With that warning, Claiborne turned into the courthouse parking lot and killed his lights. “Sorry to be overly dramatic, but I hope you understand why I wanted this conversation to be just between us. Everything I say in the Sheriff’s Department winds up coming out of Cliff Barringer’s mouth. Even a hint that I suspect a scandal and Barringer would interrupt a presidential address to get it on the air.”
As I got out of the car, Claiborne reached into his coat pocket and extracted a card.
“Call me, day or night.” He leaned across the seat and handed it to me. “I promise it won’t hurt to have a friend who’s the Attorney General of North Carolina.”
Then the Crown Vic and the worried candidate disappeared into the night.
Chapter 16
The drive to my cabin gave me time to think through the mess I left behind in Walker County. The conversation with Claiborne had been a surprise. I had to remember his candor had been self-serving. But was that a problem if our interests were the same?
As to the interrogation by Ewbanks, at least I’d managed to avoid revealing any particulars of my conversation with Skeeter Gibson and to conceal Calhoun’s reason for buying him drinks. Mike the bartender would verify he had told me about Skeeter, but he knew nothing about why the two men hung out together.
A shot in the temple proved someone realized Skeeter was a danger. Perhaps his killer had stood outside the second door to the judge’s chamber, a door Ewbanks said provided an exit to a side hall where a judge wouldn’t come face to face with his docket when arriving. If so, that person had heard me question Skeeter and knew I posed a threat.
Was I being foolish not to bring Ewbanks into my confidence, or was Ewbanks involved and had pulled the trigger on his own cousin? Did Claiborne really believe there might be corruption in the Sheriff’s Department, or was he just trying to cover himself in case his own department was implicated? I remembered Ewbanks had come alone to investigate Calhoun’s remains. Was that to find evidence or to conceal it? And Bridges. He had appeared so quickly after the shooting. Was a senior deputy normally scheduled in Sunday nights? The more I thought about my predicament, the more I wished I were safely minding my own business: somebody else’s funeral.
I was nearly home when Uncle Wayne reached me on my cell phone.
“I tried the cabin first,” he said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“I was in Walker County. I’ll be home in five minutes.”
“Drive carefully. There’s been a wreck on 176. The two older Metcalf brothers hit black ice. They were killed at the scene.”
I slowed the jeep. Black ice was invisible until you were on it. “Oh, God,” I said. “Should I come in tonight?”
“Bodies are at the hospital morgue. We’ll work out transfer in the morning. I expect the family will be by early.”
“I’ll be there at eight,” I promised.
The next morning would be tough. I didn’t know the Metcalfs that well, but to lose two teenage sons was a life-crushing tragedy. I turned off the Christmas music on the radio.
George Eliot was eating lettuce and I was drinking a cold Bud for a nightcap when I saw Tommy Lee’s patrol car pull up in my driveway. I met him at the front door.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said, barging past me.
Somehow I found his rough entrance comforting. “Have a seat and you tell me. What did Bridges say was going on?”
“That you got Skeeter Gibson killed and pissed off Ewbanks. I don’t know which is worse.” He sat on the sofa and sank back into the cushions. He looked exhausted.
“Did he bother to mention someone tried to blow my head off?”
“In passing.”
“What’s Ewbanks’ beef?”
“You’re a loose cannon and you said his investigation sucked. And it doesn’t help that you’re the prime suspect for Skeeter’s death.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Look at it from Ewbanks’ point of view. You’re the last person to see Skeeter alive. You came there to confront him about a murder in which your girlfriend is implicated. Bridges said Ewbanks is on a hair trigger to arrest you. One piece of hard evidence and he’ll book you.”
I turned away and walked to the window, raising my voice in frustration. “Is that a threat? Stay clear or we’ll put you behind bars? Are you supposed to rein me in?”
“Even a loose cannon sometimes hits the mark. Bridges’ words, not mine.” Tommy Lee paused, letting me think about it.
