Page 120 of Buried Too Deep

“Not Tandy?” Phin asked.

Cora shook her head. “Her daddy had the money to pay the full tuition.”

“How did Nala and Louisa get the scholarships?” Phin asked. “You got yours because you were a legacy student, I assume. But Joy didn’t go to a fancy school like that.”

“No,” Cora agreed. “She didn’t. Joy’s parents ran a corner grocery store.”

“In Tremé,” Burke said gruffly. “I knew them. Good people.”

“Had to be good people,” Cora said, still staring down into the hole. “They produced Joy, after all. Mama and Joy became friends after Joy got shot on the job, back in the day. Joy’s husband had passed a long time before that. Joy came to my mother for physical therapy. Her sister would bring her, along with Joy’s kids. The sister was the kids’ babysitter, as I remember. So she had to bring them with her when she drove Joy to PT. Mama didn’t have a babysitter, either. Grandmother watched us when she worked, but sometimes Grandmother had plans, so John Robert and I went to work with Mama. When Nala and Louisa started coming with their mother, we all became friends. My mother got scholarships for Nala and Louisa the following year. Their mother was a hero—a cop wounded in the call of duty, in service to the city. The school was happy to have her daughters attend.”

“And you had fellow scholarship students to hang with,” Phin said.

“I did. Tandy was kind of the odd one out. She had a mother and a father, at least back then. She had a nice house that wasn’t always falling apart and in need of fixing. She had new clothes and we didn’t.” Cora’s lips tipped up. “Nala and I discovered thrift stores when we were high school freshmen.” She chanced a look up and found the three watching her.

Burke looked contemplative, Val encouraging.

Phin looked like he wanted to hug her. All warm and safe.

She leaned against his side, gratified when he dropped her hand and slid his arm around her waist.

“Thrift stores in the nice parts of town have some super nice clothes,” Val said. “I used to shop at them when I was a teacher. Now I just wear jeans and combat boots.”

She made them look good, too, Cora thought.

“It’s true. The thrift stores in the Garden District were special. We found things that were nicer than Tandy’s.” Cora smirked at the memory. “Pretty soon, Tandy was going with us. We all still shop at the thrift stores.”

“When did Tandy’s mother pass?” Burke asked.

“When we were in college. Aneurysm. Just…happened. So we were all there for Tandy. She, Nala, and I were in the same year, all at Tulane. We made it through.” Cora frowned, a new memory troubling her. “It was Tandy’s mother who introduced us to thrift stores. She was a champion shopper. I’d forgotten about that.”

“So Tandy’s mom didn’t always have money?” Val asked carefully.

“Not always. She said that she’d learned to stretch a dollar after she and Patrick got married, before they came to New Orleans. Then his gallery business started growing and she didn’t need to anymore, but she kept shopping at thrift stores. She saved for rainy days. She left everything in her savings to Tandy. I never asked how much it was.”

Phin squeezed her waist lightly. “But you know.”

She looked up at him, her smile wobbly. He listened, truly listened. Picked up nuances other people didn’t. “Yeah. The next year there was a scholarship fund established at St. Charles School for Girls in her mom’s name. Two girls a year get to attend for free. Harry manages the fund.”

“You were surrounded by incredible women,” Val commented. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.” She shook her head. “Patrick can’t be involved. He just can’t be.” She squared her shoulders, something she’d done a lot lately. “How will you exclude him?”

“Background checks to start,” Burke said. “We’ll look for motive. Unexplained income. Gaps in employment. That kind of thing.” He turned to face the buildings across the street. “But while we’re here, I want to find out if any of those stores were in business twenty-three years ago. Someone had to have seen something. And maybe there’s an art restorer who knew this area back then. Someone who wasn’t Patrick Napier.”

It had to be someone else. It just had to be.

She started to turn from her father’s resting place. “Let’s go, then.”

“Just a minute.” Phin pulled something from his pocket, his expression sheepish. In his hand was a rose, its stem cut short, its thorns stripped away. “For your father’s grave, if you want to.”

Her heart squeezed so hard that it hurt. “Phin. Where did you get it?” Her grandmother’s rosebushes had gone dormant months before.

He glanced at Val. “Val’s sister is a florist. When we talked about coming out here, I texted her, and she brought it to Val while we were in the bank.”

“That’s what was in the bag,” Val said. “I wanted to peek, but I didn’t.”

Cora’s eyes filled. “Thank you. Am I allowed to throw it down there? Is it still a crime scene?”

---