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

by Mark de Castrique

  “You know I can’t agree to that. And you said you’re working on a cable series, not a newscast.”

  “Maybe if I break this story, I can kiss Weird World goodbye.”

  Her desperate tone left no doubt she’d find a way to freelance any scoop into a network audition. I could trust my friend Melissa Bigham to sit on a story until the last possible moment. I could trust my ex-wife to do exactly what she was telling me: break the story at all costs. At least I knew where we stood. Was there a way to play it that would help my investigation?

  “Look, Rachel, you don’t want to go with something that tips off your competition. With better resources, they’ll have it on the air while you’re waiting for your cameraman to drive here from Asheville.”

  She looked dubious. “That’s what this so-called background would do?”

  “Yes. It would help them focus. I’ll tell you something no other reporter knows, but you’ve got to hold it.” I glanced at Susan and saw a flicker of alarm cross her face.

  Rachel took a deep breath. “Okay. What is it?”

  “Pete Crowder, the man who was arrested at Archie Donovan’s house, had been a suspect.”

  Rachel’s eyes brightened. “Had been?”

  “He thought his wife and Archie were having an affair.” I paused, but Rachel kept silent while she jotted on her notepad. “Whether that’s true or not is irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant?” She looked up in disbelief. “That’s his motive and explains how Atkinson was murdered by mistake. And what about the shot fired near Donovan this morning?”

  I held up my hand to stop her questions. “The other bit of information no other reporter knows is that the fingerprints on the murder weapon don’t match Pete’s. We checked when we booked him on the assault charge. He also has an ironclad alibi for the shooting at the Cardinal Café.”

  “Where does that leave you?”

  “With an unknown suspect who killed Carl Atkinson. Any reporter following Archie Donovan is on the wrong trail.”

  Rachel leaned forward, the notepad slipping from her hand. “Then you’re concentrating on why someone would murder Atkinson? Donovan’s not in the picture?”

  I shrugged. “That’s my opinion. We’re just beginning to dig into Carl’s activities. The case isn’t even twenty-four hours old.”

  “So the only way to the murderer is through the victim?”

  Susan came from the kitchen and handed me a glass of wine. I shifted on the sofa to give her room to sit. “Not necessarily, but it’s likely to be the most productive.”

  “And you’ll share what you’re learning about him?”

  “No. I’ve stuck my neck out enough telling you about the fingerprints. Tommy Lee would yank me off the case if he discovered I was leaking information behind his back.”

  Rachel thought for a moment, and then dropped her notepad back in her handbag. She stood.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To get my wine. No sense wasting another glass on you when I can talk to Susan.”

  The pizza, salad, and conversation went down surprisingly well. Rachel could be charming and though I felt the tension bubbling beneath the surface, no barbs penetrated the veneer of civility we managed to maintain. She stayed until after nine, and I hobbled out on my porch to wave goodbye with Susan in the doorway behind me. As the sound of crunching gravel and Rachel’s taillights disappeared in the frosty night air, Susan laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “Barry, just what the hell were you thinking?”

  “How relentless she can be. How Ralph Atkinson is one of the most powerful people in the county. How an outsider won’t be intimidated by the Atkinson name.”

  I closed the front door and let Susan help me to the sofa.

  She went to the kitchen. “You think Melissa Bigham will back down?”

  “Hardly. But her editor Jonah Tugman might not want to irritate a major advertiser. You know how things work in a small town.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll investigate wherever the case leads, but that doesn’t mean Ralph won’t pressure the D.A., the mayor, or even Tommy Lee if he thinks I’m dragging up dirt on his son. Rachel might help break the ground in advance.”

  “What about the other reporters?”

  “Other than Melissa, they’ll just hang out for a few days waiting on Tommy Lee’s press briefings. If we’re not making quick progress, something else will come along to attract their attention.”

  Susan returned with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. “Here. Take these. They’ll ease the soreness.” She watched as I swallowed them. “So, Rachel will be tagged as the nosey big-city reporter no one can control.”

