“Do you want me to block their escape?”
I moved quickly to the bedroom and pulled a clean uniform from my closet. “No. Just leave. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“OK. But hurry. I hate to think they’re desecrating Eurleen’s grave.”
“Archie, whatever you do, don’t tell Luther. That’s an order.”
I called into the dispatcher to tell her I was checking out a report of trespassing on Bell Ridge. I didn’t mention the cemetery or Panther’s truck. Within twenty minutes, I pulled my jeep behind the rusted vehicle. As I stepped onto the gravel and adjusted my duty belt, Archie rose from behind a stand of rhododendron.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“I parked off the state road and walked up. How else was I supposed to know when it was safe to return?”
“You could have called me on your cell phone.”
“Oh.”
I sighed. “Come on. We’ll see where they are and then you can check on Eurleen’s grave.”
Archie followed me down the southern slope to the new section. The ground was bare where the archaeologists had conducted their exhumation after Mayor Whitlock enlisted the aid of his poker buddy, State Senator Mack Collins, to broker a deal to return the bones to the reservation.
The site was empty.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted into the air. “Jimmy! It’s Deputy Clayton. You need to leave right now.”
Silence.
“Maybe they camped out,” Archie said. “And they’re still sleeping.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because the truck was covered with dew.”
I hadn’t noticed. “Good observation.”
“I’m scared, Barry. Not blind.”
For once, Archie had a point. “Then let’s check on Eurleen,” I said.
We walked up the ridge and through the gates of the original cemetery. The grassy slope opened on the eastern exposure and the morning sunlight brought the colors vibrantly to life. None more brilliantly than the red of the shirt of a man stretched out on the fresh earth of Eurleen Cransford’s plot.
“He’s sleeping on Eurleen’s grave,” Archie whispered.
I said nothing. My eyes were sharper. Sharp enough to see the flies buzzing around the man’s head.
“Oh, my God.” Archie jumped back like he’d stepped on a rattlesnake.
Jimmy Panther lay with one side of his face flat against the dirt. Behind the upturned ear, a circular hole of dried blood marked the entrance of the bullet that had taken his life. A white piece of paper lay under a stone beside his outstretched hand.
I pulled a clean handkerchief from my hip pocket, set the stone aside and lifted the folded paper. Inside were four pencil-scrawled words: “The only good Indian.”
***
“Is a dead Indian.” Tommy Lee completed the old racist phrase and then dropped the paper in an evidence sleeve. He looked down at Jimmy Panther’s body. “What do you think he was doing at Eurleen’s grave?”
The sheriff and I stood inside a perimeter of yellow crime tape and waited on the arrival of ME Howard Tuppler and the mobile crime lab. My fellow deputies had set up a roadblock at the base of the cemetery road and secured the immediate area around the pickup.
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s no sign of vandalism. Maybe someone saw him here and thought the worst.”
Tommy Lee knelt down by Panther’s head. “This was an execution. You can see the muzzle was placed against the scalp. All six tells of a contact shot.” Tommy Lee circled his finger around the wound. “We’ve got skin abrasion, unburned gunpowder, soot, seared skin from the heat, triangular skin tears from gas going into him, and I can see the muzzle contusion from the expanding gas pushing the scalp back against the barrel. From the shape, I’d say a semiautomatic twenty-two.”
“Small caliber for a pistol.”
“Not for a close range execution.” Tommy Lee rose. “Surprised it was just a single tap. Either the killer was confident or he fired a single shot in anger and fled.”
“Someone angry like Luther?”
Tommy Lee nodded. “But how did he get so close? And how did he know Panther was up here?”
“What do you want me to do?”
He fixed his one eye on me. “What do you think? Lead the investigation, of course. Reece can secure the scene here. I’ll work with Tuppler and the lab boys. You get your butt to Luther’s house and find out where he was last night.”
I looked down at the body. “And notification?”
“I’ll take care of contacting tribal police. We could be facing a jurisdictional mess and a political nightmare.” He held up the sleeve with the note. “No word about this. Not only is it inflammatory, but I want it withheld so we’ve got a piece of evidence to corroborate any confession. We’ll analyze it for comparison to the messages Archie and Luther received.”
“OK. So, I’m off. Alone.”
Tommy Lee grimaced. “Ah, hell, what was I thinking? If Luther shot Panther, he might do anything. Take Wakefield as backup.” He flashed a crooked smile. “But be careful. I’d hate to lose Wakefield.”
Luther Cransford lived in a gated community called Glendale Forest that was two miles on the other side of town. I took a patrol car from the murder scene and the guard at the gatehouse waved us through without asking for our destination. I wouldn’t have given it to him if he had.
Wakefield and I parked a half a block away so that Luther wouldn’t see our vehicle. The white, two-story house bore a striking resemblance to our funeral home, except instead of being antebellum to the Civil War it was one of those faux plantation houses antebellum to the Iraq War and more suited to a studio backlot.
A wide, cement driveway curved in front with a split on the right that ended in a two-car garage. Luther’s Cadillac was parked in front of a closed garage door.
