Foolish Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series Book 3)

by Mark de Castrique

“Good plan. Keep on with Weathers and Talbert as well.” I hung up, feeling better knowing Melissa would be chained to her computer with busy work.

  Tommy Lee rewrapped the gauze around the bone and bullet. “I’m going to get this case up to the mill. We’ll rig it under the floorboards by the grindstone like you suggested. I’d better replace the money too. Something goes wrong with every plan, but I doubt if Nickles or Millen would destroy the money if they get their hands on it. I’ll record the serial numbers and then we’ll have something to link them to the ammo case.”

  “What about the bullet?” Kevin asked.

  “That’s going under lock and key in my evidence room. I’m not taking a chance with it.”

  “Good. Then I guess that’s it for now.” Kevin extended his hand to me. “Smart plan. You should’ve stayed a cop.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’d rather Barry stay alive,” Tommy Lee said. “He seems to be allergic to investigations.”

  I started for the door. “I’ll be at the funeral home for awhile, and then up at the cabin. Call me if something breaks.”

  I ducked out the back door of the department and ran through the rain to my jeep. I sat for a few minutes before starting the engine. Kevin had punched my button. I did want to be part of the investigation. Tommy Lee knew that, but he also knew I had my responsibilities. That didn’t mean I couldn’t do a little investigating on my own. I decided it was time to get to the bottom of the case of Susan Miller and Ray Chandler. Tonight, I hoped to interrogate my chief suspect, Susan, over dinner and wine.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Uncle Wayne and Freddy arrived with Y’Suom’s body shortly after four. After we’d moved the corpse from the hearse to the embalming table, Uncle Wayne handed me a manila envelope.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It came with the paperwork.” Wayne turned his attention to the body. “The M.E. did a nice job. He didn’t stick us with a lot of cosmetic reconstruction.”

  Sometimes an autopsy can leave the funeral home with a real challenge. The Asheville medical examiner was exceptional in his respect for the dead, but he’d never sent me a personal message before. He’d written my name on the envelope and added the script, “per Sheriff Wadkins—Laurel County.” Inside I found a copy of the autopsy report.

  The information parroted what Tommy Lee and Kevin had said last night. In summary, a blow from a blunt object consistent with the brick had rendered the subject unconscious, but hadn’t inflicted sufficient trauma to cause death. The force of the garroting belt crushed the windpipe, making survival extremely unlikely even if the victim had received immediate medical attention.

  “What’s the manner of death?” Wayne asked.

  “Cold-blooded murder. Given his neck injuries, you might need to dress him in a high collar.”

  “Freddy and I’ll take care of Y’Suom. You’ve got other priorities.”

  This time I didn’t argue. I also didn’t confess that I’d been relieved of my unofficial investigative duties.

  Once in the office, I called the clinic and asked Natalie to put me on hold until Susan had a chance to pick up. Ten minutes elapsed before she came on the line.

  “You’ll be glad to know I’m off the investigation.”

  “They find the murderer?” She sounded excited.

  “No, but there’s a plan in place. A trap actually. I don’t want to talk about the details on the phone. How about dinner at the cabin?”

  She hesitated.

  “Not a late evening,” I assured her. “I’m leaving the funeral home now. I could have steaks and wine on the table by six-thirty.”

  “But I’ve got early rounds in the morning.”

  “How long’s it take to eat? You can leave by eight if you need to.”

  A briefer hesitation, and then she agreed. “All right. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

  I hung up and took a deep breath. For the first time since the attack in our operating room, I relaxed. I was back on familiar turf. Uncle Wayne and Freddy would have everything ready for the funeral, Tommy Lee had baited the trap, and I could surely handle a romantic dinner with Susan.

  I turned the steaks over and slid them beneath the broiler. Four more minutes and then they could sit under foil, self-cooking to a perfect medium. I’d started the broccoli steaming, timed to finish with the steaks, and fed Democrat early so that he wouldn’t be tortured by the aromas. He’d been relegated to the guest room with George, who munched on the lettuce trimmings.

