Page 106 of Buried Too Deep

Even Blue lifted his head.

The doorbell rang.

Antoine checked his phone for the camera feed. “It’s Detective Clancy. He looks unhappy.”

Molly jumped from her chair and grabbed the whiteboard.

Cora’s brows went up. “What’s she doing?”

“Stashing our notes,” Burke said. “As a rule, we keep our investigations to ourselves. If NOPD has a question, we answer it, but volunteering information is on an as-needed basis.”

“Pantry,” Cora said. “Hide it behind the mason jars, Molly. Val and I will let him in.”

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 8:45 A.M.

Val at her back, Cora opened her door to the detective, who wore a rumpled trench coat just like Columbo. “Detective Clancy? How can I help you?”

Clancy leaned to look around her and Cora leaned with him, blocking his view. He grinned. “Can’t blame me for trying. I see all the vehicles on your curb. Broussard and his posse are here?”

“We just finished breakfast. Would you like to come in? We have some biscuits and gravy left.”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you. I missed breakfast.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where he took stock of the crowded table. His eyes flicked to the empty easel up against the wall and shook his head.

“You guys were brainstorming, huh? Maybe we can trade information.”

Cora pulled out a chair for him. “How do you take your coffee, Detective?”

“Black, ma’am. Thank you.” He waited until he had coffee and a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of him before saying another word. “I’m glad you’re all here,” he began, then took a bite of the food. “Whoever made this, I want you to marry me. My wife won’t mind a third as long as you do all the cooking.”

Cora laughed. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.” She sobered. “What’s happened?”

Clancy squared his shoulders and met Cora’s gaze. “We got the ballistics report back on the bullet that killed Medford Hughes. It was fired from the same gun that killed your father.”

Cora stared as silence fell over the table. “What?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no doubt. Whoever staged Hughes’s suicide was in possession of the gun that killed your dad. Whether it was the same person or not, we don’t yet know.”

Burke pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did we,” Clancy said dryly. “I’ve been in communication with the Terrebonne Parish detective on Jack Elliot’s case, so he knows our two homicides are connected. Given that ours is fresh and his is a cold case and that Miss Winslow has had several break-ins here, he’s agreed to let us take over his investigation.”

“The glove,” Antoine murmured. “That damn glove.”

“I knew it was weird,” Burke said. “But why? How does that fit?”

Phin’s hand dropped from the table to SodaPop. He was tense, Cora thought, wishing she could help him.

But he was doing okay. She wasn’t going to interfere.

Phin drew a breath and let it out. “Detective, was there gunshot residue on the glove that Hughes was wearing?”

“Yes, there was. Why?”

“Because if there hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have assumed a suicide,” Phin said. “His killer must have been wearing the glove, then put it on Hughes afterward.”

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