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

by Mark de Castrique

  “You think he wrote the note?” Tommy Lee asked.

  I shrugged. “Fruit Town wasn’t bustling with people. Since then, I’ve placed the face. He was a relative of the Rodriguez boy that was killed in a tractor accident last summer. I met some of the family when I helped Bruce Hampton with arrangements to get the body back to Mexico.”

  Tommy Lee looked at the slip of paper. “So this might be a genuine concern for your safety, not a threat.”

  “What’s the man’s name?” Carson asked. “I’ll bring him in for questioning.”

  “Paulo Oliveira. He was the dead boy’s uncle. He signed the paperwork at the funeral home. I commented on the unusual last name, and he said it’s Brazilian. His father was from there. He died when Paulo was eight and his mother moved back to Mexico.”

  “How do you think he fits?” Tommy Lee asked.

  I looked at Carson. “Your rustlers usually snatch trailers, right?”

  Carson nodded. “A one- or two-man operation. The trailers are loaded and then might sit a day or two by the field waiting for the hauling service. That’s when they’re most vulnerable to a set of bolt cutters destroying the hitching guard. They hook up the trailer to a vehicle with enough pulling power and roll away scot-free.”

  “Except the Nolans were hit by a different technique.”

  “Yeah,” Carson agreed. “Their trees were cut. It happens but not as often because there’s a greater risk of being caught in the act.”

  “Cutting the trees takes more men,” Tommy Lee said.

  “And that’s the point,” I said. “Somebody needs more labor to get the job done, especially if they’re cutting by hand to minimize noise. The profit is large enough to cover the cost. The poor grower’s put in fourteen, fifteen, maybe even eighteen years bringing a tree to perfect shape and size. Two guys and a bucksaw get a seventy-dollar tree in less than a minute.”

  “And Paulo?” Carson asked.

  “He’s either involved or knows who is. Some of the migrants might be doing a little after-hours freelancing.”

  “Damn.” Tommy Lee pointed to the flipchart sheet on the wall with Carl’s banking information. “Follow the money.”

  Carson looked confused. “What money?”

  “The hundred-dollar bills we found in the bag in Carl’s car,” I said. I remembered Archie Donovan’s comment that people carried larger denomination bills on Fridays. Payday. “There’s a good chance the money flowing in and out of Carl’s account was used to pay migrants in cash.”

  “Could this Paulo have shot Travis?” Carson asked.

  “Unlikely,” I said. “We learned Mayor Whitlock told one other person beside Brock about Travis’ surrender. Ralph Atkinson.”

  Carson whistled. “The most obvious person who wants to see his son’s murderer executed.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but he doesn’t have the stamina to drive a vehicle down that old logging road or take a shot as accurate as the one that killed Travis.”

  “Who did?” Carson asked.

  “My bet’s on someone close to Ralph. The man who’s been driving him around and manages his dealership. Ron Simmons.”

  Tommy Lee cocked his good eye at me. “Anything else other than guilt by chauffeuring and managing?”

  “Simmons and Carl had a working relationship for years.”

  “But he’s the one who told you Carl was into loan sharks,” Tommy Lee said.

  “What if he was trying to steer me in a wrong direction? He might not have known that Travis killed Carl, but he didn’t want the investigation leading back to the rustling operation.”

  “Ron’s a deer hunter,” Carson said. “I know that for a fact. I spent a rainy afternoon at Mills River with him. When we sighted in the rifles, he was a hell of a shot.”

  “We need hard evidence,” Tommy Lee said.

  “And we’ll get it,” I said. “We’ve got Nolan’s testimony that Blake Junior said someone stole trees from Travis. We’ve got conclusive proof that Travis killed Carl and it’s a logical deduction that Travis thought Carl snatched his loaded trailer. That should be a strong enough reason to get a search warrant for Carl’s property and the Atkinson farm.”

