Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series)

by Mark de Castrique

  “He’s on his way.”

  “I’m here.” Reece burst into the room like the hall behind him was on fire. He’d changed into his uniform, although his collar was twisted and one of the buttons under his unzipped jacket was missing.

  Deputy Reece Hutchins and I worked under an uneasy truce. My father’s Alzheimer’s had brought me back to the mountains of western North Carolina, and I’d sacrificed my police career and my marriage to keep Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors in business. After Dad died last year, I sold a half interest to a new partner, Fletcher Shaw, and returned to my first love—law enforcement.

  I’d only partially returned. Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins offered me a part-time deputy position in his department and he counted on me for investigative assistance, a role Reece coveted but for which he had no aptitude. Instead, Tommy Lee gave Reece administrative responsibilities that took advantage of his fastidious, bureaucratic mentality. I knew that Reece and I would never be Best Friends Forever, but I appreciated what he did and I believed I’d earned his grudging respect.

  “I called in Wakefield, Carson, and Shelton,” Reece said. “They’re probably ten minutes behind me.” Reece looked from Tommy Lee to the casket. His face paled. “Sweet Jesus, murdered in a coffin.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy Lee said. “The media will love it. We need to move fast before the circus begins. Reece, get statements from all the volunteers. Have the other deputies assist you. Ask if they saw someone suspicious. Maybe someone went through the house alone. And find out which volunteers were manning the backdoor and when they were on duty.”

  Reece nodded vigorously. “Got it.” He started to leave.

  “What about Carl sitting up?” I asked.

  Reece spun around, his eyes wide. “You want to prop him up?”

  “We need to know when he stopped sitting up.”

  Reece just stared at me. I realized he didn’t know the gimmick.

  “That’s what he did to scare people,” I said. “We should be able to narrow down the time of the murder if we find the first group that came through and Carl didn’t move.”

  “Good,” Tommy Lee said. “When Archie and Susan finish the list of attendees, we’ll ask each of them that question. Reece, you’re in charge of organizing those interviews.”

  Reece smiled. “I’m all over it.”

  “But Barry’s in charge of the crime scene and the overall investigation,” Tommy Lee added.

  Reece’s jaw tensed as the smile faded.

  I said nothing. I hadn’t expected to be the officer in charge, but I wasn’t going to argue with Tommy Lee in front of Reece. “One thing that might help,” I said. “Archie had been in the casket earlier. Carl didn’t get here till seven-thirty, but I don’t know when he took over the corpse duties.”

  “Then I’ll ask Archie,” Reece said. He looked at Carl’s body. “He took over the duties all right.”

  After Reece left the room, I said, “This is a big case. I don’t know if a part-timer’s the right man for the job.”

  The scar that curved from beneath Tommy Lee’s eye patch to the corner of his mouth twitched as he pursed his lips. For a few seconds he didn’t say anything. The sheriff was tough as nails. He lost his eye and half his face in Vietnam as he led his ambushed platoon to safety. He’d been a good friend to my father, and I considered him my best friend. But he was stubborn as a mountain goat, and if his mind locked on something, it would take a crowbar to pry it loose. I didn’t want to get in over my head and let him down.

  “You’re right,” Tommy Lee said. “What was I thinking?” He looked me up and down, an assessment all the more intense coming from just one eye. Then he turned his back to me and walked away. Instead of leaving, he shut the door and locked it.

  He turned around. The trace of a smile crossed his lips. “What was I thinking?” he repeated. “That this is a big case. That insights and ideas don’t punch a time clock. That I’d rather have the best brain working half-time than an average brain working time-and-a-half.” He sighed and stepped forward. “I was thinking how I’ll have to go up to old man Atkinson and tell him his only son died in a coffin. But then assure him my best officer is on the case, a man the whole damn town knows solved the street dance shooting last year.”

  Tommy Lee stopped directly in front of me. I flashed back to the summer of the previous year when the shooting on Main Street had put Tommy Lee in the hospital and I’d investigated the case.

  “And when you called tonight, I dreaded coming down here. Not that I don’t dread every crime scene, but there was no spark of energy, no rush of adrenaline.” He stared at the casket and took a deep breath. “What was I thinking? That I’m aging. Sixty-one next month. A year from now I’ll be up for re-election. I don’t know that I’ll run again. But I care about what happens to this town. Who follows me. And I want that person to have the overwhelming support of the community.”

  My throat went dry. “You want me to be sheriff?”

  His gaze snapped back to me. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I…I thought…”

  Tommy Lee laughed. “Of course I want you to be sheriff. More importantly, I want you to be in the position to be sheriff.”

  “But the funeral home.”

  “Fletcher seems to be doing a good job. Doesn’t he have the Seale Corporation behind him?”

  My partner, Fletcher Shaw, was an heir to the largest funeral home chain in the country, but he preferred life in a small mountain town to the hassles of corporate boardrooms.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Seale’s taken a load off the operational details. But I don’t know about running for sheriff.”

  “Fine. I’m simply saying be as ready as you can be. That’s all I asked of my platoon and all I ask of my department. And you can be ready by getting the credit for solving this case. You’re the best man for the job, Barry. You know it, I know it.” He laid his hand gently on Carl’s motionless chest. “And no matter what we thought of him, he deserves nothing less.”

