Grave Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment,” I said. “I’ll see Tommy Lee out.” I walked him to the back porch where we could talk a minute before I met with the family.

  “If you need me later, I should be at my desk,” said Tommy Lee. “Afraid I don’t have any advice other than to play it straight with Ewbanks.”

  “I’m not going to bring up the picture unless he directly asks me about it.”

  “And he might not ever ask. Ewbanks now has a connection stronger than whether you recognized a photograph.”

  “I appreciate the advance warning.”

  “I trust you to use it appropriately.” He zipped up his jacket and stepped onto the unshoveled walk. “And here’s another tip. If Stony McBee is here, don’t let him leave without frisking him. That man’s got magnetic fingers.”

  I watched him trudge to his patrol car in the driveway. He and someone in Ewbanks’ department had gone out on a limb for me. I’d be very careful not to saw it off.

  “I called Wayne,” Mom said behind me. “He’s coming in.”

  “I wish he wouldn’t do that. Freddy should be available.” Freddy Mott worked as our on-call assistant, and I’d rather have him on the roads than my elderly uncle.

  “He’s taken care of calling Freddy. Wayne says he knows the McBees won’t do anything before Saturday and he wants you to keep your Atlanta appointment.”

  “All right,” I agreed, but I resented Uncle Wayne preempting my decisions. In some ways, I would never outgrow being little Barry, the favorite nephew. “I’ll make the arrangements with the McBees and then I’m going to snow-blow everything. It’s my responsibility to see Clayton and Clayton is open for business.”

  I met for about half an hour with Claude McBee’s four grandchildren. They were representing Claude’s son and daughter, who were still at the nursing home. They wanted “to get in line,” as a granddaughter phrased it, in case somebody else died. I gave them basic information to take to their parents while watching the lanky young man named Stony. Although it may have been my imagination, he seemed to be casing the room. We set an appointment for a more detailed consultation, and I made it a priority to shake Stony’s hand and eye his pockets for suspicious bulges.

  After they left, I cleared the snow from the walks and driveway. The mindless chore let my thoughts ramble. I kept thinking about the pistol in the grave. I was surprised that Walt Miller even owned a gun. Maybe he bought it as a paperweight. Walt made his living with a calculator and tax forms, and if Central Casting were asked to supply a CPA for a movie scene, Walt Miller would be the guy. The idea that he could outgun a private eye and then bury him on top of someone else was so preposterous as to be laughable. Except I couldn’t laugh away the picture of Susan in the murdered man’s wallet.

  Between the top and bottom of the handicap ramp, I made the connection how I could get information from Walt without compromising Tommy Lee’s informant. Ted Sandiford’s phone call gave me my cover.

  The winter sun raced toward the Appalachian ridges as my jeep moved slowly but steadily along Highway 25. It wasn’t quite four-thirty, and I became concerned I hadn’t allowed enough time to travel from Gainesboro to Walt Miller’s cottage north of Asheville.

  Susan’s father was a sixty-five-year-old widower who had found himself surrounded by too many memories. Three years ago, he had sold the house where he and his wife had lived and moved to a two-bedroom stone cottage purchased from a client’s estate. Although he maintained an office in Asheville, thanks to email and the Internet, most of his accounting practice was being handled from his house. I expected to find him there, but I wanted to catch him alone. As dusk deepened, the prospect grew that Sheriff Ewbanks might arrive at Walt Miller’s sooner than I would.

  I turned onto his drive and relaxed. The snow was unblemished.

  “Barry? What are you doing out in this weather?” He met me at his front door with a quizzical expression that immediately changed to panic. “Susan? Is Susan okay?”

  “Yes, Walt. She’s fine. Sorry to drop in unannounced. I was driving around doing some thinking and I realized you were nearby. I stopped in on the chance you’d have a few minutes to talk business.”

  His relief that nothing had happened to his daughter overrode any question as to why I’d be twenty miles from home in the snow.

  “Sure. Come on in. Is this a den discussion?”

  “You might want to make some notes.”

