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

Home > Other > Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) > Page 8
Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 8

by Mark de Castrique


  I couldn’t meet Pace’s eyes. He and I knew my father would never have gotten himself into such a predicament.

  My uncle must have conducted thousands of funerals over his career. I’d done several hundred, but both of us were on edge. Seeing Rachel, the woman he considered to have walked out on his favorite and only nephew, completely threw him. And he was still upset from the morning’s bugle debacle. I was nervously counting the minutes till my puffy lips would either honor Blake Junior or humiliate me.

  Fletcher and I stood on the front steps of the church, greeting mourners and explaining duties to the pallbearers. Uncle Wayne and Freddy were in a room in the Sunday School wing with Reverend Pace, Blake Junior’s parents, and his widow Nancy and two teenage girls. The wife and daughters had been in a daze since the accident, and left most of the arrangements to Mr. Nolan.

  A few yards away, Rachel and Brock recorded the action. From the corner of my eye, I saw Brock keeping the camera primarily on me.

  Fletcher picked up my anxiety. “What do you want me to do? You’ve got to be in position with the bugler.”

  “Not till the close of the interment. I’m worried about the distance the pallbearers have to carry the casket. I think we need to recruit some additional muscle power and have them walk next to the official pallbearers. They can be ready to lend a hand.”

  I checked my watch and then noticed the lessening number of cars turning into the parking lot. “Stay here and I’ll talk to a few men in the sanctuary. We’ve still got about five minutes.”

  I left Fletcher and made a pass up and down the center aisle. Several guys from our archery club sat together and I whispered my request for them to stay near the casket when we started for the grave.

  The memorial in the church went without a hitch. Reverend Pace delivered a eulogy touching Blake Junior’s personal qualities through stories that brought tears and laughter at the same time. Rachel and Brock videotaped from the rear of the sanctuary. He picked up his tripod and unobtrusively moved from one side to the other, varying his shots without disturbing the mourners.

  After the final hymn, the flag-draped casket was wheeled down the aisle. The pallbearers assembled with the backups nearby. Uncle Wayne and Freddy escorted the immediate family; Fletcher walked ahead to the grave, ready to guide the casket onto the lowering device, a crucial action to insure the deceased didn’t nosedive between the two support straps.

  I led the procession, charting a course through the gravestones and over the smoothest terrain. Half the journey, I walked backwards, checking that the men had a good grip and that none of them faltered. We arced left to approach the grave lengthwise. I reached out to steer the casket onto the rollers. Nick Johnson, one of Blake Junior’s hunting buddies, must have thought I was taking his spot. He released his grip and the corner of the casket dipped. Two of the backups leapt forward, bumping into each other in their zeal. They knocked Nick against me. I stepped backwards and the railing of the lowering device caught my ankle. I toppled like a felled tree, my arms flailing in the air like wings of a featherless bird. The blue sky spun overhead and then I hit the bottom of the vault with such force that my breath exploded from my lungs.

  Faces peered over the lip of the grave. Fletcher spoke first, his voice echoing in the empty vault. “Barry, are you all right?”

  I just lay there, hoping someone would cover me up.

  Fletcher crawled down beside me. I’d cracked my head on the vault floor and landed with my left leg twisted underneath me. As he helped me to my feet, I felt a wrenching pain in my knee.

  Hands reached down to hoist me back to the land of the living.

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Reverend Pace asked. “That’s quite a knot on the back of your head.”

  Mr. Nolan stepped forward. “But he’s playing the trumpet. Right, Barry?”

  Over Nolan’s shoulder, I saw Brock the cameraman join the throng, unable to resist taping this exclusive resurrection scene.

  “Yes, I’m playing.” I limped toward the woods with as much dignity as I could muster.

  When the flag had been folded and presented to Blake Junior’s wife, the army bugler pushed the start button on his bell insert and whispered, “One, two, three, four, five.” He brought the horn to his lips.

  My first note sounded clear and pure. The rest followed in a respectable performance. But I doubt if anyone heard them. By the second note, Blake Junior’s coon dogs started howling loud enough to wake the dead.

