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

by Mark de Castrique

  The kitchen reminded me of Mom’s. White metal cabinets showed faint brush strokes where they’d been repainted at least once. A cork floor, popular in the 1970s, probably covered the original linoleum. Formica countertops were jammed with casserole dishes, pie plates, and appetizer trays. Many had strips of masking tape sticking to the sides or lids with last names written on them. Church ladies had provided an avalanche of food as soon as the news of Blake Junior’s death swept the community.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Mr. Nolan said. “Nancy and the girls plan to help Loretta get things tidy later today.”

  “It’s all right.” I surveyed the kitchen. “You’ve got a lot of friends.”

  “Blake Junior had a lot of friends.” Mr. Nolan choked back a sob and turned away. “I’ve coffee if you’d like some.”

  “No, thanks. I can’t stay long.”

  “Did you bring that video?” He looked at me and smiled again.

  I realized Nolan thought I made a special trip to bring him Brock’s tape of the funeral. “No. They have to duplicate it. And you don’t want a broadcast copy. You want something you can play like a DVD.”

  “Right. Blake Junior bought me one of those machines last Christmas.” He paused and then stared at me quizzically. “Why’d you come by?”

  “Maybe I will have some coffee if it’s no trouble.”

  “Sure. Is instant okay? I’ll pop a cup in the microwave.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  He grabbed a mug from the drainer by the sink, filled it with tap water, and then took it to a microwave sitting on a pie safe in the corner. “About two and a half minutes does it for me. The coffee’s in little bags just like tea.” He opened a lower door in the pie safe and pulled out a box of coffee bags. “You want anything in it?”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “That’s the way Blake Junior and I drink it.” He shook his head as the present tense of the statement dawned on him.

  “I’m here in an official capacity,” I said.

  “For the funeral home?”

  “No. I’m investigating Carl Atkinson’s murder.”

  “I heard something about that.”

  Mr. Nolan and his family had been so immersed in the aftermath of Blake Junior’s death that I doubted they knew anything about the shooting of Travis Oakley. I decided to go right to the core of my suspicions.

  “Mr. Nolan, did Blake Junior talk to Travis Oakley about Christmas tree rustling?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear, a lead turning into a dead end.

  “There was no rustling?” I asked.

  “I meant Blake Junior and Travis never talked in person. We got hit all right. The field up by Lawson Creek. Blake Junior told me Travis had a whole trailer taken. Probably four thousand dollars worth. Blake Junior was headed to see Travis when he had the accident.”

  The buzzer went off on the microwave. Mr. Nolan turned his attention to my coffee. I took a deep breath. He had confirmed Edna Oakley’s story.

  “What happened to your trees?”

  “Somebody cut them, that’s what happened. Blake Junior went up to mark them. You know, tag them with a ribbon color-coded as to height. That’s a field where we let people choose their own. Families with kids love to pick their trees and cut them. This was last Monday morning. Someone came in Sunday night and hauled out at least a hundred. Retail that’d be about six grand.”

  “You reported this?”

  Nolan dunked the bag of instant coffee in the mug a few times and then handed it to me. “Oh, yeah. Blake Junior called right away. One of your deputies came out.”

  “Deputy Carson?”

  “Yeah. Howard Carson. I know he’s been a deputy a long time. We figured a crew sneaked in with handsaws. We’d have heard chainsaws. A team of six to eight men could have done it in a couple hours.”

  “How’d Blake Junior learn that Travis lost trees?”

  “He told me Travis called him. That was last Wednesday. Blake Junior said Travis heard about our loss down at Walker’s Hardware. You know, where his daddy killed that man. Travis told Blake Junior the law wasn’t going to be any help, but he had proof of who had done it. He wanted to show Blake Junior.”

  “But he never got the chance,” I said.

  Mr. Nolan shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you know if your son told anyone else? His wife?”

