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

by Mark de Castrique

  “He didn’t. He claimed he didn’t call anyone. He told me if I didn’t believe him, I should arrest him. There’s something odd going on. Ralph was scared.”

  “Of course, he’s scared. He’s the prime suspect for ordering an assassination.”

  “Probably. But what if he told someone about the surrender and that person took it upon himself to shoot Travis.”

  “Does that keep Ron Simmons in the picture?” Tommy Lee asked.

  I thought about Ralph’s statement that he called Simmons all the time, emphasizing that his number would show up on the phone log. “Yes. Simmons stands to get the dealership with Carl gone.” I had another thought. “Hell, Simmons might have told Travis that Carl stole his trees just to egg him on. Did the judge give you a search warrant for Simmons?”

  “No. Same deal. Search Carl’s property first.”

  “Then I’m going to look around here awhile.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Where’s your confidence?”

  Tommy Lee laughed. “Barry, if only one cow pie lurked in a ten-acre field, I’m confident you’d step in it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, and the patrol car didn’t have the height clearance or the four-wheel-drive capability to navigate anything but the better maintained dirt roads. Ralph’s apple orchards were on the lower slopes. The bare branches permitted a clear line of sight up the mountainside to where the Christmas trees began. From that point on, a patchwork quilt of green covered the ground. The trees grew in neat rows with space enough between them for a narrow tractor to pull a mower for grass and weed control. Wider lanes divided the rows into neat rectangles so that larger trailers could be pulled close for hauling out cut trees, a pattern similar to the way vineyards set up their grapevines.

  Groups of these larger rectangles seemed to have trees of common height. It made sense that Ralph would section his trees into distinct planting histories. His pipeline had to be continuous, from nurturing the seedlings to offering a variety of sizes to his buyers.

  To my left, I saw a cluster of outbuildings and parked farm equipment situated where the apple trees ended and the Fraser firs began. The central location meant both crops could be worked within practical proximity of storage and shipping. The spot was out of sight from Ralph’s house, and there didn’t appear to be workmen nearby.

  The entire complex was enclosed by a ten-foot chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top. A gate with the same chain-link and razor wire blocked the road. I got out and found a heavy-duty combination padlock insured my patrol car went no farther.

  A drainage ditch ran adjacent to the dirt road. Water runoff had etched the ditch deeper and the gap between the bottom of the gate and low point of the ditch was close to a foot and a half.

  I studied the buildings. The three largest were in the center of what must have been four acres of fenced land. They looked like metal airplane hangers for a small prop or corporate jet. The closed doors were high and wide enough to back a tractor-trailer up to them.

  Open-sided sheds were scattered along the fence’s perimeter. Some sheltered expensive farm equipment. Others protected stacks of empty wooden crates left over from the apple harvest.

  The ground inside the enclosure was hard-packed dirt with tread marks of various vehicles crisscrossing in no discernable pattern. Everything appeared to be as I imagined a working farmyard should be. But I wanted to get in there, especially since the locked gate kept me out. Ralph Atkinson said I could look around and I took him at his word.

  I got down on my hands and knees in the ditch. The earth was dry and hard frosts hadn’t yet turned it to concrete. The gap was going to be a tight squeeze, and my duty belt with handcuffs, holster, and phone attached would likely snag. I unbuckled and pushed the belt under the gate. Then I squirmed forward on my stomach like an Army recruit going through an obstacle course. I felt the gate press against my butt. I dug my toes in the ground and wiggled under.

  I brushed the dirt from my uniform and rebuckled my belt. Then I listened. There were no sounds except the distant cawing of crows.

  I ignored the open sheds, guessing anything worth hiding would be inside the metal buildings. Each had a set of sliding double doors. Each had a combination padlock through the hasp.

  I walked along the far right building. No windows broke its siding. The walls came down to a cement slab that extended a few feet and was six inches off the ground. Its slight bow kept rainwater from flowing into the building.