“Bridges always work Sunday nights?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you had asked Bridges about Skeeter. He sure was Johnny-on-the-spot after Skeeter bought it.”
“It’s a small department. Smaller than mine and we’re already running a holiday duty schedule that’s shifting everyone around. Hell, I was working tonight.”
I could only come back to his first question. I pivoted and stared straight in his eye. “Then what the hell’s going on?”
“Ewbanks has his sights on you. You were the last one to see Skeeter Gibson alive, so he’s got to take a hard look at you. Then you threw Calhoun’s case in his face. Bridges admitted they hadn’t connected Skeeter to Calhoun and they hadn’t gone back to Cassie Miller. Score two for Buryin’ Barry.”
“So Bridges called with halftime stats?”
“No,” said Tommy Lee. “He wants me to keep my mouth shut, not that I’d say anything. Like it or not, you’re now part of the investigation and some reporter might connect us and ask my opinion.”
“And you’d tell Melissa Bigham I’m an idiot.”
“Nah, she’ll want new information. Bridges was tipping me off that Ewbanks is going to keep things tight on Skeeter’s death until he figures out what’s going on. You’ve dumped this right in his lap. Claiborne’s on his ass for an arrest, but even that media hound won’t want to draw attention to an unsolved murder on his doorstep.”
“Literally,” I said. “The bullet hole through his window makes great news footage.” I told Tommy Lee about Claiborne’s secret meeting with me.
“Sounds like he’s pumping you for information so that he can spin anything that might make him look stupid with the voters.”
“What about Skeeter and the assistant D.A.? You ever hear about that before?”
“No, nothing involving the two of them, but I rarely deal with the Walker County prosecutors unless there’s a jurisdictional issue. I do remember a shakeup a few years back and Garrett getting fired. I can ask around.”
“I don’t want it getting back to Claiborne,” I said. “Then he’ll realize I talked to you. It’s enough to know it happened.”
“All right,” agreed Tommy Lee, “but I still think Ewbanks is right. Claiborne’s a hotdog.”
“Oh, yeah, even he admits it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a source of information.”
“True. Well, my advice, since you didn’t ask for it, is to lie low for a few days and see what bubbles up from the pot you’ve stirred.”
“You think I’m in danger?”
“Were those shots in the courthouse meant to kill you or scare you?”
“Somebody wanted my name in the obituary column.”
“Then I don’t want to stand beside you in a crowd. Be my luck they’d miss you and hit me. Keep your extracurricular activities limited to fistfights at the funeral home.”
His remark put my problems in perspective. “You hear about the Metcalf boys?”
“I helped pull them out of the ravine,” he said somberly. “When I leave here, I’m going home and hugging my kids.”
“It’s been a day, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then brightened. “After I sang, there wasn’t a dry eye in the church.”
“Good.”
“Bad. It wasn’t a sad song.”
The Vista printed a short news item headlined “Shooting at Walker County Cour
thouse.” The bare-bones account identified the victim as Mosely Gibson, a security guard. I wasn’t mentioned by name, only that the body had been discovered by a courthouse visitor. The article stated the Sheriff’s Department was investigating all possibilities, including that Mr. Gibson might have taken his own life.
Mosely. He must have been tagged Mosquito as a boy, shortened to Skeeter.
The next morning’s TV coverage of Gibson’s death was limited to the anchorman reading what sounded like the newspaper text. The newsman made an awkward toss to the weatherman, and the next day’s forecast for a wintry mix of sleet and ice overwhelmed interest in a non-celebrity suicide. Whoever had been leaking tidbits to NEWSCHANNEL-8’s Cliff Barringer hadn’t yet divulged any information beyond what Horace Ewbanks and Darden Claiborne authorized.
When I arrived at the funeral home, thoughts of Gibson and my entanglement in the case took a backseat to my duties for the Metcalf family. Uncle Wayne came at nine with news he had already spoken with the Metcalfs’ minister, Lester Pace. I took comfort that the old circuit-riding preacher would be shepherding the family. Pace never claimed to have all the answers and never made trite comments like God needed their children in heaven more than they did on earth. Yet he had an authority earned by his constant ministry to the mountain people for over half a century. Their grief was his grief.
