Page 86 of Buried Too Deep

12

St. Claude, New Orleans, Louisiana

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 10:30 P.M.

STONE’S EYES WERE WIDE AS he lounged in Phin’s recliner, Delores perched on his knee as Phin gave them the highlights of the day. “Her father was an eraser? Seriously? I did not expect that.”

“An eraser that killed someone on a job,” Phin said. “I think that’s the hardest part of that situation for her to deal with. She went to the woman’s house today thinking she would be meeting her father’s mistress. It was a shock.”

“Poor Cora,” Delores murmured. “To find out your father was a killer. She must be devastated.”

“That seemed to make her numb more than devastated, I think.” Phin stroked SodaPop’s silky ear. “She’ll have to process it and that takes time. She was far more devastated at the thought that her attorney could be involved. I wanted to ask her about the other man we met this morning, her friend’s father, but I didn’t want to hurt her any more than I already had by suggesting we investigate the lawyer. The friend’s father is probably fine. He seems to care about her. But I’m checking out everyone that has any contact with her.”

Antoine had done some checks, but Phin had needed to see for himself. So in between installing new locks on all those windows, he’d run some background checks of his own.

Delores’s lips quirked up. “Are you talking about Tandy’s father? Force-of-nature whirlwind Tandy?”

Phin chuckled because that was a good description of Tandy Napier. “One and the same. She came over tonight when we were all in the attic searching for more of Jack Elliot’s records.”

“Did Cora tell her everything?” Delores asked. “Because I got the impression that she wanted to keep Tandy out of this.”

“Cora didn’t have to tell Tandy anything. Tandy kept getting distracted by all the antiques, paintings, and sculptures gathering dust up there. Cora said they’d gone up there quite a few times, mainly searching for old dresses and jewelry, but Tandy always got sidetracked and they never found what they’d been searching for. Cora finally sent her downstairs to help me install window locks. She isn’t handy and didn’t help me a bit, but she did about talk my ear off.”

Tandy had been good company, however, and he’d learned a lot more about Cora Winslow. Like how Cora had spent her teenage summers volunteering at the library where she now worked. How she’d set up a card catalog for all the books in her grandmother’s home library when she was eight years old. How she’d always wanted to write books but had been frustrated because—and Tandy’s voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—she had no real talent for it.

How Cora had taken care of her mother after her father left, and then her grandmother as she got older, and then her brother as he was dying. And how she’d broken a little more with the passing of each one, withdrawing more into herself, which worried Tandy to no end.

Tandy had told him of every one of Cora’s attempts to track down a marrow donor for her brother, about how Cora had focused on finding her father or any of his “other children” with the “other woman.” Who they now knew had never existed. He’d been impressed with Cora’s ability to track down the leads she’d gleaned from the letters.

Phin’s heart broke for her. She had to be cursing the time she’d spent away from her brother, now knowing that all those trips to seek her father had been for nothing.

For that alone, the letter writer needed to be punished.

“Phin?” The snapping of Stone’s fingers had him looking up.

Stone was watching him carefully. “You okay?”

Phin nodded. “Not spiraling. Just thinking about all the time those damn letters cost Cora with her brother. She spent weeks trying to track her father down, weeks she could have spent with her brother while he was dying. Burke sent me a copy of all the letters. I read a few, but I’m going to read the rest tonight.”

“How did she try to track her father?” Stone asked. “Did he drop any clues in the letters?”

“She used postmarks, mainly. She did an age progression on a photo of her father from twenty-three years ago, then took it to post offices and restaurants in the towns where the letters had been mailed. According to Tandy, she picked the smallest towns, figuring an out-of-towner would be noticed. But no one ever was able to positively ID Jack Elliot.”

“Because he was dead,” Stone said grimly. “I guess the question is, did the letter writer go to those locations to post the letters or was he—or she—able to get someone else to mail them?”

“I wondered that myself,” Phin admitted. “So did Cora, apparently. She asked the postmasters at the various post offices if they’d been sent any letters or cards that had been requested to be postmarked locally. Tandy said that more than half the time, the letter had been hand postmarked by the postmaster after receiving it addressed to the post office.”

“That happens a lot where we live,” Delores said. “Especially around Valentine’s Day. It’s got to be annoying being a postal worker in Loveland, Ohio. I always feel sorry for them in February. People want their Valentine’s Day cards postmarked with ‘Loveland.’ I never considered that people would do that for more nefarious reasons.”

Stone kissed the top of her head. “Because you’re an honest person.”

She raised her brows. “Have you ever done that? Sent letters to another post office to be postmarked to fool someone into thinking it came from a different place?”

Stone’s gaze slid to Phin. “I haven’t.”

Delores’s eyes widened. “Phin? You did this? Why?”

Phin glared at Stone. “Asshole.”

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