  Identical sliding doors were in the rear. The same padlocks secured them. I figured they were all coded to the same combination. I had no clue what that number could be. I was stymied. Crawling under a fence was one thing; breaking and entering a building was another. No judge would buy that Ralph’s permission to look around extended that far.

  If Travis Oakley had been here, what had he seen? He wouldn’t have had any better luck getting into the buildings. He must have witnessed some activity Tuesday night, the night his mother said he didn’t come home.

  I turned around and looked toward the fence. A shed held some tree balers. I’d seen them operate when Susan and I cut her tree from Blake Junior’s field last Christmas. The machine wrapped twine around the tree as it was pulled through a horizontal funnel that pressed the branches upward against the trunk. The equipment had wheels on it and could be hauled to the fields if a grower wanted to bale the trees before loading them on a trailer.

  I examined one of them. Heavy orange nylon twine came off a spool. The clamp that bit into the base of the trunk and yanked the tree through the compressing cone had fresh sap in its teeth. I also noticed green needles sticking to the metal. Ralph told me he hadn’t cut any trees, but these needles couldn’t have been more than a few days old.

  I had limited knowledge of the Christmas tree business and the equipment used, but I suspected Travis would have baled his trees in the field so that more could be loaded without entangling or damaging the branches. But rustlers had cut Blake Junior’s trees with handsaws to avoid noise. They wouldn’t have baled them in the field. That would have taken too much time and increased the risk of discovery.

  I returned to the buildings. The cement slab in front of the doors had been tapered to the earth so that forklifts or other vehicles wouldn’t jostle their loads rolling over the edge. More green needles were scattered beneath my feet, and some were protruding from under the doors. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that fresh-cut trees had been hauled in or out.

  I didn’t remember seeing a needle trail on the other side of the building. The trees had been brought to the rear. Why? For the balers? They could have been rolled to the front where there was more room to work. But, back here they wouldn’t have been seen from the road. They wouldn’t have been seen by Ralph. Carl could have managed this without his father’s knowledge. Mix in the stolen trees with those from the farm, skim off the extra profit, and Ralph wouldn’t even know about it.

  I heard footsteps coming along the space between the center and right-hand buildings. I unsnapped my holster flap and kept my hand by my side as the steps grew nearer.

  Rachel walked out.

  “Hi, Barry.” She spoke the words like we were meeting on a sidewalk in town. Brown streaks of dirt covered the front of her black windbreaker and the knees of her blue slacks. She’d made her entrance by way of the ditch.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Shooting B-roll of Carl Atkinson’s farm.” She smiled. “I got the budget to hire Dave Brock an extra day. My news report generated a lot of favorable publicity for the cable network and we’re definitely doing the story.”

  I was familiar enough with Rachel’s business to know that B-roll meant footage inserted over an on-camera report she would shoot later.

  “But this is Ralph Atkinson’s farm and you’re trespassing.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “I have his permission.�
��

  She looked at the front of my uniform. “I see. He gave you the combination to the gate, but you preferred to wallow on your belly like a snake.”

  I ignored her sarcasm. “Were you following me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. We drove out to shoot B-roll and I saw your car head up here. We waited a few minutes, and when you didn’t come back, we thought we’d make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine. You need to leave.”

  She took a step closer. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Just curious. I wanted to see Carl’s workplace.”

  “Tell me off the record. Then we’ll leave.”

  “Where’s your cameraman?”

  “At the gate. Dave’s a little big for the wiggle-worm routine. I told him to wait till I found you. Maybe you’d give us an interview.”

  I grabbed her forearm and squeezed gently, emphasizing my whispered words. “You’re in a very dangerous situation. I’m looking for whatever gave Travis Oakley the impression Carl Atkinson stole his Christmas trees.”

  “Did he?”

  “If he did, the evidence isn’t here. Eyewitnesses reported Travis’ hijacked trailer headed for South Carolina.”

  “But Carl could have been involved?”

  “Yes, and I need a warrant to go through these buildings. That won’t happen till after tomorrow’s funeral.”