  “Now that you’ve met her, can you argue with that description? Besides, she’ll be out of my hair.”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Barry, listen to yourself. Don’t you know what ‘no one can control’ means? Hello! Does the phrase ‘loose cannon’ come to mind?”

  “She’ll be fine. How much trouble can she get into just asking questions?”

  Chapter Eight

  I awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The aroma lured me into the kitchen where Susan stood at the counter, spreading sourwood honey over wheat toast. A carton of eggs sat beside a cutting board covered with chopped onions and chives.

  She gave me a light kiss on the lips. “Good morning, sleepyhead. I was about to call you. It’s nearly nine and I was going to scramble these eggs whether you got up or not.”

  I glanced at the clock above the stove, stunned that I’d slept so late. “You took care of Democrat?”

  “Yes. And George. I told them Daddy needed his beauty rest.”

  Democrat usually woke me by seven-thirty, expecting to be let outside and then fed.

  Susan looked me up and down. I wore an Asheville Tourists baseball team tee shirt, jockey briefs, and the knee brace. “Cute outfit,” she said. “Where’s the crutch accessory?”

  “I forgot it.” I shifted my weight onto my left leg. The knee hurt but with the dull ache of a bruise, not the sharper pain of a sprain or torn tendon.

  “Well, keep the brace on and take the ibuprofen for inflammation after you put something on your stomach. I know I’m wasting my breath, but if you’ll go easy, it’ll heal faster.”

  Her admonition reminded me the murder case would make going easy difficult. I saw the Sunday Asheville Citizen-Times on the coffee table. She and Democrat must have walked to the end of the driveway to fetch it.

  I limped to the sofa. “Anything in the paper?”

  “Just a rehash of Tommy Lee’s press conference and speculation that Archie Donovan might have been the intended victim. The article says Archie wasn’t available for comment. Nothing about Pete and Angel Crowder.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Susan began cracking eggs. “But there’s a great picture of you crawling out of Blake Junior’s grave.”

  My heart stopped. “You’re kidding.” I grabbed the newspaper.

  “Yes, I am.” Susan barely got the words out before collapsing in hysterics. Between gasps, she blurted, “You should have seen your face.”

  Sundays we often took the newspaper and went to a special spot in Pisgah National Forest along the Davidson River that was hidden from the tourists. The chill of November discouraged that outing and we spent the morning in front of a fire, Susan reading the paper and I compiling a list of things to do in the investigation.

  Carl Atkinson had recently been through a very messy and public divorce. His wife, the daughter of a prominent real estate developer, had alleged mental cruelty, unfaithfulness, and physical abuse. She also claimed his drinking had significantly affected his income, and that she’d managed his segment of her father-in-law’s business that had been profitable. Her lawyer had filed for the majority of their joint assets and full custody of their two children. Carl, with the arrogance of the entitled, dismissed the claims as a pack of lies a
nd refused to negotiate an out-of-court settlement.

  The revelation of sordid photos taken by a private detective, audiotapes of Carl berating his wife including the sounds of his slapping her, and two DUIs in a six-month period gave the presiding judge clear and compelling evidence that each of the allegations was true. He granted the divorce, the custody claim, and the assignment of assets into the wife’s name, effectively fleecing Carl of everything except whatever new income he might earn or receive from his father.

  The wife and children moved to Asheville, sparing Carl from the embarrassment of their presence in town. His daddy’s clout might not have prevailed in court, but it kept Carl on local civic boards, in his Jaycee presidency, and as the heir apparent in the family business.

  How Ralph Atkinson privately reprimanded and controlled his delinquent son remained a topic of speculation. Had I been asked to predict Carl’s involvement in a murder, I would have said perpetrator with his father or ex-wife as the victim.

  I decided I needed to go through the divorce’s court records. Perhaps one of the girlfriends humiliated by the detective’s camera got her revenge. But the knife had been driven in so hard it lodged in Carl’s ribs, an action more consistent with the strength of a man. A jealous boyfriend?