  Tommy Lee frowned. “Nolan’s testimony is hearsay. Unfortunately, Blake Junior can’t tell us directly what Travis told him.” Tommy Lee paused a second. “But Travis was undeniably murdered. That should influence Judge Wood. I can get probable cause to search Carl’s property, but Wood might be reluctant to extend it to Ralph’s. I could enlist Jamison’s aid, but given the bad blood between him and Ralph, I’d be juicing Jamison into a feeding frenzy.”

  I thought about Tommy Lee’s view of a small town as a pressure cooker. The case had already dumped an extramarital affair, spousal abuse, two murders, and a possible criminal enterprise into the pot. Fanning the flames with past grievances between the D.A. and our prime suspect served no investigative purpose.

  “Maybe you won’t have a problem,” I said. “Keep the warrant specific to Carl’s property and the grounds and outbuildings of Ralph’s farm where Carl might have hidden something. Avoid the most sensitive area which is Ralph’s house.”

  “And a link to Ron Simmons might be established,” Tommy Lee said. “Some of the money Carl had the night he died came from the dealership. He probably just brought it as change like Archie Donovan said, but Judge Wood doesn’t need to know that. I’ll go for a search warrant for Simmons’ house and vehicles. Maybe his rifle will match ballistics with the slug in the church wall.”

  “Or we’ll find a .38 revolver for the bullet in the Cardinal Café. If Simmons tried to misdirect me with the loan shark story, he might have fired at Archie in an attempt to keep Carl an innocent victim. I’d like to know where he was at ten on Saturday morning.”

  “What do we do first?” Carson asked.

  “Stay with your trees,” Tommy Lee said. “Barry’s migrant angle sounds solid. Sniff around this Paulo character, but do it discreetly. We might want to shadow him tonight. The thieves have to move quickly before the growers ship their trees to market. So the next few weeks are prime time. On December 26th, a Christmas tree’s as worthless as confederate money. Bring in Wakefield if it looks like you’ll be tailing Paulo.”

  “How do you want to handle Simmons?” I asked.

  Tommy Lee looked at his watch. “Two o’clock. He should be at the dealership till closing. He’ll keep till I get the warrants. I suggest you talk to Ralph before we hit Simmons. Maybe he’ll roll over on him as the trigger man.”

  “You want to come?”

  Tommy Lee shook his head. “I’d better walk these warrants through. Judge Wood’s a golfing buddy of Ralph, and he’s going to be nervous about signing his name. Also if you botch things up, Ralph can complain to me. So play hardball with him. We know Whitlock called him.”

  “Call me when you’ve got the warrants,” I insisted. “I’d like to stay close by the Atkinson property in case they try to remove anything.”

  “All right.” Tommy Lee leaned across the table and gave each of us a hard look. “And I don’t want any heroics. At the first sign of trouble, call in for backup. Barry, your funeral home has all the business it needs right now.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ralph and Greta Atkinson lived in a white two-story house that looked more appropriate to a wealthy neighborhood in Gainesboro than in the middle of farmland. The antebellum style wasn’t that much different from our funeral home.

  A gently sloping roof covered a wide wrap-around porch, and rockers and matching gliders were spaced along its length. Black shutters framed the windows in both stories. From their placement, I estimated the interior ceilings to be at least twelve feet high. Maybe the house wasn’t as architecturally striking as Carl wanted in his gated community, but I’d have considered myself fortunate to live there.

  About thirty yards from the front steps, the paved driveway split. The right lane curved to the rear of the house to what I suspected was a doub
le garage or carport. The left lane formed an ellipse around a dormant rose garden centered with the front door. I parked the patrol car behind a 1979 dark blue Buick. I knew the year because I knew the owner. Uncle Wayne.

  I wondered why he was here. Had some problem arisen that couldn’t be handled over the phone? Was Fletcher with him, and, if so, how was I, Deputy Barry Clayton, going to play hardball with Ralph while he was being helped by Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors?

  The mat by the threshold read Atkinson Farms. A doorbell button glowed beside an egg-shaped knob of solid brass. Real chimes sounded when I pressed it.

  I stepped back and waited.