  “No way. He told me Travis said not to tell a soul.” Nolan stared down at the coffee in my hand. “But he didn’t keep secrets from me.” Then he looked me in the eyes. “You should talk to Travis. I understand why he doesn’t like the law, his daddy being in prison, but tell him I’ll vouch for you. I know you’re the man to get to the bottom of it.”

  I took a sip of the bad coffee and braced myself to tell Mr. Nolan that Travis Oakley couldn’t talk to anybody.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Where are we headed?” Deputy Carson asked the question as he got in the patrol car.

  I picked him up behind the department, out of sight of the reporters.

  “Things got so crazy I forgot to give you a message.”

  Carson turned in the seat. “What message?”

  I eased the car away from the curb. “Bruce Hampton came by the department on Saturday. Right after the shot was fired near the Cardinal Café. He said one of his men saw a suspicious trailer of trees heading down the old Greenville Highway toward South Carolina.”

  “When?”

  “Monday. After midnight.”

  “Monday, like Monday morning?”

  “No. This would have been after midnight into Tuesday morning.”

  “So, it wouldn’t have been the Nolan trees,” Carson said. “You know they were rustled Sunday night.”

  “Mr. Nolan told me. I just left his place.”

  Carson sat still a moment. “Mind if I ask why you’re getting involved in my Christmas tree case?”

  “Because Nolan told me Blake Junior was on his way to meet Travis Oakley when he had the wreck. Travis Oakley had a fully loaded trailer snatched Monday night.”

  Carson sat rigid. “I didn’t know anything about that. Someone should have told me as soon as Travis reported it.”

  “Travis never reported it. I first learned about it when I interviewed Nolan. I think Hampton’s man saw the Oakley trailer, and I think the theft set Travis off. For some reason, he blamed Carl Atkinson and he didn’t tell anyone but Blake Junior. Blake Junior told his dad Travis had proof.”

  I watched Carson from the corner of my eye. If my discoveries were alarming him, his face didn’t show it. He appeared to be analyzing the information.

  “Did Mr. Nolan say what the proof was?” Carson asked.

  “No. I don’t think Blake Junior knew. Travis stayed tight lipped about it.”

  “And now both Blake Junior and Travis are dead.” Carson slapped his thigh. “Damn. If I hadn’t seen that accident scene with my own two eyes, I’d say someone took out both Blake Junior and Travis.”

  “Any way it could have been staged?”

  Carson shook his head. “The buck’s tracks were fresh on the trail, the blood was fresh on the truck’s grill. Both Blake Junior and the deer were still warm. I touched them both.” He thought a moment. “Who knew that Blake Junior was meeting Travis?”

  “No one other than Mr. Nolan.”

  “Then it stands to reason the wreck was simply a wreck. Otherwise whoever staged Blake Junior’s accident would have arranged one for Travis and not waited to shoot him as he surrendered. Travis was the one with the proof.”

  “I agree.” I did agree, but Carson’s argument also served his interests if he was guilty. He’d want to keep Blake Junior’s death an accident.

  “No wonder Travis didn’t report the theft,” Carson said. “Hell, he probably thought I was involved because I ruled it an accident.”

  “Maybe. Have you ever had a run-in with him before?”

  “No. I wasn’t
in on his dad’s arrest. Tommy Lee and Wakefield picked Tom up. You said Travis requested a cell by himself. That sounds like he was afraid another prisoner would do him harm, not an officer.”

  Carson was correct. Travis seemed to consider us more ineffectual than corrupt.

  “Is Hampton going to have his man ready to talk with us?” he asked.

  “We’re hitting Hampton cold.”

  “If it’s one of his Mexicans, the guy’s out in a field somewhere.”

  “Then we’ll go find him,” I said.

  Carson rubbed his palm across his grizzled cheek. “Wonder what the Mex was doing out so late? Friday night I’d understand, but Monday? Those guys work hard and put in long hours.”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “Be sure and ask him.”

  The intersection of Highway 64 and the main railroad line that traverses the mountains from North Carolina to Tennessee spawned an array of warehouses, equipment storage sheds, processing facilities, spur tracks, and agricultural suppliers.