  I set the bowl of tossed salad and a small plate of crumbled bleu cheese on the dining table. Linen napkins, two place settings of china and silver I’d salvaged from my divorce, and crystal wine goblets elevated the meal to four-star status. I uncorked a bottle of Malbec, Susan’s new choice in red, and laid a long-stemmed rose across the base of her glass. Even I was impressed.

  At six-twenty-five, I flipped on the front porch light to offer a welcoming harbor in the storm. I remembered that last night I’d unwittingly signaled a sniper that his quarry approached. I hoped the weather discouraged any second attempts and that Tommy Lee would soon have the culprit in custody.

  Since I’d had no phone call from Susan, I knew she’d be prompt. At six-thirty, I heard tires on the gravel. I lit the two candles on the table, poured wine in each goblet, and hit play on the CD. Linda Ronstadt’s torch songs softly filled the cozy space of the open living and dining rooms. My single regret was the wood had been too wet to build a fire and complete the mood.

  I heard the tires again. Susan must be maneuvering to get as close to the porch as possible. I could score a few early points for meeting her at the car with an umbrella. I grabbed one from the stand and opened the front door. There stood my worst nightmare.

  Kevin Malone clutched a wet paper bag to his dripping Boston Red Sox jacket with one hand and held a six-pack of Killian Red in the other. His damp curly hair was matted to his scalp and trickles of water arced around his wide grin. Behind him, Susan jumped from her Subaru and dashed through the rain. She’d had to park beyond my jeep and the Taurus Kevin borrowed from Tommy Lee.

  As Kevin turned to watch her, I shook my head and threw up my hands, showing Susan I had nothing to do with this.

  “Hello, I’m Kevin Malone.” He bowed like a Japanese diplomat. “Sorry, it’s against my religion to set down alcohol.”

  Susan brushed her wet hair from her face. “Barry’s told me about you. I’m Susan Miller.”

  “You found the bullet.” Kevin looked at me. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Susan and I are having dinner.” I left it there, figuring Kevin was savvy enough to take the hint.

  “But come in,” Susan offered. “I’m sure we’ve got enough.”

  “Really, I don’t mean to intrude.”

  Behind Kevin’s shoulder, Susan glared at me and nodded to the door. Just my luck to have a girlfriend with manners.

  “Yeah. We’ll have enough. Looks like you brought supplies.” I stepped back to let them enter.

  “Guys’ rations,” Kevin said. “Pizza, beer, and a movie.”

  “We can use Barry’s TV trays,” Susan said as she followed the man who’d ruined my evening.

  They both stopped. Linda Ronstadt’s sultry voice rose above the rain. In the ell off the living room, the dining table sparkled with candlelight refracting through wine prisms. Shadows flickered across the blood-red rose and fine china. I envisioned the romantic scene mutilated by flimsy trays on rickety metal stands, and instead of gazing into Susan’s lush brown eyes, I’d be watching Jean-Claude Van Damme kick somebody’s face in.

  “My God, pretty special for a Thursday night. I’m definitely intruding.”

  “Just my typical dinner for Susan.” One silver lining was Kevin could be a witness to my efforts and say nice things about me.

  Susan walked over to the table and picked up the rose. She didn’t say anything.

  “Would you get the TV tr
ays, dear?” I was careful to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I’ll fix the plates. Kevin, what’s the movie?”

  “Operation Falcon. Franklin Talbert’s first film. A VHS tape. The store didn’t have it on DVD. Not exactly a big renter.”

  My derailed evening suddenly jumped onto an unexpected and interesting track. “Why the urge to see Talbert’s movie now?”

  “Because I’ve never seen it before.”

  Still holding the rose, Susan turned to Kevin. “You and Talbert served together in Vietnam and you haven’t seen all his movies?”

  “I haven’t seen any of his movies. I didn’t like the idea of Franklin exploiting what we went through. I refused to put a dime in his pocket.”

  “What changed your mind?” I asked.