  Chapter Seven

  I had to give Tommy Lee credit. He did his best to keep a straight face. But as soon as I closed his office door, the scar across his cheek began twitching and his shoulders shook. Then he abandoned any pretense of sympathy and burst out laughing.

  “Damn. I can’t believe I missed it.”

  My head throbbed, my knee ached, and my trumpet-playing lips looked like they’d been injected with collagen. “Yeah. It was a riot. If you think tumbling into a grave in front of a grieving family’s funny, then I hope you choke laughing at the video.”

  “It’s on tape?” He pounded his desk. “Where is it?”

  “My ex-wife has it.”

  “Rachel?” His one eye focused on me and all trace of mirth vanished. “What’s she doing here?”

  I gave him the whole story including Rachel’s surprise appearance at Pete’s house.

  When I finished, Tommy Lee seemed genuinely sympathetic. “How was Blake Senior after the service?”

  “I don’t know. I kept my distance, figuring I was the last person he’d want to see.”

  “Have you been to a doctor?”

  “Susan and I have a date tonight. Does that count?”

  He motioned toward the door. “Go home. You look like hell and there’s nothing more to do today.”

  “What about Pete? I need to interview him.”

  Tommy Lee shook his head. “No, you don’t. Carson brought him in and booked him for assault on Angel. Pete’s prints don’t match those on the murder weapon so if he’s involved, he got someone else to do the killing.”

  “Why was he at Archie’s?”

  Tommy Lee opened his desk drawer and lifted out a gold case about the size of his palm. “To confront Archie with this. His business card case. First, Pete picked up two beers and drank them in his car. Then he rode around for a while. To settle his nerves, he claimed.”

  “And Angel followed him?”

  “She found the case missing and guessed what Pete was up to. Because he stopped for beer, she got to Archie’s ahead of him, which only made Pete more suspicious.”

  “Where was Archie?”

  “A neighbor saw the whole family leaving about ten minutes before Angel arrived. They loaded in suitcases and hanging bags. Archie must have rushed home and told his wife to pack as quickly as she could.”

  “They’re headed to Disney World.”

  Tommy Lee dropped the case in his drawer. “We can find him if we need him. And I can find you. Go. That’s an order. We should have lab work Monday morning. Lay low tomorrow and maybe Rachel will return to D.C.”

  I got up. “Okay. But what do you think? Was the killer after Archie and failed or after Carl and succeeded?”

  Tommy Lee grinned. “You’re the lead investigator. I don’t need an opinion. I’ve got yours. What is it?”

  I decided to share what simmered inside my aching head. “I don’t think this is about Pete and Archie. I can’t see Pete hiring someone to murder Archie and then showing up at his house with a card case. And why make the attempt at the House of Horror? There are plenty of easier and more isolated opportunities.”

  Tommy Lee nodded in agreement.

  “I think Carl was the intended victim. Someone harbored such hatred or needed him eliminated so badly that when the chance came, the murderer acted without hesitation. This case comes down to motive. Did Carl wrong someone? Was he stopping someone from getting something?”

  “And the gunshot this morning?” />
  Suddenly I felt woozy and leaned against the chair, gripping the back with both hands. My words came out in a whisper. “That’s a piece of the puzzle I can’t make fit.”

  Tommy Lee stepped closer. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “Yeah. I just stood up too fast.”

  He grabbed my arm. “Change of orders. I’m taking you home.”

  “I’m supposed to pick up Susan.”

  “Fine. I know the way to her condo. You can call her from the car.”

  ***

  “Where is Rachel staying?” Susan asked the question as she directed a pocket flashlight in my right eye and then my left.

  “Your interrogation techniques are rougher than the Sheriff’s Department’s. What’s next? A rubber hose?”

  She snapped off the beam. “Pupil reaction is normal. You probably suffered a slight concussion coupled with massive humiliation. Not much I can do about either.”