  The doorknob rattled behind us. Tommy Lee went to unlock it.

  Portly Ezra Clark came in, red-faced and toting his worn black medical bag. “The Buncombe County Crime Lab pulled in after me. They’re talking to Reece. Will you hold them off till I complete my exam?”

  “Yes,” I answered before Tommy Lee could speak. “The sheriff’s leaving to notify Ralph Atkinson. You let me know what you need.”

  Doc Clark grunted. “Ralph will expect to hear from the top. I don’t envy you, Sheriff.”

  I followed Tommy Lee into the hall. “All right. I’ll take the lead.”

  “Thanks. I’ll slip out the back. I’ll call you when I finish with Ralph.”

  “On one condition. You face the media. Like Doc said, they’ll want to hear from the top.”

  Tommy Lee smiled. “Fair enough.”

  “Except for Melissa Bigham.”

  Tommy Lee cocked his head. “Why?”

  “I need to talk to her tonight. I want her to get this story in before press deadline.”

  Melissa Bigham was a reporter for the Gainesboro Vista. I knew I could trust her to be fair and accurate.

  “Why the rush?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Maybe we can defuse the circus a little if some facts are already in circulation tomorrow morning. And I’d like her to write that the Sheriff’s Department wants to speak with anyone who went through the house tonight. Susan and Archie might not remember everyone. We need to get as much information on the table as quickly as possible.”

  Tommy Lee grinned. “It’s your case.” He started for the backdoor.

  “If Ralph’s up to it, ask him who’d want to kill his son,” I said.

  Tommy Lee kept walking. “Damn. I’ve created a monster.”

  ***

  The good thing about a press deadline is that at some point the nosey reporter has to shut up and file the story. In this case, Melissa Bigham outfoxed me. She took what I gave her over the phone, wrot
e the barebones account so she’d at least have something about the murder ready for print, and then showed up on the scene with her laptop and a wireless card to transmit the final version straight to the paper’s layout department and their online web page. She even rousted Jonah Tugman, the editor, out of bed and told him to come to the office and supervise.

  At a quarter to midnight, I found Melissa sitting in my patrol car, her ear glued to her cell phone and her laptop open on the driver’s seat. I’d given her permission to wait in the idling vehicle where she could stay warm.

  I knocked on the window. “Mind if I join you?”

  She said a few quick words into the phone, flipped it closed, and lifted the laptop out of the seat. On the screen, I saw multiple images of the farmhouse, including some of the interior rooms taken through outside windows.

  I slid behind the steering wheel. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  “I hope you’ve been a busier boy. Did you hear from Tommy Lee?” She hit a few keys and the photographs were replaced by the blank page of a Word document.

  “He just left Ralph Atkinson and his wife. They’re in shock and have no idea who would want to harm their son.”

  “What’s Tommy Lee doing next?” Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

  “He’s going home to sleep.”

  Melissa twisted in her seat to face me. “Really?” Her voice jumped to that incredulous tone infecting all reporters when they don’t believe what you’re saying.

  “He’s holding a press conference at ten tomorrow morning.”

  She closed her computer. “So you are in charge.”

  “Yes, but leave that out of your story for now. I don’t want your esteemed colleagues underfoot.”

  “I don’t want them underfoot either,” she said. “You’re my source.” She patted the back of my hand. “Thanks for the call.”

  Melissa came to Gainesboro out of journalism school, anxious for experience on a small daily so she could quickly move up to a major market. She hadn’t planned on staying for nearly ten years. The mountains and the people had gotten in her blood. She was a few years younger than me, just over thirty, but with her short blond hair and dimples, she looked like the sweet girl taking your order at Cracker Barrel. Her smile had disarmed many political blowhards and arrogant executives who suddenly found themselves facing a tiger. I wanted her on my side.

  “I’ll let you know what I can when I can,” I promised.

  Headlights swept across us as someone turned into the pasture. Archie Donovan’s BMW parked alongside. He got out and motioned me to join him.

  “I wonder why he’s back,” I said.

  “I actually feel sorry him,” Melissa said. “His project raised a lot of money.”

  “Yeah. With Archie involved, I should have known it was too good to be true.” I yanked open the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Melissa headed to her car and I joined Archie in the glow of the BMW’s taillights.

  “Barry, I think I need police protection.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  Archie’s lips trembled. “I’ve been thinking. Everyone knew I was supposed to be in the casket.”

  “Everyone?”

  “The volunteers. We printed assignments two weeks ago. Who was doing what and when people would get their breaks.”

  “Weren’t you on your break when Carl was killed?” I asked.

  Archie hesitated.

  I lost my patience. “I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation. Don’t waste my time.”

  He swallowed. “No. My break was over. But Carl was having so much fun he kept playing the role.”

  “Carl told me he was only staying a few minutes.” I pointed to his car. “That why I let him park behind me.”

  Archie stared at the Lexus. “He was supposed to work like everyone else. He came late because I called him at the last minute about needing a larger supply of tens, fives, and ones for change. We were accumulating twenties like crazy.”