  There might be gambling debts or maybe Carl had conned someone out of money that he either lost in the divorce or spent to keep his lifestyle intact. I thought of the shiny white Lexus he’d parked beside my patrol car at the haunted house. I’d had it towed into the county motor pool, but the crime lab hadn’t gone through it yet. I’d request that be done first thing tomorrow morning.

  Carl’s bank records since the divorce would also be important in case unusual withdrawals or deposits had been made. I realized there was a number of official requests I needed to prepare and that a few hours spent in the Sheriff’s Department this afternoon would help me start the week with a full head of steam.

  The phone rang in the kitchen. Susan had gotten up for a coffee refill and leaned over to check the caller ID.

  “It’s the funeral home. Do you want me to answer it?”

  “Hand it to me.” Susan passed the cordless receiver across the counter. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully, expecting either Mom or Uncle Wayne on the line.

  “Barry, it’s Fletcher.”

  I looked at the stove clock. Eleven-thirty. “I thought you were supposed to be in Charlotte.”

  “I drove back this morning. Things were kind of crazy when I left yesterday and I wasn’t sure where we stood with the Atkinsons.”

  “You mean for Carl’s burial?” I shifted my mind from a deputy investigating a once living human being to a funeral director assisting the deceased’s family.

  “Yes. And there’s a message on the machine from twenty minutes ago. Mr. Atkinson wants to meet this afternoon. Your mom and Wayne must be at church.”

  “Did he leave a number?”

  “Yes.” Fletcher paused. “I was going to call him back, but then I thought maybe he’d expect the call to come from you or Wayne.”

  Fletcher’s instincts were right on. Just as Tommy Lee had gone to break the news of Carl’s death as the senior law enforcement officer, Wayne or I should be the one to deal with the funeral arrangements. But I would also be investigating his son’s death by prying into personal shortcomings and possible shady activities. The compassionate funeral director and determined deputy were heading for a collision. I couldn’t be both.

  “Can you meet at two?” I asked.

  “Yes. You want me to set it up?”

  I grabbed the notepad containing my to-do list. “No. Give me the number. I’ll call Mr. Atkinson. Wayne should be fine for that time. I’m going to tell Atkinson I’m on duty this afternoon, but I’ll make a point of greeting him and then leave you and Wayne to work out the details.”

  “But you’re not on duty?” Fletcher asked the question cautiously, reacting to the way I’d said I wouldn’t be available.

  “Not officially. I prefer to keep some personal distance while I’m working on the investigation. No one knows what might turn up, and I wouldn’t want an awkward situation to develop.”

  “I understand.” Fletcher read me the number. “He said he’d be waiting by the phone.”

  ***

  I watched from the parlor window as a gray Cadillac turned off Main and pulled into our parking lot.

  “They’re here.” I tugged at my shirt, making sure the deputy uniform appeared crisp and clean. I didn’t want to leave any doubt as to my role.

  Uncle Wayne rose from his armchair. “Did Greta come with him?”

  “Is she his wife?” Fletcher asked.

  “Of course,” Wayne snapped, and then sighed as he remembered Fletcher was a newcomer and deserved a more considerate answer. “Must have been married nigh onto fifty years. That woman should have a medal for sticking by the old coot so long.”

  Wayne had to be at least as old as “the old coot,” and for a brief instant I wondered if “that woman” meant more to my uncle than I realized.

  “Are there other children?” Fletcher asked.

  Wayne joined me at the window. “Nope. Carl was it. Their only fruit.” He shook his head. “What a bad apple he turned out to be.”

  “Well, Greta’s still lost a son,” I said.

  “That’s true.” Wayne raised his hand over his eyes to block the afternoon sun. “I don’t think she’s here. Ralph’s getting out the passenger door.”

  The old man leaned over a cane and nudged the door closed with his elbow. He wore a tan suit with the waistband of the pants hiked halfway to his armpits. He started toward the cement walk in short, measured steps, the silver knob of the cane clutched in his right hand.