  I sat on her sofa, resigned to a quiet Saturday night. Susan had taken one look at me limping out of Tommy Lee’s patrol car and canceled our movie date. Our big outing would be going to my cabin to feed Democrat, my yellow Labrador.

  “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

  She gently kissed the lump on my head. “You’re not in bed. As for your desires, you’ll have to schedule an appointment. Take two aspirin and nudge me in the morning.”

  “Does this mean you’ll make a house call?”

  “Maybe. You didn’t answer my question. Where’s Rachel?”

  “I have no idea. She showed up at the funeral and the last I saw her she and her cameraman were hurrying to their SUV. Probably anxious to get their video to the networks. By midnight my backwards dive into the grave will be all over YouTube.”

  Susan went to her bedroom. “I don’t want her upsetting you. You’ve got enough pressure between the investigation and the funeral home.”

  “Don’t forget my parental responsibilities.”

  Over the sounds of clothes and boxes being moved, Susan yelled, “I hope you mean George and Democrat.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ve met all my kids.”

  George, a longhaired, Peruvian guinea pig, had become my roommate when Rachel left. The owner of the pet store had assured me George was a boy until three babies magically appeared a week later. The embarrassed man took the offspring and offered an exchange for George, but by then I’d grown attached to the fluffy little rascal. I added the surname Eliot to legitimize her gender and give her a literary flair.

  Democrat arrived as a Christmas gift nearly two years ago. The yellow lab was definitely all boy and his only flair consisted of chasing squirrels and sweeping items off the coffee table with his constantly wagging tail. His good-old-boy personality fit the image of a southern Bubba, known as a yellow-dog Democrat because he’d sooner vote for a yellow dog than a Republican. Although times had changed, the name yellow-dog Democrat still surfaced among the old-timers and they gave a knowing laugh when they heard me call him.

  “I want you to take these.” Susan came from the bedroom carrying a pair of crutches. “You should keep your weight off that knee.”

  “Great. That’s all we need. A one-legged deputy to go along with a one-eyed sheriff.”

  “You want the swelling to go down, don’t you? At least take a single crutch and wear a knee bandage. I’ll pick one up on the way to the cabin.” She held out a crutch like a pole to a drowning man.

  “Hell, I might as well take them both. With my luck I’ll wrench the other knee between here and home.”

  Getting home wasn’t the problem. We stopped at an Ingles supermarket and picked up an Ace bandage and two refreezable ice packs. I also treated myself to a six-pack of Newcastle Brown Ale and a freshly made mushroom and pepperoni pizza that required only ten minutes in my oven. Susan insisted on a bag of lettuce so that a salad would contribute some semblance of healthy eating.

  The problem waited at my cabin. Susan’s headlights swept down my long driveway to reveal a red Ford Focus parked in front of my porch.

  “You’ve got company.” She swung her Subaru alongside the driver’s door. “A woman,” she whispered. “I guess now we know where Rachel is.”

  Looking across Susan, I saw my ex-wife flip her cell phone closed. The Ford’s overhead courtesy light came on as she opened her door and stared hard at Susan, either as an attempt to intimidate or simply see into the car’s darker interior.

  “Guess it’s time you met the ex-.” I got out of the passenger door and reached in the backseat for the crutches. I wasn’t above using any trick I could to waylay whatever Rachel was scheming.

  I crossed in front of the Subaru’s headlights, exaggerating the effort of planting the tips of the crutches in the loose gravel while holding my injured knee at enough of an angle that my foot hung uselessly in the air.

  “Well, Long John Silver,” Rachel said. “A parrot on your shoulder would be a nice touch.”

  “Why bother? With you here, the bird couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  Rachel ignored the remark and turned to greet Susan as she got out of the car. “I’m Rachel Clayton. Sorry to just show up, but my ex-husband left me at the journalistic altar with half a story.”

  My lover faced my ex-wife. “Susan Miller,” she said. The glow from the interior lights of both cars revealed two women taking a calculating look at each other. “Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to the altar at all.”

  The north wind couldn’t have blown an icier blast. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to break that ice.