  The sign at the crossing read Fruit Town, Unincorporated. The unincorporated part was true, but the site hardly qualified as a town. Apples were the only fruit and no one remembered why the name Apple Town hadn’t been chosen. Maybe the founders hoped some other produce would grow in our soil.

  Laurel County held the distinction of first place in apple production for the state, and Fruit Town was the hub of the harvest. The real activity had been a month or so ago when the crop came in. Sorting, crating, and shipping created the bustle of working people that swelled the daily population of Fruit Town. Tommy Lee ran extra patrols as roadside apple and cider stands sprang up beside Highway 64 and attracted a constant flow of tourists and locals who added to the congestion.

  Now Fruit Town offered no hint of the past throngs. I drove across the double tracks and turned right onto the deserted side road that paralleled the railroad bed and serviced the main enclave of wooden buildings. Only a few cars were parked along the warehouses.

  At the end of the road stood Mason’s Feed and Hardware. This was no suburban preppie store with designer shovels and imported kitchen gadgets. Mason’s sold in bulk. At the checkout counter no one asked if you wanted paper or plastic bags. Most of the commodities came in burlap sacks.

  I parked in front and we walked through an outside display of fencing samples to the store’s wooden double doors. Inside, Mason’s had the dusty smell of grain and fertilizer that made you want to push your cap back on your head and stick a broom straw between your teeth. A tarnished spittoon stood by the service counter. Overhead, gas heaters blew warm air down to the concrete floor.

  On a stool behind the cash register sat Wilber Mason, son of the original proprietor and seventy-five if a day. He looked up from a seed catalogue. Hazel eyes peered through dusty bifocals and his gray crew cut must have been the hot look in 1955.

  “Whoa,” he said. “The law’s here. Hi, Barry. Howard. You boys been going at it, ain’t you? Seen that story about Travis Oakley all over the TV.”

  I glanced around the store. From what I could determine there was only one customer. A Hispanic man in jeans and a denim work shirt stood by a display of bucksaws near the front window. He held one in his hand, testing the weight. Our eyes met for an instant and then he hung the saw back on the rack and walked away.

  “We’ve had more peaceful times,” Carson said. “Is Bruce in?”

  “Yep. I reckon he’s free. Paulo was just up to see him.” Mason turned to the saw display, but the man had gone. “You know the way?” he asked.

  Carson nodded. “Out the back and to the top of the steps.” He moved toward the rear of the store.

  I followed him to a covered wooden deck that served as a loading dock. Alongside was a big green pickup at least fifteen years old. Across the back alley, several garage-sized buildings housed the heavier farm equipment.

  As a contractor for farm labor, Bruce Hampton set up his office in Fruit Town, where he would be close to the action. Christmas trees weren’t packaged and shipped the same way apples were, but his location was central to the migrant camps, and the farmers knew where they could find him.

  An outside stairway angled up to the second story. The steps were smooth and bowed inward from wear and weather. Carson opened the door and we entered a large room. Three desks spread out in an open bullpen. Filing cabinets flanked the walls. Bruce Hampton sat behind the middle desk. A girl of no more than eighteen stapled paperwork at the one on his left. The third was vacant.

  Bruce Hampton looked up. A frown appeared and quickly disappeared as he recognized us. “Barry, Howard, what brings you here?” He jumped up from his desk and quickly strode across the room to greet us. “You guys have had a hell of a time these past few days.”

  “Yeah,” Carson said. “Thanks for coming in Saturday. Barry gave me the message.”

  “Wish I could be more helpful, but that was the only unusual thing I know about. That long trailer of trees headed out of the county.”

  The girl stopped stapling and watched us.

  “Is there a place we can talk?” I asked. “We won’t take much of your time.”

  “Sure. You boys want some coffee. Mandy can bring it.”

  Carson and I declined.