  I turned from the window. “Let me speak to him alone a few minutes. I’ll meet him on the porch.” I opened the front door and crossed the threshold.

  Ralph Atkinson had always been a big man in our small town, a commanding presence, and a voice that spoke with authority and conviction whether in public gatherings or in the backroom dealings that greased the workings of Gainesboro. But, today, I saw a stooped figure whose proud steps were reduced to a slow shuffle.

  “Mr. Atkinson. We’re so sorry about Carl.”

  He looked up. Tears formed, and then vanished as if the heat of his anger evaporated them from his eyes.

  “Are you?” he asked coldly.

  The accusatory tone caught me off guard and I stumbled for a reply. “Of course, sir. It’s a terrible thing.”

  As I spoke, Ralph advanced on me, his cane striking the sidewalk with loud clicks. He broke through the personal distance of normal conversation and grabbed my right arm with his left. His bony fingers dug into my skin. “My boy was an innocent victim. That’s the terrible thing. You find out what that pissant Archie Donovan was up to, and you’ll find who killed Carl. That’s the God’s truth.” He backed away, and then locked his eyes on mine. “Your daddy was a good man, Barry. If he were still alive, he’d let my son rest in peace.”

  The warning was crystal clear. He was ordering me to stay out of Carl’s affairs. The bumper sticker slogan popped in my mind: If you want peace, work for justice. I had the good sense not to spout it back to him. Justice was my only goal and if the chips fell on the Atkinson name, then so be it.

  “I wish Dad was here to be of service, Mr. Atkinson. But my uncle Wayne and our partner, Fletcher Shaw, are in the parlor ready to help you.” I looked past him to the parking lot. “Did anyone come with you?”

  “Greta’s in bed. Doc Clark gave her a sedative. Ron Simmons drove me, but I told him to wait in the car.” He jutted his jaw forward and squared his shoulders as best his aging bones allowed. “This is something I need to do alone.” He paused and licked his cracked lips. “Just like our conversation, Barry.”

  I nodded and stepped up on the porch. He followed and I opened the door.

  Wayne came forward. “Come in, Ralph. It’s tough, a tough time, but we’ll get
through this together.” He took Ralph’s arm and steered him toward a chair.

  I closed the door from the outside. I wanted Ralph to bond with Uncle Wayne and Fletcher because I knew he and I were headed for a confrontation. Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors might be burying his son, but I would be digging up dirt as fast as I could.

  As I walked by the Cadillac, the driver’s door opened and Ron Simmons got out. He was a big-boned man in his mid-forties. He wore a tweed sport coat a size too small that looked like it would split if he sneezed. Simmons managed Atkinson’s John Deere dealership, a job Carl could have had if he’d been more reliable.

  “Barry, you got a minute?”

  “Yes, but I’m expected at the department.”

  Simmons glanced back to the funeral home as if he feared Ralph could be watching from the windows. He leaned against the Cadillac’s door. “Mr. Atkinson’s really tore up.”

  “Understandable.”

  He nodded. “He ain’t looking at this thing rationally. Did he tell you he thinks Carl was an innocent victim? That Archie Donovan was the intended target?”

  “Yes. No father wants to think his son could be mixed up with killers.”

  Simmons kicked at the gravel with the scuffed toe of his boot. “Yep. That’s true. And I figure there’s something to the possibility that Archie might have gotten in over his head in some way.”

  “We’ll look into it.” I took a step closer. “But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

  Simmons shrugged. “I ain’t saying it ain’t so. Just that Mr. Atkinson won’t see it no other way.”

  “What’s the other way?”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You didn’t hear this from me, but everyone knows Carl’s ex-wife took him to the cleaners. Left him without a pot to piss in.” He lowered his voice. “Carl told me he was into Atlanta money.”

  “Atlanta money?”

  “Where somebody like Carl goes when no bank will touch him.”

  “Loan sharks?”

  Simmons grinned. “That’s the nice way of putting it. Those boys don’t pussyfoot around once they get their claws into you.”