  “So why’d he tell me a lie?”

  Archie shrugged. “You know Carl. He does what he wants. Probably so he’d be able to get his car out fast if he did leave early.”

  I did know Carl. Archie was right. “But you were out front where everyone buying a ticket could see you.”

  “Just at the end when we were closing.”

  “Then where were you the rest of the time?”

  He looked down at his shoes. “Around.”

  “Around?” I stepped closer. “Archie, when we narrow down the time of Carl’s death, all the volunteers are going to have to account for their whereabouts. If you can’t tell me, then you’ll move from possible victim to possible suspect so fast your head will spin.”

  His face went pale. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Then what’s your alibi?”

  He looked over my shoulder. I turned around and saw Melissa standing fifteen feet away. She hadn’t gone to her car. She’d been listening to our conversation. I wasn’t about to conduct an impromptu interrogation in front of a reporter.

  “Let’s get in out of the cold,” I said. Then I waved to Melissa. “Good night.”

  She nodded, but didn’t smile. She’d be pounding on me to get every word Archie uttered. And when I wouldn’t tell her, she’d go after him.

  Archie and I sat in the patrol car without speaking until we heard Melissa start her car engine.

  “So, what is it?” I asked.

  Archie gripped his hands together as if wrestling with himself. “If I tell you, can it stay with you?”

  “I can’t promise that. I don’t know what you’re going to tell me.”

  “I’m mean if it’s not really relevant. Like you check off all the people with alibis and my name’s one of them. It doesn’t matter what the alibi is.”

  I shook my head. “Just tell me where you were. If it’s not relevant to the case, then I’ll do my best to keep it buried in the report.”

  “And you won’t tell Melissa or Susan?”

  I began to wonder if he’d been out behind the Bradley barn smoking crack. “I don’t tell confidential police matters to either of them. But as for Melissa, she’s going to come after you. Your evasiveness did nothing but prime her pump.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll handle her.” He looked out the passenger window at the night sky. “I was in my car with Angel Crowder.”

  “What? Archie, what the hell were you thinking? Everyone knows Pete Crowder’s a first class hothead.”

  “I know,” Archie whined. “It’s just that Angel wanted some insurance on Pete, and Gloria and I aren’t going through the best of times. I called on Angel at their house this morning, and, well, you know how it goes.”

  “No, I don’t know how it goes. But I know better than to be rutting around in the backseat of a car at a charity event like some horny teenagers.”

  “We weren’t in the backseat.”

  “Spare me the details!”

  “We were talking. That’s all. Just talking.”

  In the faint light of the dashboard, I could see tears in his eyes. I calmed down, trying not to let the frustration of having a murder committed right under my nose overflow onto Archie. “All right. What were you talking about?”

  He took a deep breath. “Even though we just did it once, Angel thinks Pete might have found out about us. She came down here to warn me.”

  I tensed. “Was Pete here tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know who came through after Carl took over the casket.”

  “Why’d Angel think Pete knew?”

  “Because he found my business card in their house.”

  “That’s easy enough to explain. You’d been talking to Angel about insurance.”

  “My card was in the bedroom. Actually, it was my whole case. The gold one I keep them in. It fell out of my pants pocket.”

  I shook my head. “Jesus, Archie. And Angel says Pete might have found out about you? Where�
��s the might come in?”

  “She told him she found the case this afternoon in the living room. She’d put it in her purse, and then upset her purse on the bed. She’s a quick thinker.”

  “So she came here so you two could get your story straight.”

  “I’m supposed to call tomorrow when Pete’s there and ask if anyone found the business card case.”

  “Then why the panic?”

  Archie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Because the last thing Pete told Angel was, ‘I hope your boyfriend’s well insured.’ That was right before he hit her.”

  Chapter Three

  “What if we offer Ralph a discount on the casket?” My uncle leaned over his plate of scrambled eggs and pointed his fork at my chest. “That Batesville’s a good model and midnight silver’s a good color. Especially for a man. Blue suit, black suit, either one works.”

  “The Atkinsons aren’t going to want their son buried in the casket he died in.” Mom stood by the breakfast table, a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Connie, it’s a perfectly good casket.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll save it for you.”

  I laughed, spraying pieces of egg back on my plate. I’d had precious little to laugh about since last night, and even less sleep. “Sorry.” I wiped the food off my chin. “Don’t worry about it, Uncle Wayne. We might not get the casket back for a few days. It’s evidence.”

  My uncle hadn’t been in favor of lending Archie the casket, and he was out of character by keeping his “I told you so” to himself. The murder upset him.

  My mother poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from me. “I just can’t believe it. Who would do such a thing?”

  “Somebody on dope,” Uncle Wayne said. “On dope and a devil worshipper to boot. No coincidence it was Halloween.”

  “On dope” was my uncle’s first response to any senseless crime. The “devil worshipper” added a new touch.

  Uncle Wayne and Mom were brother and sister, he in his mid-seventies and she in her late sixties. While he was long and lanky, Mom had to stand on her tip-toes to break five-foot-two. But there was no doubting the family resemblance in the thick cotton-white hair curling abundantly on each head.