  “A bag of bones named Raven. If Franklin modeled his movie Operation Falcon after Operation Raven and if Franklin was the target of last night’s shooting, then maybe there’s a clue in the film.”

  “But this came out nearly twenty-five years ago,” I said. “Why kill him now?”

  Kevin smiled. “Good question. But Y’Grok Eban only died last week and I think his death changed everything for somebody.”

  I took the china plates back to the kitchen, added a third, and then cut the steaks into strips. The portions were small, but adequate. We could always cook Kevin’s pizza for a second course.

  My television sat on a stand in the corner near the edge of the stone hearth. The lower shelf held the combination VCR/DVD player. Susan rolled the unit in front of the fireplace where we could all see. I placed my subdivided romantic meal onto the three TV trays and we snuggled together on the sofa with Susan in the middle. At least she kept the rose by her plate as a token of what might have been.

  The movie opened with a pilot ejecting from a crippled jetfighter tumbling out of control. As his parachute drifted down, title credits appeared that included “starring Franklin Talbert.” The last credit, the film’s director, gave the unpronounceable name of an Asian. The music reeked of a cheap Seventies score that could have been under a variety of action movies—from spaghetti westerns to knock-off Bond flicks.

  “Well, at least the steak is good,” Kevin said. “Don’t know if I can swallow this Kung Fu crap.”

  The pilot hit the ground hard, rolling down a slope and becoming entangled in the parachute. Gunfire drew closer. The pilot freed himself from the lines and ripped off his helmet. A close-up of Franklin Talbert filled the screen. His rugged face, absent the wrinkles twenty-five years can carve, grimaced. The camera cut to a high angle showing North Vietnamese regulars climbing the hill behind him.

  Kevin set down his beer. “Damn. The terrain sure looks real.”

  Despite the cheesy music and over-the-top acting, the story proved intriguing. Talbert played Jack Falcon, and that first miraculous escape from the hostile forces—he must have fired an impossible thirty rounds from his sidearm—ended with his rescue of a Montagnard boy being held captive by the enemy soldiers. The teenager led Falcon to his village where the boy’s grateful father welcomed the downed pilot. The son would have been tortured to reveal names in the Montagnard resistance.

  Of course, the boy had an older, beautiful sister who fell in love with Falcon. The romantic subplot was minor compared to the shoot-em-up sequences. The main story line concerned establishing an organized resistance that performed the rescue and smuggling functions of the real Operation Raven. One of the Americans who joined Falcon was named Kevin O’Reily.

  “I’ll be damned,” Kevin said. “He put me in the movie. Ten to one he makes me an asshole.”

  The odds weren’t high enough. By the end of the film, Kevin O’Reily had betrayed the network, skimmed money from the funds, tried to frame Falcon, and shot his Montagnard girlfriend. The climax came in a mano-a-mano confrontation amidst a firefight with the North Vietnamese along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Franklin Talbert, aka Jack Falcon, triumphed and Kevin Malone, aka O’Reily, got his just and deadly desserts.

  A sweeping panoramic aerial shot and the swell of orchestral music cued the final credits. Kevin got up from the sofa and crouched down closer to the screen.

  I handed Kevin the remote. “You can slow or freeze them.”

  Something caught Kevin’s eye. He paused the tape and the picture jittered on a single frame. Squinting, he read aloud, “The producers would like to thank the Office of Cultural Affairs, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam for their assistance in filming on location in the Central Highlands.” He looked back at Susan and me. “This movie came out years before we’d re-established diplomatic relations.”

  “That’s probably why the film was produced by a Hong Kong production company,” I said.

  “But the story’s pro-American.”

  “I’m sure the money spent by the crew more than made up for any misguided political slant.”

  “How much of the movie was true?” Susan asked.

  “None of it.” Kevin clicked off the TV.

  I couldn’t let go of the final scene. “Except Falcon killed a traitor, and we’ve got evidence James Raven died from an American bullet.”

  “Jimmy Raven was no traitor,” Kevin said. “Otherwise Y’Grok would have left his remains in Vietnam.”