  He led me back to the second bedroom, which served as his office. Through the rear window I could see snow covering the border of grass between the house and bare hardwoods. The long twilight shadows of tree trunks and twisted limbs spread across the white canvas, soon to be lost in the evening darkness.

  Walt crossed the room to his oak desk where stacks of client files became a barricade between us. Susan had told me that for as long as she could remember, Christmas had been celebrated with tinsel, trees, and IRS forms, just as Easter had meant colored eggs, chocolate, and April 15th tax returns. Walt stood braced against the back of his desk chair, looking at me curiously. The collar of his red flannel shirt bunched around his neck, and errant strands of thinning gray hair radiated from his head.

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking of selling the funeral home.” I eased into the chair opposite him.

  Walt pondered my statement and nodded. Then he rolled his swivel chair to the end of the desk where he could look around the mountain range of papers. “You going back to Charlotte?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not right away.”

  “Have you told Susan?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone. The preliminary meeting with the buyer is Friday in Atlanta. I want to keep it confidential. The whole thing may fall apart.”

  “Happens more often than not,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “Josh Birnam’s been our accountant for years so I’ll bring him into it, but I’d like to get a second opinion, a paid opinion on the best way to structure things. You may have more life experience.”

  The chair squeaked as Walt leaned back and laughed. “That’s probably the most diplomatic way I’ve ever been called an old geezer. Sure. Glad to help. But this consultation’s on the house. Josh is a good CPA. I may have some suggestions to protect your parents’ estate. I assume they’ll be moving.”

  “Mom will at some point. Dad’s going to need supervised care soon. He took an arctic expedition on his own this morning.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes. Luckily I was there to look for him.” I tried not to let the tension come through my voice as I cast my bait. “Guess that was one good thing about the body at Eagle Creek cemetery.”

  “What body?” Walt brought the chair forward and leaned across the desk corner.

  “You didn’t see the news last night?”

  “I don’t stay up past ten and today’s newspaper is somewhere under the snow.”

  “We were doing a routine grave transfer yesterday and found a skeleton buried on top of the vault. By the time I got through with the sheriff and crime lab, the weather was so bad I stayed at the funeral home.”

  “They know who it was?”

  “NEWSCHANNEL-8 said the body has been identified as Samuel Calhoun.”

  Walt Miller didn’t speak. His face turned as gray as the twilight snow. I just sat there.

  “You found Sammy Calhoun?” he whispered.

  “I found a skeleton. All I know is what I heard on TV.”

  Clearly, the news startled him. I tried to analyze deeper reactions; he seemed reluctant to say more.

  “So, you knew him?” I pressed.

  Walt looked at the papers on his desk. “Not really. Someone Susan met in New York.”

  “New York?”

  “When she was in med school.”

  The ground suddenly shifted under me. Susan had told me she met Sammy Calhoun through her Aunt Cassie. That she couldn’t help who might carry a picture of her. I tho
ught about the photograph. The street and buildings in the background could be New York. No skyscrapers but the eclectic storefronts of lower Manhattan. Susan had asked me if she were alone in the picture. Was that to make sure there wasn’t evidence tying her to Sammy Calhoun? I sorted through the jumble of contradictions with the mind of an ex-policeman and the heart of a lover.

  “He was bad news,” said Walt. “I thought he moved away.”

  “He followed her to Asheville?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, a solid knock sounded from the front door.

  “Who could that be?” asked Walt.

  I followed him, knowing Horace Ewbanks had arrived.

  The sheriff stood straight as a new fence post. The only thing different in his attire from when I’d last seen him was a toothpick dangling on his lip instead of a Pall Mall. He planned on coming inside.

  Behind him, a deputy slouched against a stone column of Walt’s porch, his easy grin in contrast to the sheriff’s scowl.

  “Mr. Walter Miller?” asked Ewbanks.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sheriff Horace Ewbanks from over in Walker County. This is my deputy John Bridges. We need to talk with you a few minutes.” He looked at me. “Evening, Mr. Clayton. Small world ain’t it?”

