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

by Mark de Castrique

  “Doing what you told me. Competing.” She thrust a hand mike in my face. “So, what were you doing, Deputy Clayton? Staking out a murder suspect?”

  “Rachel, you’re looking foolish.” I gambled she wouldn’t let anyone see footage that could embarrass her. “I’m checking on complaints of trespassers. Kids probably. I thought I saw one running through the woods.”

  The cameraman looked to Rachel. “Want me to cut? You said be careful with tape stock.”

  Rachel nodded. “Weird World” must have been rotating on a tight budget.

  She handed him the mike, turned to me and smiled. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Is somebody stealing axes?”

  So, they had been able to see something. I glanced at the zoom lens and wondered how much it magnified. When they screened the footage on a bigger monitor, would someone ask why a deputy had pulled an ax from a chopping block, printed it, and then stuck it back?

  “Stealing small tools in general.” I opened the jeep’s passenger door and tossed in the kit. “Your cameraman’s right. A waste of footage.” I stuck out my hand in an attempt to befriend the man who held my career on a tape cassette. “Barry Clayton. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  The videographer stood at least six inches taller than me and appeared to be in his late twenties. He had a full black beard and the rugged features of a mountain pioneer. He reached across his chest and grabbed the pistol grip of his camera with his left hand to free his right. “Dave Brock.” His handshake was firm. “I covered your news conference last year when Sheriff Wadkins was shot.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “Tommy Lee was shot?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A long story but it’s how I officially got back in law enforcement.”

  Brock grinned. “And took on the biggest organized crime operation this part of the state’s ever seen. Deputy Clayton solved the case before the FBI even knew what was going on.”

  For a news hound, the guy was all right.

  “I don’t know about that.” I shrugged. “But you can see how footage of me chasing kids is quite a comedown.”

  “It works as contrast,” Rachel said. “Your routine duty versus a house of horror murder.”

  Brock, my fickle ally, nodded in agreement.

  Even if they didn’t see anything odd about my behavior, Pete Crowder would. Whenever this “Mysterious Murders” episode aired, Gainesboro would have viewing parties. A small town relishes any spotlight, no matter what might be illuminated.

  I tried another tact, one carrying its own risk. “What about a double contrast? Me as a deputy working a funeral where a casket is being used for its intended purpose.”

  Rachel’s eyes lit up. “When?”

  “The service is at two. I’ll need to get permission from the family and I’ll have to offer them a copy of the tape. The deceased is receiving military honors. That will be visually interesting.” God only knows what it will sound like, I thought.

  Brock pulled the camera off his shoulder. “Cool.”

  “We’ll have to be respectful,” I cautioned. “Not a lot of running around.”

  Brock opened a side panel. “I can rewind this tape and maybe not have to reload during the ceremony.” He looked down at Rachel for approval.

  “Okay.” She smiled. “But if it’s a bust, we’ll have to tape you directing traffic or helping an old lady across the street.”

  “If it makes you happy, I’ll do both at once.”

  Rachel and Brock left with the address for Eagle Creek Methodist Church programmed in their GPS and enough time for lunch. I headed for the funeral home and what I hoped would be a miraculous reunion with my trumpet.

  ***

  Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors lay on the outskirts of town just before Main Street became the Green River Highway. The white, two-story antebellum-style house carried a history that linked generations to a familiarity of place and ritual. My grandfather, father, and I had provided a continuity of Clayton care, and my mom’s brother, Uncle Wayne, had outlived nearly everyone in Laurel County.

  My partner, Fletcher Shaw, was only in his mid-twenties, but he openly displayed an appreciation for small-town life. With Uncle Wayne and me to vouch for him, the young man from Chicago had rapidly achieved an acceptance by the mountaineers who usually categorized outsiders as one of three “Fs”: Foreigners, Flatlanders, or Floridians. “That Fletcher Shaw’s got his head screwed on straight” was the most common accolade. Dealing with grieving families not only required a calm head but also a kind heart. Fletcher possessed both.