  “Suit yourself. She makes the best instant money can buy.” He laughed and ushered us into a small conference area in the back.

  Six chairs clustered around a table no bigger than the one in Mom’s kitchen.

  “We ain’t much on furnishings, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  Carson and I sat with a chair spaced between us. Hampton took the middle of the remaining three.

  He leaned across the table. “What can I do for you?”

  I looked to Carson, encouraging him to ask the first question.

  “Barry told me one of your men saw that trailer last Monday or Tuesday, depending upon which side of midnight.”

  “Yes. After you talked to me on Friday, I asked everyone if they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary. I stressed if our growers lose their trees to thieves, then there won’t be any work.”

  “This was when?” Carson asked. “Friday afternoon?”

  “When I paid them Friday evening.” Hampton laughed. “That’s when I get their full attention.”

  “And only one man reported anything,” Carson said.

  “Yes, but I told all of them to continue to be alert.”

  “We’d like to talk to your worker who saw the trailer.”

  Hampton turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. “You can’t. He headed back to Mexico Saturday afternoon. His mother passed away. God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “I knew her.”

  Carson looked at me, unhappy with the loss of our witness.

  “Are you close to your men?” I asked.

  “Yes. Many of them come back year after year. I go to Mexico in the offseason. I personally find my laborers, help them with the paperwork, and make sure everything is squeaky clean with immigration and the migratory labor officials.”

  “So you’d vouch for your workers. For their honesty and integrity.”

  Hampton gave me a hard stare. “Absolutely. I’d trust my life to those men.” His cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re not suggesting they’re mixed up in these thefts are you?”

  I shrugged. “We’re just looking for anything out of the ordinary.” I turned to Carson. “Right, Howard?”

  He smiled. “We’ve got to consider every possibility, Bruce. Maybe you can help us with one thing we don’t understand.”

  Hampton relaxed. “Sure. I’m sorry I got a little hot. I guess I’m overly protective because I see so many people looking down on these guys. Our local economy wouldn’t work without them. So what don’t you understand?”

  “Why was your man out after midnight during a work week?”

  “Because I lent him my car. Monday he got word that his mother was sick. The letter came here and I didn’t pick it up till the end of the
day. Manuel has a brother who was staying in a different camp and Manuel was anxious to tell him in person. He stayed longer than he meant to.” Hampton looked at me. “Yes, that was unusual but not criminal. And he was upset enough that the trailer on the road didn’t register with him at the time.”

  “Did another letter come with news of his mother’s death?” I asked.

  “No. I paid for Manuel to call home each day. Saturday, after I came by the Sheriff’s Department, we learned of her death. I released the two brothers immediately.”

  “That was good of you,” I said.

  Hampton shrugged. “Family’s important. Even someone like me who’s divorced understands that. I’m sure you witness it at every funeral, Barry. And last summer you made the extra effort when we had to send the Rodriguez boy’s body back to Mexico. My men haven’t forgotten how you helped.”

  “One last question,” I said, “and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did some of your men work with Travis Oakley last Monday?”

  “The man who was shot and killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it was Monday. Mandy can pull the work order to make sure.”

  “Did they load a full trailer, say one the size Manuel saw later that night?”

  Hampton stood. “They could have. I didn’t go to the site. The men rode one of the camp vans there.” He headed for the door. “Let me look at our records.”

  We paraded to the girl’s desk.

  “Mandy, have you got the Oakley file handy?” Hampton looked at a calendar on her desk. “Should have been last Monday the third.”

  She opened a side drawer. “Yes, sir. I calculated the bill the next day.” She thumbed through hanging files and lifted a sheet clear. “Small crew. Only five, but they worked a full day.”

  Hampton took the paper. “That equates to forty man-hours. They could have cut, baled, and loaded a large trailer. You think Oakley’s trees were stolen?”

  “We’re pretty sure,” Carson said.

  “And we’re pretty sure Travis thought Carl Atkinson was behind it,” I said.

  “Why?” Hampton asked.