  “What do we do till then?”

  I let go of her arm. “We don’t do anything. If anyone else was involved with Carl’s scheme, we don’t want to spook them. That means we leave. The same guy who shot Travis Oakley could be sighting his crosshairs on us right now.”

  Rachel glanced at the slope behind us. Her mind must have flashed back to Travis Oakley caught in her headlights. Her face went pale. “Okay. You’re coming, right?”

  Before I could answer, Dave Brock walked around the corner.

  She turned, surprised by the sound of his footsteps. “Dave, how’d you get—”

  A man appeared a few yards behind Brock. He was the same man I saw holding the bucksaw in Mason’s store. Now his hand held a .38 revolver. Paulo Oliveira swung the barrel from Brock and pointed it at my chest. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Nobody move.” His voice was high, almost squeaky. He was nervous, a nervous man with a gun, a law officer’s worst nightmare.

  Rachel gasped. My mind raced into overdrive. We were three on one, unless other men were right behind him. Brock could be a scrappy fighter, but he faced me and Paulo kept far enough away that Brock would be shot before he could cover the distance between them.

  I could make a play for my pistol, but Rachel stood too close to the line of fire. My only choice was to calm him down. Get him to ease his finger off the trigger.

  “Paulo,” I said. “We’re leaving. Mr. Atkinson gave me permission to be on the property but these people are trespassing, and I’m placing them under arrest.”

  Neither Rachel nor Brock objected. Brock even extended his arms toward me as if welcoming the handcuffs.

  “I told you to stay away, Mr. Clayton. I warned you.”

  “Stay away from what? I told you we’re leaving.”

  He shook his head. “Keep your hands in front and unbuckle your belt.”

  I undid my duty belt as I’d done moments earlier when crawling through the ditch.

  “Let it fall to the ground and step away.” He pointed the gun at my waist and moved the barrel in small circles.

  I obeyed. Then he told us to lean face forward against the wall of the middle building with our hands and legs spread apart. Brock and Rachel were on either side of me. I heard a crunch as Paulo’s work boot crashed down on something. I assumed I wouldn’t be making any more calls with my cell phone.

  “Paulo, don’t cross a line you’ll regret. Let us go and you have my word I’ll report this incident as a misunderstanding.”

  “We wait,” he said. “Till after Mr. and Mrs. Atkinson leave for the funeral home. Then we will leave.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by waiting but at least he planned to keep us alive. Visitation was scheduled for six-thirty. The Atkinsons would arrive by six and probably leave here around five-thirty.

  “Mr. Cameraman, turn around and come here!”

  Brock shot me a questioning glance. I nodded for him to comply.

  I heard the squeal of the baler as nylon cord was pulled from the spool.

  “Give me your cell phone,” Paulo told Brock.

  I heard the phone smashed under Paulo’s boot.

  “Mr. Clayton. Please to put your hands behind your back. Mr. Cameraman. Tie him tight.”

  When I was a kid, I got a magic book for Christmas. One of the tricks was escaping from rope binding your wrists. The secret lay in positioning them so the edges were against one another. Then, when the rope was securely tied, you rotated your wrists so the soft inner flesh pressed together. The rope loosened as the circumference of your wrists shrank. Wriggling and tugging for a few minutes enabled your hands to slip free. I hoped the magic book hadn’t been translated into Spanish or Portuguese.

  Brock came behind me.

  “Do it tight,” I whispered, “or he’ll retie them. No figure eight.” I wanted Brock to keep the cord around my wrists on the outside, not crisscross between my hands and arms.

  The nylon cord bit into my skin. Brock looped a good yard and then double or triple knotted the ends. I pulled my wrists away from each other so that the cord dug deeper. Brock stepped away and Paulo came to inspect. His blunt fingers pried at the taut cord.

  “All right. Turn around, Mr. Clayton.”

  I pivoted so Rachel could see my face as I moved. “It’s okay,” I whispered.