  Mom stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes from lunch. “You just missed Fletcher and your uncle.”

  “Everything okay?”

  She wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes. Freddy’s meeting them at the church.”

  I sat at the kitchen table. “I thought he was coming here.”

  “Wayne wanted someone at the church earlier, since that’s where everything’s taking place.”

  I’d called Freddy Mott to assist with the Nolan funeral even before the previous night’s murder. Although there was no motorized procession, we had to coordinate the casket being placed in the sanctuary and then carried over uneven ground to the family plot in the adjacent cemetery. We set the tent up yesterday afternoon, and only needed to add folding chairs for the immediate family.

  “Mom, I didn’t want Uncle Wayne loading the casket in the hearse. Fletcher knew that.”

  “Fletcher didn’t have any choice. Wayne told him he’d been loading caskets all his life.”

  I could hear my uncle lecturing poor Fletcher. Uncle Wayne would listen to me, but he wasn’t ready to turn over responsibility to anyone else.

  “He’ll probably figure out some way to load his own casket in the hearse.” I stood. “I’d better get up there. Did they take the trumpet?”

  Mom slipped off her apron and crossed the worn linoleum floor to hang it on the magnetic hook stuck on the side of the refrigerator. “I want you to know how that happened. Mr. Nolan was very upset. He came alone this morning for a private viewing.”

  “Fletcher did the cosmetic work, didn’t he? I made that clear to Uncle Wayne.”

  “Yes. And Mr. Nolan was very pleased. I was with them. He said Blake Junior looks just like himself.”

  Looks just like himself or herself was the expression every funeral director hoped the bereaved would say upon seeing a loved one in a casket.

  Mom turned from the fridge, her round face set in a grimace. “Mr. Nolan started crying. He said he wanted the rest of the day to be just as perfect, and when the final note of Taps echoed off the mountains, people would think what a fine man Blake Junior had been. That was the memory he wanted the town to keep forever.”

  I began to suspect where Mr. Nolan’s perfect funeral went awry. “Uncle Wayne brought it up, didn’t he?”

  “The old fool couldn’t leave well enough alone. He said he just wished that last note could be a real bugle sound, not some phony electric chirp from China.”

  “Oh, my God. What was he thinking?”

  Mom shook her head. “He wasn’t. It just came out. Mr. Nolan was crying, and your uncle really liked Blake Junior. He brought Wayne venison each deer season. Wayne just spoke his feelings.”

  Blake Junior had been a personable guy. We shot archery together in the Laurel County club. I’m not a hunter but I enjoy the tournament competition and had been paired with Blake Junior on a few occasions.

  “I guess that pushed Mr. Nolan over the edge,” I said. “Uncle Wayne must have panicked.”

  Mom gave a sympathetic smile. “You could see the color drain from his face as soon as the words left his mouth. Then Mr. Nolan’s face took in all the color Wayne’s lost. ‘China,’ he shouted. ‘My son’s not going to his grave under the sound of some Communist gadget. I thought this was an American funeral home.’”

  “It’s the military’s policy, not ours.”

  “I know,” Mom said. “Wayne tried to exp
lain, but the damage had been done. Mr. Nolan said he’d sooner hear Taps on the banjo. That’s when Wayne said you were an award-winning trumpet player.”

  “You mean the honorable mention our brass won at the state high school regionals? Not exactly a Grammy.”

  Mom threw up her hands. “It was good enough for Mr. Nolan. He left mad at the Army but pacified that you’d be playing for Blake Junior.”

  “I don’t know if they’ll even let me. Those soldiers are under orders.”

  Mom walked into the hall. “Wayne put your trumpet in the parlor and started the fire. He wanted to warm it so the valves wouldn’t stick. He agreed to take your Boy Scout uniform back to the attic after I insisted you’d look more official as a deputy.”

  I found the horn in front of the stone hearth, standing upright on its bell. The blaze of the gas logs glowed dimly on the tarnished metal.

