Page 192 of Buried Too Deep

“Yeah. Let’s give the man a collar.”

“Let’s go to his office. I’d prefer not to have him in my house again. Not until I have a chance to make sure that my father’s client list is properly hidden.”

“He’s going to want to know about it,” Phin said. “He’s going to want to know how we found the Caulfields.”

Cora shrugged. “We’ll tell him the truth. We’ll tell him that we found my father’s notes about his side business and a note on his final job that he left for my mother to find because he didn’t trust his partner. We’ll give him access to my father’s old computer after Antoine makes sure the client list is no longer accessible.”

Phin kissed the tip of her nose. “You really do fit in with this crowd, telling a lie without actually telling a lie.”

Cora looked pleased with herself. “Thank you.”

Val laughed as she unlocked the SUV. “Get in and buckle up.”

25

Metairie, New Orleans, Louisiana

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 6:30 P.M.

“REVEREND BEAUCHAMP, ARE YOU listening to me?”

Alan winced at Mrs. Gregory’s shrill tone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been listening to you.” For hours, it seemed.

“No, you’re not,” she snapped. “You’ve been watching your phone. What could possibly be more important than the Christmas cantata? It’s next week, Reverend, and the choir is not ready. The sets are not ready. We need another camera for broadcasting and the sound system is not working. I repeat—what could be more important than this?”

What could be more important? Just about everything.

Mainly the fact that he hadn’t heard from Sage in hours. Sage should have finished off the Caulfields by now and checked in, but he hadn’t called.

Nor had Dave Reavey, Alan’s PI. He’d sent the man to shadow Sage, just to make sure Sage did what he was supposed to do. He’d told Reavey that he was worried about Sage’s state of mind, that his grandson might be planning something terrible. His PI had bought the story, hook, line, and sinker. Reavey was one of Alan’s most faithful parishioners and Alan had never questioned his loyalty.

But the PI hadn’t checked in, either. Not by phone, text, or email, and that was unusual. Alan was anxious about Reavey’s call, because that would trigger the in-person meeting with the PI to hand over any photos that might prove Sage’s guilt. At which time, Alan would have to kill the PI. He’d shoot him in the head, making it painless, of course. He wasn’t a monster.

And then he’d have to find a new PI, but that was a task for tomorrow. Eliminating the Caulfields was the task for today.

But there hadn’t been any news reports about a fire in Merrydale. Alan had been surreptitiously watching the Baton Rouge local news on his phone, although not as surreptitiously as he’d thought, because Mrs. Gregory was still yammering about him not paying enough attention.

“Enough,” Alan snapped. “That is enough.”

Mrs. Gregory fell silent, her mouth open. “What?”

“I said that is enough. I’m very busy and you are the choir director. If the cantata isn’t ready, then make it ready. Recruit friends. I don’t care.”

She straightened in her chair, expression indignant. “You don’t care?”

He stared at her, refusing to allow her to further fray his nerves. “I do not care. I have a headache and I’m behind in nearly everything. Please. Go find someone to help you.” He made a shooing motion with his hand, cognizant that he’d pay for his flippancy later.

Maybe he should shoot Mrs. Gregory in the head, too. It was very tempting.

But he couldn’t do that. Could he?

No. He could not.

She stood, vibrating with anger. “I will pray for you, Reverend Beauchamp. I’ll ask everyone to pray, because you are clearly going through a trial.”

Wonderful. She was going to tell everyone that he was in an ugly mood.

She left his office with an indignant flounce, closing the door hard enough to make him wince. He exhaled, shaking out a few aspirin from the bottle in his desk drawer. It was nearly empty. His head had hurt a lot the past few weeks.

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