Page 138 of Buried Too Deep

She thought that Phin or one of the others would jump in, but they were respecting her wishes. They remained quiet as she searched for the right words.

There were no right words. Only thousands of wrong ones.

“I went to Houma today. Saw the detective who was investigating my father’s murder.”

“Okay,” Tandy said warily, her glance flicking from face to face. “And?”

“My father’s pants had a stain. Lazurite, iron oxide, and manganese oxide.”

Tandy’s eyes widened, the meaning of those compounds immediately clear. “Old paint formulas. Wow. I didn’t know your father was an artist.”

Cora wished there were booze in her mug instead of tea. “He wasn’t. The detective—and all these guys—believe the paint was transferred from his killer’s clothing to my father’s.”

Tandy sat back in her chair. “His killer was a painter? Or a restorer, maybe.”

Cora nodded. “That was my first thought.” She dropped her gaze to her tea. She couldn’t look at Tandy for this part. Coward. Look her in the eye if you’re accusing her father of murder.

So Cora looked back up and nearly broke her resolve because Tandy had the most loving, sympathetic, worried look in her eyes. That was not going to last.

“The letter writer has a tremor. Wobbles his r’s.”

Tandy just looked confused. “Okay. What is it, Cora? Tell me. Have you found the letter writer?” She winced. “Is it Harry? I can’t think of anyone else who’s still alive who’s known you that long.”

“Harry is someone that they’re looking at.” Another deep breath. “Did you know that our fathers knew each other in college? That they belonged to the same fraternity? That they graduated the same year and shared a major?”

They would have lived in the same frat house. They would have shared meals, beers. They would have talked with each other.

They knew each other.

Cora couldn’t bring herself to add any of those words and she didn’t need to.

Tandy’s expression changed. Wariness became cold defensiveness. “No. I didn’t know that. How do you know that?”

Phin slid the yearbook across the table, two sticky notes marking the pages. “They’re both in here.”

“Are they.” Tandy said it flatly, because she wasn’t stupid. She knew what they were insinuating. She looked at the pages, one after the other, her lips firm and her eyes flinty. “And?”

Cora squeezed the mug so hard that she half expected it to shatter in her hands. “Tandy, I know you’ve done some art restoration for the gallery. Did your father ever do art restoration work? Or paint with the old paints?”

Face like a stone, Tandy lurched to her feet. “I don’t believe this.”

Val sighed. “Tandy, we’re sorry. It’s our job to put facts together and then rule things out or move forward with them. Cora says our theory isn’t possible and wanted to get some information from you so that we could cross this theory off our list.”

Still furious, Tandy sat back down. “What information?”

Cora had never heard her sound so cold. Tandy was vivacious and colorful, fun and loving. Unless you insinuated her father was a killer.

“You all moved to New Orleans when you were eight. Right?” Cora asked.

Tandy nodded, her jaw clenched tight. “We did.”

“You lived in Thibodaux before,” Cora whispered. “Near Houma.”

Tandy was breathing hard and fast. “Yes. I have vague memories of the house.”

“You told me about it when we first met. How you missed it. You had a tree house in the backyard and a room just for your plushies.” Cora’s voice cracked a little and Tandy’s eyes softened, just a hair.

Please, don’t hate me. Please.

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