Page 180 of Buried Too Deep

The trip from Houma to Merrydale was only twenty minutes longer than the trip from New Orleans, and Burke was a speed demon. He’d be there in ten minutes, easily.

Telling SodaPop to stay, Phin got out of the SUV slowly, his hands extended to show he held no weapons. He wished he did have a gun, but weapons were Val’s bailiwick. He turned once to meet Stone’s gaze. His friend had rolled down the window of his minivan and had his head stuck out.

“Hold,” Phin mouthed and Stone nodded, so Phin turned back to where Cora stood in front of the couple, her hands in the air like she was being held up.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Cora was saying. “I promise.”

“You have to leave,” Timothy said. “We have to go.”

Something had terrified this couple, yet the daughter—Ashley—looked more confused than afraid.

“Sir,” Cora said quietly. “Have you been threatened?”

Beatrice’s face crumpled. “We have to go. Please, let us go.”

“We will,” Cora promised. “But can you spare me a few minutes? My father knew you. Helped you, I think. His name was Jack Elliot. You might have known him as John Robertson.”

Timothy slowly lowered his shotgun, his face slack with shock. “You’re his little girl. CJ.”

Danger from the gun diminished for the moment, Phin stepped to Cora’s side, taking her hand. “My name is Cora Jane,” she said. “That’s what he called me.”

Beatrice blinked hard. “You said his name ‘was’ Jack Elliot. Has he passed?”

Cora looked surprised. “He was killed twenty-three years ago. It’s been on the news. His body was found in a demolished building down in Houma. They ID’d him a little more than two weeks ago. He was shot in the head and hidden in the building’s foundation.”

Beatrice staggered. “What was the date of his death?”

“October sixteenth,” Cora said. She glanced over to the young woman on the porch swing. “The day after your daughter was born.”

“Oh my God,” Timothy breathed. “Oh my God.”

Beatrice’s hand was covering her mouth. “We didn’t know.”

“I know,” Cora said with a kindness that made Phin marvel. She was hurting, but still so kind. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

The SUV’s door opened and closed. “I can make sure you’re safe,” Val promised. “My boss is on his way. He’ll be here in five minutes. Together we will keep you safe. And we can help you find a place to hide if you need to.”

“Why should we trust you?” Timothy asked, but it was a question born of fright, not belligerence.

Cora shrugged helplessly. “You don’t have to, but I’ve been trying to solve this mystery for two and a half weeks. Someone killed my father and sent me letters, signed by him, for the last twenty-three years. Someone has repeatedly broken into my house and they also shot my friend. My boss was murdered in her own bed. Two other people were killed. We know that you’re afraid and that you have a right to be. These people are private investigators I hired to protect me. If you’ll help us, they’ll protect you, too. I can only give you my word.”

Timothy and Beatrice looked at each other, communicating as long-married couples did. Finally, Timothy nodded. “We’ll talk to you, but not here. There’s a motel in town. We can stop there. I don’t want to be here when he comes for us.”

“Who?” Cora pressed. “Who threatened you?”

“Not here,” Beatrice said stubbornly. “I won’t risk my family.”

“All right,” Cora said reluctantly. “We’ll drive with you to the motel.”

“Ash!” the woman called. “Time to go.”

Ashley came down the porch steps, the collie trotting at her side. “Who are they, Mama?”

“She’s the daughter of an old friend,” Beatrice said, cupping her daughter’s cheek in her hand. “Get in the car with Dad. We’ve got one stop to make and then we’ll go on our vacation!”

The perky way the woman spoke made no sense initially. Ashley was twenty-three years old. But then she turned her smile on them and began to speak and Phin understood. She was cognitively challenged.

Her parents’ need to protect her made even more sense now.

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