  ***

  I was about a mile from Eagle Creek Methodist Church when Deputy Carson’s voice came over the scanner. “Our man is out of his vehicle and walking over to his wife. They’re yelling at each other.”

  I didn’t know Carson’s location, but something must have happened while I’d been desperately rehearsing Taps in the parlor. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the direct number for our dispatcher.

  “Carol, it’s Barry. What’s going on?”

  “Carson’s on foot a block from Archie Donovan’s house. When Pete turned down the street, he laid back since it’s a dead-end. Pete didn’t come out so Carson parked and walked. He’s spotted Pete and Angel in Archie’s front yard.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, preparing to make a u-turn if necessary. “Is Archie there?”

  “Carson hasn’t said so.”

  “Does he need backup?”

  “Hold on.” I heard a clunk as she dropped the receiver. “Carson, Barry wants to know if you need backup.”

  “No.” Carson’s filtered voice crackled through the dispatcher’s radio. “He’s yelling but not armed. Hey! Stop it, Pete!”

  I heard Carson shouting from the scene. Pete must have grabbed or hit Angel.

  “Tell Barry he slapped her, but he’s backed off. I’m picking him up for assault, and we’ll hold him till he cools down, whether she presses charges or not.”

  Carol picked up the phone. “Barry, Carson says–”

  “I heard him. Since he witnessed the assault, tell him to make a formal arrest and print Pete. And call Social Services to report the abuse. That ought to tie up both of them for a couple hours till we check him out.”

  “Copy that. You coming back after the Nolan funeral?”

  “10-4 on that 10-20.” I hung up as Carol groaned at my TV cop talk.

  So, Angel must have left her house to see Archie. Or she’d followed Pete because she thought he’d gone after Archie. I could sort that out after the funeral. There was one good thing about Pete’s temper: he’d given us a reason to take his fingerprints. My ax adventure had been a risky attempt to shortcut the investigative process and the only thing it accomplished was to obligate me to Rachel. That could come back to haunt me.

  Eagle Creek Methodist Church was a small congregation served by Lester Pace, a septuagenarian preacher whose ministry to the mountain people spanned more than fifty years. Although my family had always attended the larger Methodist church in Gainesboro, Pace and my father had grown very close. He was the one to whom Dad sent mourners who needed counseling but had no church home.

  The sanctuary with a small Sunday School wing sat on a slope that joined Pisgah National Forest. Eagle Creek flowed along the other side of the road and far enough below that flashfloods never reached the building or the cemetery on its right. The grassy enclave surrounded by the tall hardwoods provided the perfect setting for the white structure and neatly kept graveyard. Tourists loved to photograph the scene. On several occasions, the Sheriff’s Department had ticketed overzealous sightseers who thought nothing of parking their cars only halfway off the road and standing in the middle of the pavement to frame the perfect shot.

  With an hour to go before the service, the only other car in addition to our hearse was Reverend Pace’s ancient Plymouth Duster. I parked beside it, grabbed the trumpet from the backseat, and went into the sanctuary to seek the solace of the old man’s advice.

  I found him in a back hall office, not much bigger than a closet. He sat at a small wooden desk facing away from the door. A large Bible lay open before him, but his gray-haired head was erect. He turned at the sound of my gentle knock.

  “Afternoon, Barry.” His narrow, leathery face broke into a smile.

  “Sorry to disturb you.”

  He reached for the gnarled rhododendron walking stick leaning against the desk drawers and used it to lift himself out of the chair. “I was just visiting with my friends.” He nodded to the window overlooking the cemetery. “When the graves of your friends outnumber the homes of your friends, you wind up spending more time in the past than the present.”

  “And it’s tough when one of those friends leaves us prematurely.”

  “Yep.” Pace looked at me kindly, sensing I wanted to talk about more than the order of the funeral. “Let’s get some fresh air. In here we’re two size-ten shoes in a size-four shoebox.”

  He led me down the hall and out a backdoor. His steps had grown slower over the past year and I marveled that he still served as an active pastor. A year ago he’d been serving three mountain congregations, so in his mind he might consider Eagle Creek a vacation.