“He’s home,” Wakefield said.
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s with one of his children if they drove from Atlanta or DC.”
“Only one way to find out.” Wakefield stepped up on the veranda and headed for the front door.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me be the first person he sees. I’ve spent more time with him over the past few days.”
“Right.” Wakefield retreated a few yards to the left. “And this way he can’t get both of us with one shot.” He winked at me. “Don’t worry, Barry. If he shoots you, I’ll shoot him.”
I wiped my perspiring hands on my pants and rang the bell. “Thanks.”
Somewhere inside a heavy chime sounded. Behind me I heard Wakefield unsnap the holster strap securing his pistol. He wanted no impediment should he need to draw it.
A few minutes passed. I rang the bell again.
“Coming.” A tired, gravelly voice trailed the echo of the chime.
The bolt clicked, the door swung inward, and Luther Cransford squinted as the morning sun struck him full in the face. Dark bags puffed beneath his eyes. Gray stubble covered his jaw. He seemed to have aged ten years and shrunk ten inches.
“Barry?” His confusion grew when he saw Wakefield.
“Hello, Luther. Is it OK if we come in for a few minutes?”
He pondered the question like I’d asked him to name the capital of Lithuania.
I pressed with an explanation that sounded innocent. “We want to talk to you about the feather you received. The one Sandra mentioned Saturday.”
The vacuous look in his eyes hardened into a flinty glare. He stepped back. “Yes. Come in. Maybe you can find a fingerprint or something to nail the bastard.”
We followed him through the foyer and into a living room decorated by someone who never met a knickknack she didn’t like. I took a floral-upholstered armchair, Wakefield sat on a beige chintz sofa, and Luther hovered
by a hardwood rocker, uncertain whether to sit or stand.
“I would offer you some coffee, but I haven’t brewed any this morning.” He looked away. “I don’t like going in the kitchen.”
“We’re fine,” I said. “Have you been able to get any sleep?”
He shook his head. “I’m exhausted, but when I lie down, my mind just races.”
I started fishing. “Have you been able to leave the house?”
“Yeah. Darren, Sandra, and I went to the club for lunch yesterday. But we could hardly eat for people coming up to pay their condolences. And they all brought up the fight with the Indians and how they didn’t blame me for losing control.”
“Are your children still here?”
“No. They left yesterday afternoon.”
“Did they fly out of Asheville?”
“They drove. Sandra’s trip wasn’t so bad to Atlanta, but Darren had a good eight hours to DC. I tried to get him to stay over, but he said he had to be at work this morning. He’s a junior account exec in a PR firm and it’s all about billable hours.”
“So, you were here by yourself last night?”
“Yeah.” His eyes filled and again he looked away. “Last night. I guess every night from now on.”
I backed off the questions. Luther didn’t seem suspicious that we were there for more than I’d claimed. “I’d like to see that letter you got.”
Luther jerked his head around. “Right. Sorry. I’ll be right back.” He went to the foyer and ascended the stairs.
Wakefield leaned forward. “Man, if he killed that Indian, he’s giving a hell of a performance.”
I touched my forefinger to my lips. Air vents and corridors could carry sound in unexpected patterns. But Wakefield was right. Luther appeared to be a grieving husband and nothing more. He was soon back.
“Darren suggested I put it in this.” Luther handed me a nine-by-twelve manila envelope. “He thought maybe you could find some fingerprints.”
The end flap was sealed with a metal clasp. I set the envelope on the floor beside my chair.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Luther asked.
“No. It will go straight to the lab. Your son was smart to take the precaution.”
For the first time since Wakefield and I entered the house, Luther smiled. “Darren’s always thinking.”
“What’s the company he works for in DC?”
“Wilder and Hamilton. It’s one of the larger PR firms.”
I pointed to the rocking chair. “Why don’t you sit down. We’ve got a few more questions.”
Luther glanced at Wakefield and then back to me. “About what?”
I waited until he settled in the chair. “Did you know Archie Donovan also got a note and a broken feather?”
Luther’s eyes widened. “No. When?”
“Friday.”
Scarlet exploded on his unshaven cheeks. “God damn it. I’d like to get my hands on that son of a bitch.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Wakefield cut his eyes to me. Faking blood flow to the face would be an incredible acting achievement and we both knew it.
“Was Jimmy Panther one of the reasons you couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“Yeah. He ruined Eurleen’s funeral. There was no call for that. We did everything the law required us to do.” Luther paused. “Did my brother-in-law get a feather note?”
“Not that we know. Have you seen the mayor since the service?”
“No. He offered to come by yesterday, but I just wanted to be alone with the kids.”
“And last night, after Darren and Sandra left and you couldn’t sleep, did you go out?”
Luther tensed, wary of a question that clearly had a tone of interrogation. “Why do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “Like you said. Your mind was racing. I find it hard to stay put when that happens to me.”
He leaned forward in the rocker. “Don’t bullshit me, Barry. I’ve seen you play poker and you don’t have the face for it. Now what’s this about?”