“Pace will be driving in with them about ten-thirty,” said Uncle Wayne. He sat with me at the kitchen table and enjoyed the last cup of coffee from the pot.
“Both parents coming?” I asked.
“Yes. Pace is particularly concerned about Libby. She collapsed last night, and Pace would prefer she let Maynard make all the arrangements. Libby thinks otherwise and insists on being here.”
I anticipated the problem. “How bad?”
Wayne understood what I meant. “Don’t know. The younger boy went through the windshield. Hospital morgue attendant said lacerations were deep and ragged. Nearly took his head off.”
I pushed my coffee away, the taste suddenly bitter. “And the other one?”
“Chest crushed by the steering column. They were in an old pickup. No airbags.”
I stood up and walked to the sink. Through the frosty glaze on the window, I could see patches of brown grass breaking through where the sun penetrated the backyard pines. A brilliantly red cardinal scratched for grubs venturing up into the warming topsoil. The day promised a thaw, a brief reprieve before the ice storm advancing across the gulf states struck. It could bring no greater devastation to the Metcalfs.
“She’ll have expectations,” I said. “How can you have one casket closed and the other open?”
My uncle took a deep breath. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “Reconstruction might be possible. Your hands are steadier than mine.”
To give a grieving mother a final memory of her child was an awesome, awful responsibility. Sometimes the kindest action meant leaving that memory embodied in a photograph rather than a stitched and painted countenance that would forever haunt her.
“Freddy should be here in a few minutes,” said Wayne. “He and I’ll go to the hospital. If the Metcalfs come before we return, I’ll give you a nod as to what I think we can do.”
I turned around from the window. “Have you mentioned it to Pace?”
“No. Maybe you can catch him alone.”
“If the subject doesn’t come up, I’ll talk to him afterwards. He’s the best one to tell them. I think it’s both open or both closed.”
“I agree,” said Wayne. He looked up at me, his lined face troubled. “Life sure can deal some tough cards.”
While Wayne and Freddy went for the bodies, I double-checked our inventory. Reconstructive cosmetic work can be tedious and delicate, and I wanted to make sure my efforts would not fall short through a lack of proper supplies. Satisfied that the anticipated materials were on hand, I took a few minutes to apply makeup to my face. My nose had lost most of the swelling, and my eyes were now the bluish-yellow tinge that can linger for days. I was putting on the finishing touches when the doorbell rang.
They were early and Mom was still upstairs with Dad. I gave a final check in the mirror. I looked like a poster for a tanning salon, but at least I wouldn’t have to give the Metcalfs an explanation for my appearance.
A FedEx man stood on the front porch, trying to peer through the door’s decorative windowpane. He held an express envelope in one hand and a clipboard in the other. His truck idled noisily at the curb.
“For Barry Clayton,” he announced.
He thrust the clipboard into my hands and indicated where my signature should go. Although it was only ten-fifteen, the blank space was at the bottom of the page. Even little Gainesboro wasn’t immune to the demands for immediate deliveries.
“Will you get home before the storm?” I asked, handing him the clipboard.
“If it holds off till eight tonight.” He gave me the cardboard envelope and backed away. “Christmas,” he added. “We’re swamped.” Then he jogged to his truck, no time for chitchat.
Ten days till Christmas and I was no more prepared than if it were the Fourth of July. Always a last-minute shopper, I’d lost the past week in the turmoil created by a photo in a skeleton’s wallet. Not a single gift had been purchased. Susan deserved something special, but I was afraid the present she wanted most lay beyond my ability to give. Nothing would make her happier than to have the shadow of Sammy Calhoun lifted from her life.