  After more than a minute, I heard shuffling steps approaching from the other side. A latch clicked and the mahogany door swung inward.

  Ralph Atkinson peered around the edge. “Barry?” He looked beyond me to see if others were coming. “Are you here to see your uncle?”

  “No. This is departmental business. I’m here to see you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll give you a few minutes to finish with Wayne.”

  Ralph nodded. He seemed resigned to what was coming. “It’s chilly. Come in. Greta will want to know who was at the door. Wayne’s here to pay his respects to her. You and I can talk in the den.”

  I entered the wide foyer. Ahead, a broad staircase made one spiral to the second floor. It was the kind Scarlett O’Hara would have descended. The hall continued by it to the rear of the house, but we didn’t walk that far. Ralph pushed open French doors on the left that closed off the living room.

  Uncle Wayne stood close to Greta. He wore his best charcoal suit. She was in a casual yet smartly tailored brown dress. Her face looked tired, but even the lines in her cheeks and neck couldn’t hide she’d once been a beautiful woman. Her short, gray hair was still thick and glossy.

  She sat on a cream-colored sofa of delicate design that looked like something the Vanderbilts would have owned. A depression in the cushion showed Uncle Wayne had been beside her.

  “Barry?” My uncle’s face tinged a little. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Just some follow-up with Mr. Atkinson.” I gave a slight bow to Greta. “Mrs. Atkinson, I’m so sorry. Please accept my personal condolences.”

  “Thank you.” She looked to Wayne. “Your uncle assures me you will get to the bottom of what happened to my boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s the priority for the whole department.”

  She lifted her chin slightly. “Be careful. Wayne told me about the shooting last night. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I will. Thank you for your concern.”

  I stood still with nothing more to add. My mind replayed her words. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” A warning? A threat? And why hadn’t Ralph told her about Travis Oakley’s murder?

  Ralph broke the silence. “We’ll be back in the den. Wayne, if I miss you, thanks for coming by. We’ll see you tonight at the visitation.”

  I followed Ralph to the den which was in the opposite rear corner of the house. At least the distance and number of inner walls would keep our conversation private.

  The den’s décor was like a gentlemen’s club. Rich oak paneled the walls. The wood wasn’t the cheap laminated stock in Ron Simmons’ office. A stone fireplace with a high hearth filled the back wall. A flintlock rifle hung over the mantel. Stuffed pheasants and deer heads lined one sidewall and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stood opposite them.

  Behind me was a wet bar with liquor in cut-crystal decanters. An overstuffed leather couch faced the fireplace with matching easy chairs on either side. Kindling and logs were stacked in the firebox, waiting for a match.

  “Sit down.” Ralph closed the door. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I’m on duty.” I crossed the room and stood in front of the fireplace. I wanted to get right to the point. “Mayor Whitlock told me he called you about Travis Oakley’s surrender.”

  Ralph sat in one of the chairs and motioned me to do the same. I stayed on my feet.

  “I didn’t know it was Oakley.”

  “You knew it was the killer.”

  “So Sammy told me.”

  “Who did you call, Mr. Atkinson?”

  A hint of fear flickered in his eyes. “I didn’t call anyone.”

  “Sorry, sir. I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “No one else had those details and a reason to leak them.”

  “Sammy Whitlock,” Ralph said defiantly.

  I nodded. “We tracked his calls. He admitted phoning a videographer.”

  Ralph looked surprised.

  “He did that after he spoke to you.”

  “Damn fool,” Ralph muttered.

  “I’ll get a warrant to access your phone records as well. We know the time Whitlock called you. I expect your next outgoing call was to the killer.”

  Ralph’s face turned pasty. Sweat beaded his forehead. “I made business calls. Even with Carl’s death there are things to take care of.”

  “I know. Bruce Hampton said last week you were deciding how many trees to harvest.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you cut any trees yet?”

  “No. Carl’s death postponed everything.”

  I narrowed my focus. “And you’re bound to have calls to Ron Simmons at the dealership.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  Ralph looked puzzled. “I have no idea. We talk all the time.”

