RISKY UNDERTAKING
The Sixth Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“De Castrique’s latest mystery continues the irreverent wit and independent spirit that has marked the series thus far. The focus on the beautiful setting of western North Carolina and its Cherokee traditions is well crafted. ...This is a complex and well-executed police procedural as well.”
—Library Journal
“De Castrique’s engaging sixth mystery featuring funeral director and deputy sheriff Barry Clayton...offers insights into the political, economic, and cultural ramifications of Indian casinos, along with a large cast of believable characters with a wide emotional range.”
—Publishers Weekly
FATAL UNDERTAKING
The Fifth Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“…de Castrique gives readers a tantalizing mystery full of humor and eccentric characters, along with a nice dollop of current social issues.”
—Booklist
“De Castrique writes complicated mysteries that lead his sleuth on journeys of self-discovery while unwrapping the motivations behind murder. Here the focus is on how greed warps the human spirit. De Castrique’s unassuming but commanding prose style is comparable to James Lee Burke and Margaret Maron.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
FINAL UNDERTAKING
The Fourth Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“De Castrique offers original plots, strikingly human characters, and a heartwarming portrait of American culture. His writing is to be savored.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“The fourth entry in the Undertaking series, featuring North Carolina undertaker Barry Clayton, offers further evidence that funeral parlors provide rich material for offbeat fiction….Barry uncovers a far-reaching fraud scheme, but his biggest problem may be Deputy Hutchins, who is doing every nasty thing he can to ensure that Barry doesn’t solve the case. Strong characters and an engaging setting add up to a thoroughly enjoyable yarn.”
—Booklist
“…de Castrique has married the complexity and fast pace of a police procedural with the folksy setting and lovable characters of a cozy.”
—Publishers Weekly
FOOLISH UNDERTAKING
The Third Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“As important and as impressive as the author’s narrative skills are the subtle ways he captures the geography—both physical and human—of a unique part of the American South.”
—Dick Adler, The Chicago Tribune
“De Castrique returns with his third adventure featuring undertaker Barry Clayton. When his father was stricken with Alzheimer’s, Barry left a police career in Charlotte to return to his tiny Appalachian hometown of Gainesboro, North Carolina, to help run the family funeral business. Barry’s loving, respectful relationships with his parents and uncle are part of what makes him such a compelling protagonist: family loyalty is the driving force in his life. In this adventure, Barry is preparing for the funeral of Vietnamese Y’Grok Eban. Y’Grok was part of the Montagnards, a fiercely loyal resistance group who helped save the lives of countless Americans during the Vietnam War—including that of Gainesboro sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins. When someone attacks Barry and steals Y’Grok’s body, the likable undertaker has more than embarrassment to worry about…. Another stellar entry in an outstanding series that deserves wider recognition: the family focus and rural North Carolina setting make it a natural for Margaret Maron fans.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“...a fabulous thriller that grips the audience from the moment the corpse is purloined and never slows down...”
—bookcrossing.com
GRAVE UNDERTAKING
The Second Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“It’s not every day that the second entry in a series trumps the debut—but de Castrique accomplishes just that with this follow-up to Dangerous Undertaking.…The plot is nicely layered with suspense...but what really stands out about this series is de Castrique’s rich yet respectful portrait of life in the Appalachians...a first-rate installment in an excellent series.”
—Booklist
“Realistic and sensitively drawn characters, including Barry’s Alzheimer’s-afflicted father, together with a neat plot that builds to a powerful ending...lift this poignant novel…”
—Publishers Weekly
DANGEROUS UNDERTAKING
The First Buryin’ Barry Mystery
“I really enjoyed this book. Mark de Castrique writes with an authentic insider’s voice. He clearly knows and loves these mountains and he respects the people who live there.”
—Margaret Maron
“Adept at both the grizzly and the graceful, de Castrique has produced a marvelous mystery you won’t want to put down.”
—Publishers Weekly
Secret
Undertaking
A Buryin’ Barry Mystery
Mark de Castrique
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Mark de Castrique
First Edition 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018935809
ISBN: 9781464210358 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781464210372 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781464210389 Ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
4014 N. Goldwater Blvd., #201
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
www.poisonedpenpress.com
[email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Secret Undertaking
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
For Linda
Chapter One
“I want you to put me in jail.” Archie Donovan, Junior, sported a wide smile as he made the request.