The FedEx truck roared away from the curb. I looked at the return address on the envelope. Hoffman Enterprises. An offer had arrived for the business my grandfather had started over seventy years ago. Before I could pull the open tab, Lester Pace’s maroon Plymouth turned into our parking lot. My future would have to wait for a few hours. Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors had no greater mission than to serve the grieving mother and father who were calling up every ounce of energy and faith to simply walk through our door.
“Please come in,” I said. There was no point in saying “Good morning” or asking “How are you?” I gestured for them to enter the parlor on the right of our foyer.
The gas logs burned low in the stone fireplace. A small Christmas tree with only white lights and brass ornaments filled the far corner of the room. Pace assisted Libby and Maynard to a sofa and then sat in the chair nearest them. I took one with my back to the fire.
Libby Metcalf perched on the edge of the cushion and clutched a holiday shopping bag from Belk’s Department Store. She stared into the flames. Maynard reached out and gently clasped his wife’s wrist. Both were dressed as if they were going to church.
Pace cleared his throat. “I’ve told the Metcalfs that you can guide them through what needs to happen.”
“Yes,” I said. “Have you discussed the service?”
Maynard spoke up in a voice close to breaking. “We’ve not had a funeral before. One that we’ve had to arrange. All our parents are still living.”
“I understand, Mr. Metcalf. And we’ll get through this together.”
My assurance broke Libby’s spell. She held out the bag. “I bought Mike and Ned new sweaters for Christmas.” She reached in and pulled out a fold of forest green wool. “I hadn’t had a chance to wrap them yet, and—” A half-swallowed sob cut the words short.
I got up and took the bag from her hands.
“We’ll take care of it.”
“There’s underwear and pants too,” said Maynard.
“Are they here?” asked Libby.
“Not yet. My uncle’s gone to the hospital.”
“I’ll want to see them.”
As I struggled for a way to sidestep her request, I heard a footstep in the foyer. Uncle Wayne joined us.
“Libby, Maynard, I’m so sorry,” he said. He turned to me and gave a distinct nod.
Relief welled up from the pit of my stomach. “We were just beginning,” I said. “They brought some clothes.”
“The boys will look fine,” he said ge
ntly.
Maynard put his arm around his wife and they wept.
An hour later, Pace and the Metcalfs left us to our work. The funeral was set for Thursday at Hickory Nut Falls Methodist Church. Pace had told me a donation fund was being established to help defray burial expenses. The Vista had been flooded with calls from generous donors wanting to make contributions. The holiday spirit carried beyond tinsel and gadget gifts.
The cosmetic reconstruction for Ned, the younger boy, was not simple, but the lacerations were deepest through the scalp and back of the neck. He must have turned in his seat as the truck skidded off the highway, and he’d been hurled backward through the windshield. The top of his head caught the inside edge of the roof. The teenager had died before he hit the ground.
Wayne and I worked through lunch, anxious to know that the Metcalfs’ trust in us would prove true. It was nearly three when I washed up and came to the kitchen in search of a late lunch. Mom stood at the counter, slicing a cold ham.
“Wayne said you were finishing,” she said. “I thought you’d like something quick.”
“I’m famished.” I realized I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before.
Mom set a sandwich layered with ham and cheese in front of me. “You had a call from Susan this morning. I told her the situation and she said not to bother you. But she sounded anxious to talk to you.”
“Was she at the hospital?”
“I don’t know. She said try the cell first.”
“Thanks. I’ll eat this in the office,” I said, and picked up the plate. I hadn’t talked to Susan since Saturday night’s dinner and I owed her a report.
“How are things with the Metcalfs?” Susan asked the question immediately.
“Tough. Very tough.”
“Such a waste of life. And so young.”
“Tommy Lee thinks they might have been driving too fast for conditions, but not speeding. No drinking involved.” I remembered Susan’s brother Stevie and knew that would be important.
She didn’t comment. To say that was good only magnified how senseless a tragedy it was. Explaining God’s ways was Pace’s job, and I didn’t envy him.
Grave Undertaking Page 17