  Rachel laughed. “Fair enough.” She turned to me. “She’s a keeper, Barry. Don’t let her get away.”

  Susan opened the Subaru’s hatch. “Have you eaten? We’ve got plenty if you like salad and pizza.”

  Rachel dropped her phone in her purse. “Only if you let me help.” She took one of the grocery bags and followed Susan to my front porch.

  I stood on my crutches in the driveway as the cabin door closed behind them and marveled at my inability to understand women.

  They worked side by side in the kitchen, Susan getting the pizza ready for the oven and Rachel washing the lettuce. I picked up a few damp leaves and hobbled into the guest bedroom where George squealed in her cage.

  As soon as the refrigerator door had opened, she’d started her chorus, demanding her treat. Democrat followed at my heels and watched as George pulled each leaf through the bars. Then the lab sat in front of his dish and stared at it. George’s seniority meant she was always fed first, but Democrat grew impatient if I didn’t immediately dole out his rations as soon as George had been served. I filled his bowl with two cups of dry food from the adjacent plastic storage bin and made him sit a few seconds before granting permission to eat. It was the one command that reminded him who was boss.

  I returned to the great room. Only a counter separated the kitchen from the living area and I eased onto the sofa where I could see both women. “Rachel, you must have a great GPS in that rental car. Most devices are fooled coming up the mountain. The switchbacks make the positioning coordinates overlap on the steep slope.”

  Rachel had never been to my cabin, and it couldn’t be seen from the main road. A psychiatrist from Charleston, South Carolina, culled logs from older cabins that he purchased across the Blue Ridge and built his dream retreat. Unfortunately, he became too ill to live in such a remote location, and I bought the property after Rachel and I sold our house in Charlotte.

  Rachel wiped her hands on a paper towel. “My GPS was Uncle Wayne. He gave me directions.”

  “You called him?”

  “No, I asked him immediately after the funeral. You’d taken quite a fall and I wanted to check on you.”

  Susan shook her head in disbelief. “Then what’s this about being abandoned at the journalistic altar?”

  “Archie Donovan.” Rachel looked at me. “You blew him off as the potential victim and then his name surfaced on a police re
port about an altercation at his house this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t learn about it till after we talked.” I tapped one crutch on the floor. “I’ve been sort of busy.”

  Rachel set the colander of washed lettuce aside. “I came by the Sheriff’s Department after releasing the videographer and neither you nor Tommy Lee were there. A deputy named Hutchins told me the two of you left together. I identified myself and asked to see the police blotter. I thought maybe someone had been brought in on suspicion while we were at the funeral. The residence of Archie Donovan popped out as the site of a domestic assault, but neither party lived there. I found that curious.”

  The oven beeped, signaling it had reached the proper temperature. Susan turned to slide the pizza onto the rack, but not before she pursed her lips in what I took to be an acknowledgment of Rachel’s tenacity. Although my ex-wife could be annoying, she was smart and resourceful. I felt unexpected pride that Susan realized I hadn’t fallen for a dummy.

  Rachel leaned over the counter. “So what gives, Barry? There has to be more to the story.”

  I shifted on the sofa. Rachel wouldn’t accept a vague answer and I knew Melissa Bigham of the Vista would also read the blotter. Deputy Reece Hutchins took enough pleasure in punching my buttons that he’d make sure Melissa knew my ex-wife was following the same trail.

  The oven door snapped shut. Susan set the bottle of Pinot Noir on the counter. “Who’d like a glass of wine?”

  “Give Barry two. Maybe they’ll loosen his tongue.” Rachel crossed to the chair nearest the fireplace and picked up her black handbag. She rummaged in its depths, extracted a notepad and pen, and then plopped down. She didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

  I decided I’d better deal with her head on. “Can we talk off the record? On background only?”

  “If it’s truly background. If it’s breaking news, then I’m not sitting on my hands.”

  “And who determines what’s breaking news?”

  She smiled. “That’s where my journalistic experience comes into play.”

 

‹ Prev