehouse on West Julian, and Randall’s house in town are all guarded, just in case someone with ill-intentions shows up.

But no one ever does, not even when Danny’s death makes the front page of the morning paper.

Randall’s funeralis held a few days later, on a cold, sunny November morning. The service is held at the Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist, where generations of Doyles have been baptized, confirmed, married and laid to rest. Randall, for all of his faults, was a well-known man in Savannah, and his Requiem Mass is well attended. He certainly left an indelible mark on the city that he so dearly loved. Maribelle, her husband Dylan, and their daughter Blythe, sit beside Evie and me in the front row. Evie is tearfully stoic, but Maribelle simply falls apart.

We bury their father at Bonaventure Cemetery, in the family plot, where a neverending line of well-meaning friends and associates offer their condolences to the Doyle girls. I’ve just begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel when Evie sucks in a sharp breath, her nails digging into my arm.

“What is it?” I murmur, taking her hand.

“Danny Deschamps’ grandmother is here,” she says quietly. “Ms. Avanelle. She’s coming up the line with some of his brothers.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I make eye contact with Dad, who’s standing nearby. He whispers something to Mom then walks casually over and leans in, his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Avanelle Deschamps is here with some of Danny’s brothers,” I sayin a low voice. “She’s the matriarch of their family. Evie recognizes them.”

“All right.” He nods and steps away, already texting. My heartbeat accelerates. I examine the crowd, picking up Alex, Malachi, Vance, and Timmy. Our guys are in position all over the cemetery, from the parking lot to the burial site, because we knew that coming out together like this in public could make us an easy target.

Finn slips between Evie and Maribelle’s husband, Dylan, who glances at him with faint confusion before turning to the stately couple coming up the receiving line. I smile politely at each person as they pass, but my eyes are on the elderly woman in the black dress and shawl. Her white hair floats around her weathered, tanned face like cotton candy, and despite her cane, she seems solid. She says something to Maribelle, who gives her a tearful hug, making me wonder how close they actually are. Then she makes her way down to us, her milky blue eyes sweeping over Finn and me before locking onto Evie.

“Evelyn Doyle,” she says slowly, her low, gravelly voice wrapping around each syllable with distinction. Leaning on her cane, she lets go of her grandson and takes Evie’s hand in hers. “Did you know that our families share a long, long history? There has been animosity, but there has been love as well.”

“Yes, Mrs. Deschamps,” Evie says, trembling beside me. I wonder if Avanelle can feel it, too.

“Then you know that it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she continues, gently shaking Evie’s hand in emphasis. “If my boys had listened to me?—”

One of Cole’s uncles clears his throat. “Mèmè.”

“Things would have been different,” Avanelle finishes, ignoring him. “And you, young lady. You should have married one of your own. Someone who understood your history.”

“I’m sorry?” Evie croaks, taken aback.

“Mèmè, it’s time to go,” the uncle says more firmly.

“All right, all right.” Avanelle sighs, pursing her lips. “I knew your daddy his whole life, Evelyn, and I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Evie swallows visibly. “I am sorry for yours, as well.”

Avanelle stares at her shrewdly, not letting go of her hand. Finn’seyes meet mine over the top of Evie’s head. I move closer to her, even though I’m practically on top of her. One of the men with Avanelle stares back at me, his eyes as dark and cold as bottomless pits. Does he know my wife killed his brother? And that if she hadn’t, I would have?

As if the connection’s been severed, Avanelle abruptly releases Evie’s hand. Without another word, she takes a step back and allows her grandsons to lead her away.

“You okay?" I ask, leaning down so that only she can hear me.

She shakes her head slowly, her gaze finally tearing away from the retreating figure to meet mine. “I think she knows.”

It seems Avanelle showed up at Randall’s funeral to make a point, and if she meant to intimidate Evie, as well, it worked. Needless to say, we do not attend Danny Deschamps’ funeral. Despite Avanelle’s creepy platitudes about how close the two families once were, that isn’t the case now. Blood has been shed on both sides. Both sides know the other is responsible, even if we’re all dancing around it.

The days turn into weeks. Nearly a month after the funerals, both Randall and Danny’s murder investigations have plateaued, though the city continues buzzing with gossip and speculation, rumors swirling about organized crime and local gangs left unchecked. Provocative news articles are released in the local newspapers, and several members of Savannah society end up online and on TV, decrying both the crime wave and the loss ofmen like these. Men who came from some of the city’s oldest, most established families, who were a part of its very fabric.

What a fucking joke. If people knew that theseparagons of societywere intimately linked to the very organized crime they’re squawking about, they wouldn’t be so ready to build statues in their honor. Or maybe they do know, and they’re just keeping up appearances.

Anyway, the authorities claim the investigations have stalled due to “so few leads,” code for “the people responsible are being protected,” but Evie has a peace about it. After all, justice has already been served.

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