  “Mr. Clayton’s here for an appointment,” said Walt. “Is something wrong? Has there been an accident?”

  “No. Just a few questions. Where can we talk in private?”

  Walt looked back at me as if I somehow had a say in the matter.

  “It’s all right. I’ll wait.”

  “Okay,” said Walt. “I have an office, Sheriff.”

  “That’ll do. Bridges, keep Mr. Clayton company. Have a little chat. I don’t think we’ll cut into his appointment too long.”

  “Y’all can use the den,” said Walt.

  The fact that Ewbanks gave me a keeper rather than follow a two-on-one interview procedure made me nervous. He wasn’t pleased to discover the man who found Calhoun’s skeleton in the home of the owner of the murder weapon.

  Deputy Bridges trailed me into a pine-paneled room with a stone fireplace at one end. An oval, brown and tan braided rug covered the hardwood floor between a cracked leather sofa and the high hearth.

  “Have a seat,” I said. “I’ll tend the fire.” I dropped the kindling on the glowing coals and heard the crackle as new flames greedily devoured the dry oak strips. For a few seconds, the acrid smoke leaked from the fireplace until the air warmed enough to carry it aloft through the chimney. I added split logs, and then I sat down on the hard hearth. The long shadows of the andirons danced like animated bones on the floor between us.

  “That was quite a surprise yesterday,” said Bridges. He angled his body in the corner of the sofa and propped one leg across a cushion, careful to keep his damp boot clear. He looked about forty. Close-cropped black hair. A moustache starting to turn gray at the edges. Everything about him was easygoing except his eyes. “Who would have thought to hide a body in a graveyard?”

  “You didn’t take my call yesterday, did you?”

  “No. That was Clint Carson. I hear he hung up on you. Failed to see the humor in the situation.”

  “So did I.”

  “It’s no laughing matter, that’s for sure.”

  Bridges closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sheriff was lucky you were the undertaker.”

  “How’s that?”

  The deputy ignored the question, content to enjoy the warmth of the fire. After a few minutes, I thought he might be squeezing in a quick nap. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me as if he’d been watching me through his closed lids all along. “Tommy Lee Wadkins says you’re a good man. I heard all about that Willard business last year.”

  Dallas Willard had killed his brother and sister at the funeral of his grandmother. He’d turned the shotgun on me but didn’t go three for three. I had a nice scar on my shoulder as a souvenir of the adventure and a closer friendship with Tommy Lee because of the collaborative success we had in bringing a killer to justice.

  “You’ve worked with Tommy Lee?”

  “Used to be his deputy. My wife died about ten years ago and Tommy Lee arranged a job with Ewbanks so my thirteen-year-old daughter and I could move to Walker County and be closer to my parents. Raising a teenager and working the crazy hours of law enforcement was a recipe for disaster. I knew I needed help.”

  “Glad it worked out.”

  “For a time. A girl without a mother was a handful. Since she turned eighteen, we’ve hardly spoken.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and so I just nodded and stared at the fire.

  “But Tommy Lee was there for me when I needed him. He knows he can count on me.” He let the statement hang out in the air.

  I got the message. John Bridges was Tommy Lee’s conduit of information.

  “I mentioned the skeleton to Walt Miller,” I said. “He hadn’t heard anything about it.”

  “Surprised him?”

  “Yes, but didn’t alarm him.”

  Bridges nodded. We were having a conversation on two levels and each of us knew it.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I gave him last night’s news report. The possibility of the body being Sammy Calhoun.”

  Bridges grunted his disapproval. “That leak put a burr up my sheriff’s butt.”

  “I haven’t talked to any reporters.”

  “Miller react to Sammy Calhoun?”

  “Yeah. He knew him. Not well he said but enough to be shocked he was dead. Walt thought he’d moved away. I’d have to say his surprise was genuine. Why’s Ewbanks talking to him?” That was my bullshit question. Bridges probably suspected Tommy Lee had told me about the gun, otherwise what was I doing there? But I asked it so he could repeat it to Ewbanks and keep everything tidy and innocent.