  We angled across the cemetery away from the Nolan plot, where Uncle Wayne and Fletcher were unfolding chairs. Pace stopped beside one of the oaks that had been left to grace the graveyard with its stately presence.

  He glanced at the trumpet. “Your uncle mentioned you’re playing Taps.”

  “I hope it’s something that sounds close.” I looked away, trying to get my thoughts together. Then I decided to hell with it. Reverend Pace wasn’t the kind of man you minced words with.

  He leaned against the trunk of the tree. “Has Wayne put you in a bind?”

  “Not as big as the one I put myself in.”

  Pace said nothing as I told him about the murder investigation, Rachel’s unexpected arrival, and the mistake I made collecting the fingerprints while being videotaped. When I finished, he looked down at the sparse grass and made little circles with the end of his walking stick.

  If he wouldn’t pass judgment, I would. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

  Pace cocked his head and eyed me with amusement. “Thou shalt not be stupid. Thank the wisdom of the Lord for not making that the eleventh commandment. And I’ve got no quarrel with your motives.” He sighed and started walking again.

  I fell in beside him, measuring my steps to his shorter stride. “Are you all right with Rachel videotaping the service?”

  “Personally, no. But Blake Senior might take comfort from it. See it as something special for his son. I already told him he could bring Blake Junior’s two hunting dogs to the graveside. When you talk to him, I’ll be there with my blessing, provided the cameraman stays in the back of the church and is discreet at the graveside.”

  “He will. I warned him to be invisible.”

  Pace stopped and faced me. “And you’ve got to promise me something.”

  I stood ready to offer anything short of my firstborn. “What?”

  “When I die and you conduct my funeral, I don’t want a damn camera within ten miles of this old body.”

  Three uniformed soldiers arrived for the honor guard. As we suspected, one of the servicemen had an electronic device in the bell of his bugle. He noticed my trumpet.

  The young man looked at his buddies and then spoke officiously. “We have orders from our commanding officer to fold the flag, present it to the next of kin on behalf of the President of the United States, and play Taps.”

  “I understand. But it would mean a lot to the veteran’s father to hear a real instrument. Is there a rule regarding h
ow close you have to stand to the grave and how loud you have to play?”

  The hint of a smile twisted the corners of his lips. He glanced at the nearest edge of the forest. “Maybe over in those trees would be all right. Wouldn’t want anyone other than you to see me push the start button and count to five.”

  We strolled over to the trees and I heard the device play at its lowest level. The pitch was perfect and the tempo provided a good guide. Although my lips still tingled from the earlier practice, with a little luck, the United States Army and Barry Clayton would perform a worthy duet.

  Mr. Nolan and his wife pulled into the church lot in a red pickup truck with two coon dogs in the bed. Reverend Pace greeted them and suggested they tie the dogs under the oak tree where he and I had our conversation.

  “Did you bring your trumpet?” Mr. Nolan asked.

  “Yes. And I’ve worked it out with the military bugler.”

  “One of them Chinese boom boxes?”

  “I don’t know where it was made, but I’ll be the lead player. No one will hear him.”

  He nodded.

  “There’s another thing. I’d like your permission to have a television crew tape Blake Junior’s funeral.”

  “Television?” His eyes widened, spilling fresh tears down his cheeks.

  “Yes. There’s a program they’re shooting on one of my investigations, and I told them your son’s funeral was the most important thing I’ll be doing while they’re following me.”

  “Did you hear that, Loretta? Blake Junior’s going to be on television.”

  They both turned to Reverend Pace.

  “Barry asked me about it, and I said as long as they were dignified and stayed in the back, then I had no objections.”

  “Television,” Loretta whispered, like the word was sacred.

  “I’ve arranged for them to give you a copy of their footage.”

  Mrs. Nolan stood on tiptoes and kissed my cheek. Mr. Nolan clasped my right hand in both of his. “Barry, your father would be so proud.” He looked up at the bare branches of the towering oak. “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. Just like my boy.”