“Someone crossed paths with Panther last night.”
“Crossed paths?”
“Yes. Except Panther’s path didn’t go any farther than Eurleen’s grave.”
Luther’s jaw dropped. “He went to my wife’s grave?”
“Went or was forced. Someone shot him in the head. We found him this morning.”
Luther bolted from the chair. “I’ve got to get up there.”
“No. Nothing about the grave was damaged. But it’s a crime scene. I’ll let you know when we’ve finished.”
I stood and Wakefield eased around us to stand between Luther and the front door.
I stepped closer to Luther. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Where were you last night?”
He licked his lips. “I was here, Barry. All night.”
I might not be the best poker player in the game, but at that moment, I could read Luther’s face like an open book.
He was lying.
Chapter Five
Wakefield buckled his seatbelt. “What do you think?”
I waited until we pulled away from the curb before answering. “I think we have some leads to follow.”
“Yeah, but what about Luther? Seems obvious he’s in the clear.”
“I’ll grant he looked surprised at the news. But if he’s guilty he had to know he tops our suspect list. And rekindling his anger could have created that believable outburst.”
Wakefield whistled through his teeth. “I don’t know. If so, the guy deserves an Oscar.”
We neared the gatehouse. The bar on the exit lane was up, but I stopped the patrol car on the grassy shoulder. “Wait here,” I told Wakefield.
The guard stepped out when he saw me approach. “Good morning, officer. How can I help you?”
“When did you come on duty?”
“Seven.” He frowned. “Has there been a break-in?”
“No. Nothing like that.” I looked for a nameplate but the patch on his generic uniform only read Hendrick Security. “Was there someone on duty overnight?”
He nodded. “The eleven-to-seven shift. Joey Abbott pulled last night’s.”
“Would you happen to have his number?”
“Sure. We keep a phone list in case a guard gets sick or has an emergency.” He glanced at the patrol car. Two deputies signaled we were doing more than a routine court summons. “Is it an emergency?”
“No. Simply checking out reports of someone driving erratically last night. Thought you guys might have seen something.”
He grinned. “Somebody celebrating the weekend all the way to Monday morning, huh? More than once a resident’s come home liquored up and crashed right through that lane bar.” He pointed to the entrance’s crossarm.
I gave him my sternest deputy look. “If they’re headed out of here that way, you call us.”
“Yes, sir.” He stiffened as if awaiting further orders.
“Joey Abbott’s number,” I prompted.
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
When I returned to the car, I asked Wakefield to drive.
“Where are we headed?”
“Back to the cemetery, but I want to talk to the guard who was on duty last night.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket.
Wakefield turned onto the main highway. “What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”
“Joey Abbott.”
“Nah, doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe he moved here. But Abbott doesn’t sound like a Yankee name.”
“What’s a Yankee name?”
“You know. Six times more consonants than vowels. Like Coach K from Duke. Hell, I can’t even pronounce his name let alone spell it.”
“Not like Roy Williams of Carolina.”
Wakefield slapped the steering wheel. “Exact
ly. And Roy’s from Asheville. He’s one of us.”
I punched in the number. “Well, whether Joey’s a Yankee or not, I’m probably waking him up.”
The line rang nearly ten times before a sleepy voice muttered, “Hello.”
“Joey Abbott?”
“Yeah.” He coughed and I heard smoker’s phlegm rattle in his throat.
“This is Deputy Barry Clayton of the Laurel County Sheriff’s Department.”
“What’s wrong?” A note of panic rose in his voice. A call from a deputy usually wasn’t good news, especially for parents whose kids were driving or away at school.
“Nothing. Sorry to bother you, but I understand you were on duty at Glendale Forest last night.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you notice anyone going out or coming in late?”
The line was silent a moment and then Abbott asked, “You mean a visitor?”
“Not necessarily. Could have been a resident.”
“Sunday night’s pretty quiet, especially after the Baptists finish services. I don’t remember anything unusual.”
“You sure? We had a complaint about a car knocking over some mailboxes on the county road near your entrance.”
“No. The only late night driver was Mr. Cransford.”
“Luther Cransford?”
“Yes. The man whose wife died. I was working dayside last Monday when the EMTs rushed through.”
“When did you see him last night?”
“About three thirty.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, yeah.” Abbott laughed. “Between you and me and a fencepost, it’s the time of the graveyard shift I have the most trouble staying awake. I was close to nodding off when that big Caddy of his came in with the high beams on. Liked to blind me.”
“Had you seen him leave?”
“No.”
“I’m not trying to get you in trouble, but could you have nodded off earlier and missed him?”
“I doubt it. I’d been on the phone with my brother.”
“That late?”
“He lives in California.”
“Did Luther Cransford seem to be driving all right?”
“Yeah. The car wasn’t weaving or nothing. I figured he might have been visiting family or something. I gave him a friendly wave and thought no more about it.” Abbott paused. “I guess you could check his car for damages.”
Risky Undertaking Page 4