  “We’ll be looking at your incoming as well as outgoing calls. Say, after the bullet tore through Travis Oakley’s body and nearly killed Reverend Pace.”

  “You think I ordered Travis Oakley shot?”

  “You’ve two motives: revenge and keeping Travis from telling how your son stole his trees. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Protecting the Atkinson name. Covering up that Carl ran a network of tree thefts. You think the migrants won’t give him up when we put pressure on them?”

  Ralph’s fingers dug into the armrests. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? You wouldn’t sell Travis Oakley seedlings. Then Carl steals his trees. What were you planning to do? Buy his land cheap as he went under? D.A. Jamison will love that motive.”

  Ralph flushed, but didn’t say anything.

  “You didn’t pull the trigger, Mr. Atkinson, but you’re just as culpable. Give me the shooter and things will go better for you. There’s Mrs. Atkinson to think about.”

  “I am thinking about her. She’s all I have left.”

  I took a step forward and extended my hands. “Then help me.”

  “I can’t.” Tears formed in his eyes.

  A twinge of doubt stirred in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Ralph hadn’t ordered Travis’ murder. “Was the killing done as a favor? Someone wanting to get in your good graces? Someone who thought you’d be pleased when you learned he took care of Travis?”

  Ralph wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “If you’re going to arrest me, then arrest me. But would you have the common decency to let me bury my son first?”

  He got to his feet. I didn’t wait to be asked to leave. Halfway to the door, there was a knock and it opened. Greta Atkinson took a step in the room.

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “Thank you. I’m on my way out.”

  She glanced at her husband and then back to me. Her eyes searched my face. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. Like my uncle said, I’m trying to get to the bottom of things.”

  “If there’s any way we can help, please ask.”

  Why not? I thought. If Ralph didn’t tell her about Travis’ murder, what else was he hiding? “Would you mind if I looked around the property? Maybe Travis left some trace he was here. Misinterpreted something that pushed him over the edge.”

  Greta looked to her husband. Her face tensed as second
s passed without hearing his response. “Ralph,” she said sharply.

  “Yes,” he said. “Do whatever you want.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and slipped by Greta. “I’ll let myself out.”

  Uncle Wayne’s Buick was gone, and I looped around the rose garden and drove to the main road. A hundred yards farther was the entrance to the farm road that provided access to the many outbuildings and groves of apple trees and Christmas trees that stretched across the entire ridge. Some of the upper land must have once belonged to D.A. Jamison’s father. The other side of the mountain contained acreage from the Oakley farm, although you’d have to drive ten miles to get there. If Ralph succeeded in buying their property, a dirt road over the ridge top would cut the distance to less than a mile.

  The valley spread before me with its lower fields fallow, waiting for bean and corn planting in the spring. On the far mountains, I could see houses sprinkled just below the crest. Cascading Falls, the development Ron Simmons despised, offered homeowners a spectacular view of the sunset. Spots of gold flared where huge windows reflected the sun now dropping behind me.

  I looked at my watch. Five after four. I had about an hour of strong daylight, because by five this side of the ridge would be in heavy shadows. I avoided the two-way radio and used my cell to call Tommy Lee.

  “Have you got the warrants?” I asked.

  “Judge Wood issued one for Carl’s home, but he balked at Ralph’s property.”

  “Why? Doesn’t he see the link?”

  “Oh, he sees the link. What he sees more clearly is Ralph’s face when he goes to the visitation tonight. Wood told me to search Carl’s home first, and then after the funeral tomorrow, to resubmit the request. Can’t say I blame him for being sensitive.”

  “We don’t need a warrant for Ralph’s property.”

  Tommy Lee stayed silent for a few seconds and then groaned. “Okay, Barry, what have you done?”

  “I’ve been polite. I know that’s hard to believe, but I asked permission to look around.”

  “And Ralph said yes?”

  “He did. It helped that I asked in front of his wife.”

  “I’d rather hear that he gave you the name of the shooter.”