  I knew Kevin was right. My neck tingled as the other possibility suddenly came to light. “What if we’re looking at this backwards? The story’s true except the bad guy won.”

  Kevin stood up. His eyes burned. “Franklin Talbert?”

  “Who was alive to contradict his story? You said most of the Montagnards in Operation Raven had been wiped out by the mid-eighties. Talbert pays some money, sells out a few names, and his production crew’s on location with the government’s blessing. He probably expected Y’Grok to be eradicated years ago.”

  “But why’d he make the Montagnards his celebrity cause?” Susan asked. “Why come to the funeral?”

  I shrugged. “Guilt?”

  “No,” Kevin said. “The bastard used the Yards as cover. And he came to the funeral because Y’Grok gave the Lutheran social worker his name. He was on a short list with Stormy and Ryan. His ego would want the world to know he stood shoulder to shoulder with them.”

  The picture crystallized. I slapped my hand on my TV tray so hard the legs buckled. The goblet and china plate shattered on the floor. “God damn it. We missed the whole point.” I stood up, crunching over the broken fragments as I walked to the fireplace. “We thought stealing Y’Grok’s body was about the tattoos.”

  Susan looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No. I’d been right but as a joke. I said Archie and the mayor might have stolen the body to get all the celebrities in town at the same time. The body was stolen to get Franklin Talbert in town.”

  “He was coming anyway,” Susan said.

  “Not at the same time General Weathers would be here. We put the finger on Bruce Nickles thinking he was protecting Senator Millen for killing James Raven and that they were afraid of what Y’Grok could prove. Our suspicions fell on them because they were here on Monday. Weathers was still on his way from Iraq. But if the motive were revenge. If Weathers had learned about Talbert’s betrayal—”

  “From Y’Suom.” Kevin shook his head. “Y’Grok ran twin operations. He trusted me to find his hard evidence, but he also told his son who he suspected.”

  “And Millen told us during that first interview that Y’Suom and Captain Randall were together Monday.” I ran the timeframe in my head. “Randall could have gotten word to Weathers that night and received his instructions to do whatever he had to do to delay the funeral.”

  Susan held up her hands. “You guys are moving awfully fast. I’m neither a policeman nor a lawyer, but the evidence all sounds circumstantial. Why are you suddenly ruling out Nickles?”

  “We’re not,” I said. “But both motives fly. One covers up a murder, the other avenges the same murder.”

  “Yeah, and turns a three-star general into a vig
ilante.” Susan frowned. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Barry.”

  “Am I? Seems to me I’ve turned a blind eye to too many things lately.” That dig came from some place I should have left bottled up.

  Even Kevin heard the accusatory tone and looked away. Susan colored and said nothing.

  I headed for the kitchen phone. “Maybe I can get some hard evidence.”

  “Are you calling Tommy Lee?” Kevin asked.

  “No. Fort Jackson.”

  I got the main number from information, and then went through several transfers. Each time I gave my name and the explanation I was calling from Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors. On the third hold, I heard Susan tell Kevin that she had early rounds and to tell me goodbye. Two nights in a row that message had been delivered by a third party. Before I could call after her, I heard “Morgue, Lieutenant Crawford speaking.”

  “This is Barry Clayton with Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors in Gainesboro, North Carolina. We’re handling some arrangements at the request of General Weathers.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Apprehension laced his question. “We didn’t do anything other than store the body.”

  His candid revelation stopped me. I’d been thinking Captain Randall might have picked up a body bag. I took a breath and tried to sound casual. “No. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “Good. You scared me for a second. Glad to help. My dad has a small funeral home in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. I know how it is when you get that unexpected surge in business.”

  “Do you need any paperwork from me?”

  “No, sir. Captain Randall explained the situation. No sense upsetting the family just because you ran out of room. What they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

  I thanked Crawford again and promised to give his regards to the general.

  Kevin read the shocked expression on my face. “What’d you find out?”

  “Weathers had Randall store the body in the morgue at Fort Jackson. The lieutenant in charge thought we’d run out of room and was only too happy to accommodate his superiors.”