  “Where are the keys to your police car?” Paulo kept his gun on Brock while watching all three of us.

  “In my front pants pocket.”

  “Which side?”

  “The right.”

  Paulo waved the revolver at Brock. “Get them.”

  The videographer stepped between Paulo and me. “Keep your eyes up,” he whispered. His hand went into his jeans pocket and then he plunged it deep in mine, going past my keys and pressing something into my thigh. He stared at me for a second, and then pulled the car keys free and lifted them over his shoulder. I could feel the folded knife he left behind.

  I wanted to glance down and make sure there was no bulge, but I kept my eyes on Paulo. He was focused on the keys dangling from Brock’s fingers.

  “Toss them to me,” he ordered.

  Brock turned and gently lobbed them. Paulo caught them left-handed.

  “Now give me the keys to your SUV.”

  Brock obeyed with a second toss.

  “Empty your pockets and turn them out.”

  Brock dropped his wallet, loose change, and a pen on the ground. His quick thinking had saved his pocketknife from discovery, and with my duty belt on the ground and my hands behind my back, I hoped Paulo would consider me disarmed.

  He looked at Rachel. “Lady, where’s your cell phone?”

  “In my purse in the SUV.”

  Paulo scowled. “I know a phone’s location can be traced if it’s on. I’m going to ask you one more time because if I don’t find the phone where you say it is, I’m going to shoot you.”

  “It might be in my jacket pocket.”

  “Turn around and throw it on the ground.”

  She pulled her Blackberry from the pocket of her windbreaker and tossed it at his feet.

  Paulo crunched the device into the dirt, picked up the shattered pieces, and threw them back. “You need a better service. This phone doesn’t work so well.” Then he made her empty her pockets.

  All she carried were a reporter’s flip notepad and a pen. He piled them with Brock’s belongings.

  “Tie Mr. Cameraman’s hands behind his back,” he ordered.

  He checked her knots and then tied her wrists, obviously feeling confident that he could overpower her
if she tried anything.

  He told us to stand on either side of the sliding doors. He pulled six long lengths of the nylon cord from the baler and draped them around his neck like a priest’s vestments. The orange color stood out against the faded blue of his dirty denim jacket.

  He eyed us carefully. “Don’t move.” He bent over the combination lock, spun the dial right, left, right, and snapped it open.

  Paulo slid the right hand door along its track. The strong scent of fir trees hit my nostrils. Ralph hadn’t cut any trees, but somebody had cut somebody’s.

  “Now walk in single file, three feet apart. First the lady, then Mr. Cameraman, then Mr. Clayton.”

  I followed Brock and Rachel into the gloomy interior. The cement floor was open in a twenty-foot radius. Then a five-foot high wall of trees rose like a barricade. The Frasers lay on their sides with the base of their cut trunks facing us. There must have been two hundred or more.

  “Spread out and stand by the trees.”

  I moved to the right, Brock went left, and Rachel stayed in the middle.

  “Turn around and face me.”

  Paulo stood framed in the open door, a silhouette against the daylight. With his gun making sweeping arcs across us, he walked to the side.

  I hoped he was going to lock us in. If I could free my hands, I could cut the others loose, and we’d be three on one with a weapon. I decided Ralph wasn’t involved, or he would have been here by now. My speculation proved fruitless, because Paulo didn’t leave. He flipped switches just inside the door, and a string of lights blazed overhead.

  I looked around. The building was a metal shell. The trees were piled only two horizontal lengths wide. On the other side were an empty blue trailer, a large John Deere tractor, and a backhoe. They were positioned to shield the trees from view when the front doors were open.

  “I said face this way.” Paulo’s high-pitched voice sounded like a drill sergeant on helium. He walked to the edge of the trees nearest me, took one of the orange cords off his neck with his gun hand, and then grabbed a tree with his free hand. It had been baled with white cord. Paulo was a few inches shorter than my five-foot-nine-inch height, so I estimated the tree to be six-and-a-half to seven-feet high.