  Bridges smiled. “Yeah, Tommy Lee said you were a good man. Charlotte police?”

  “That’s a lifetime ago.”

  Our conversation shifted to Tommy Lee. I found out Bridges had been the one to get Tommy Lee interested in pigeons.

  “I started with homing pigeons,” he said. “Tommy Lee took an interest. He’d ride out with me some weekends when I was training them. I lived on one side of the county, he on the other. I gave him a couple birds and we’d swap messages.”

  “Must have driven Reece Hutchins crazy.”

  Bridges erupted with a belly laugh. “Man, you got that right. He lives to monitor the police radio. Tommy Lee and I gave up on homing pigeons because hawks were killing them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Reece had taken up falconry. I suspect you’ve had your run-ins with him.”

  “He’s all right. Just a little insecure.”

  “Tommy Lee always assigned him some duty that was just his. And Reece would perform to perfection. You just had to suffer through his windy descriptions of his efforts.”

  “Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black.” Ewbanks stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a slight smile on his thin lips. “We’d better head out, Bridges, before you get too comfy. Hate to have you pushing the patrol car if we get stuck.”

  I stood up and the sheriff came over to the fire for a last dose of warmth. Walt followed behind. He looked ten years older and had to steady himself by grabbing the back of a chair.

  “Well, here’s a pretty woman.” Ewbanks reached out to the mantel and picked up a silver-framed photograph. Susan sat on a rock ledge at one of the scenic overlooks along the Blue Ridge Parkway. The golden light of the setting sun created a portrait far superior to anything from a studio. The sheriff looked back at Walt.

  “My daughter, Susan,” he said flatly.

  Ewbanks glanced at me.

  “Downright glamorous,” I said, hoping the sweat on my forehead would be chalked up to the fire.

  Ewbanks set the picture down. “She’s a looker all right.” He held his hands out to the flames. “Getting hot in here. You might have to open up some air.” He turne
d around. “And we’ll let you fellows get back to your high finance discussion. No need to show us out. Thank you, Mr. Miller. I’ll be in touch.”

  They left the house. Walt and I stood motionless until we heard the car engine start.

  “Let’s bag the high finance discussion,” I said.

  “I’d like a drink,” said Walt. “Will you join me? All I’ve got is bourbon.”

  “A light one with ginger ale. I want to stay out of the ditch going home.”

  While Walt mixed the drinks, I jabbed the poker aimlessly into the burning logs. Sparks swirled up with every blow. The sheriff was right. Things were getting hot and I couldn’t see a way to keep the sparks from flying. There was no doubt in my mind Ewbanks had recognized Susan. He now had the murder weapon owned by the father of the woman whose picture was found on the dead man. Ewbanks played it cagey, not saying anything to Walt until he gathered more information on Susan and her tie to Calhoun. Maybe the sheriff thought I was being cagey as well, keeping quiet so he could have a free hand. Maybe Ewbanks thought I didn’t know Susan well enough to recognize her. He’d know better as soon as he asked a few questions and I surfaced as the boyfriend.

  I’d neatly boxed myself in. I’d promised Susan not to tell her father about the photograph and promised Tommy Lee not to act in a way that could harm his confidant. I wondered what Walt would ask me to promise.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me a highball glass with liquid too brown for my taste. His was even darker. “Sit down.”

  I sat in the sofa depression left by Bridges, and Walt took the wing-back chair beside me. He swirled his ice for a few seconds, and then sighed.

  “You know what’s going on?”

  “The deputy was asking about the skeleton. I assume it has something to do with Sammy Calhoun.”

  “It has something to do with Sammy Calhoun all right. They found a gun with the remains.” He paused as the circumstances dawned on him. “But you were there, you know that.”

  “I only found the skeleton. Lab man dug up the pistol.” I don’t know what difference that made other than make me feel somehow less responsible for Walt’s predicament.

  He eyed me over his drink. “Are you really thinking about selling the funeral home? That’s quite a coincidence, your being here when the sheriff showed up.”