I stared at him in disbelief. “What?”
The two of us sat in the back booth of the Cardinal Café where Archie had urgently summoned me for a mid-morning cup of coffee. He’d walked from his insurance office and I’d strolled the few blocks from our funeral home, wondering with each step, what harebrained scheme he would propose. It looked like I wasn’t going to be disappointed.
“Yes, Barry. You’re a depu
ty sheriff.”
“Part-time.”
“Well, it’s still official when you’re on-duty.”
“I’m not now.”
Archie shook his head. “I don’t want you to arrest me now. It will be at the parade.”
I slid farther back in the booth, glancing around to see if anyone was overhearing our ridiculous conversation.
“Archie, you want to give me more background before I say no?”
Archie and I had known each other since grade school and in those years we’d been as compatible as oil and water. In junior high, Archie had dubbed me “Buryin’ Barry” because my family lived in Gainesboro’s one and only funeral home. The name had stuck through high school, and even today a former classmate might rib me in public. In short, Archie could push all my buttons without even trying. Now that we were both in our mid-thirties, I’d come to realize he wasn’t mean, he was just tone deaf to the impact of what he said. That never stopped him from talking.
He leaned across the table. “Now, you support the Boys Club and Girls Club of Gainesboro, right?”
“Yes.” I recognized his strategy of getting me to start saying yes before the poisoned-pill question was sprung.
“And you agree that they help mold young lives so the kids don’t wind up in your jail?”
“Of course. Just get to the point.”
“I want to raise money to help them. Through the Jaycees float in the Apple Festival Parade.”
“By being arrested?”
Archie’s eyes gleamed. “By being bailed out. Everyone thinks it’s a great idea.”
I restrained myself from asking who everyone might be.
Archie took a sip of coffee and then pushed the cup aside. “All right. Let me start over. I’m chairman of the Jaycees charity committee that’s responsible for raising money. You know, like the annual haunted house.”
“Bad example,” I said. One year, at Archie’s insistence, I’d lent the Jaycees a casket for the Halloween fundraiser, only to have a man murdered in it.
He shrugged. “Well, then not like it. Everything will be out in the open. The float will feature kids from the Boys and Girls Clubs and I’ll be on it, standing in a mock jail, wearing one of those old-timey striped prison suits. The lettering on the float will say ‘Free Archie and help our kids.’” He spread his hands as if the beauty of his proposal was now self-evident.
“I get it. People raise your bail for charity. How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
I whistled softly. “I don’t know, Archie. That’s a lot of money. How long can you stay on the float?”
“Just for the parade. Then I’ll go to your jail. I’ll post pictures on Facebook. I bet Melissa Bigham and the Vista will want to follow my progress. Every morning the paper could run an update.” His eyes brightened even more. “Maybe list donors and corporate sponsors. How much will the funeral home kick in? It’s great publicity.”
I signaled time-out. “None of this is my call. You can do what you want with your float, but the jail’s another matter. Tommy Lee has say over that, not me.”
“But the sheriff listens to you. And he’s always doing outreach programs. It’s a win-win, a no-brainer.”
Both expressions grated on my ears. “Win-win” reduced everything to a game, and “no-brainer” meant some decision was being made by someone without a brain. I took the easiest exit I could find.
“All right. I’ll ask Tommy Lee, but no promises.” I made a show of looking at my watch. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. Appointment at eleven.”
Archie’s smile vanished. “Someone die?”
“No.”
The smile returned. “Good. I was afraid it was one of my policyholders. When they die, they stop paying their premiums.”
I wondered how much money could be raised to keep Archie in jail.
As I neared the funeral home, I spotted a silver Mercedes parked in one of the handicapped spaces near the ramp to the front door. My eleven o’clock appointment had arrived early. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem because my partner, Fletcher Shaw, would have covered for me. But young Fletcher had taken the week after July Fourth for a vacation in the Bahamas with his girlfriend. He’d confided that he hoped to bring her back as his fiancée.
I quickened my stride and looped around the lot to come in through the back porch of the old antebellum home. Mom stood at a counter in the kitchen, wearing an apron over one of her Sunday dresses, arranging an assortment of cookies on a china plate. A tray with service for coffee was on the kitchen table.
“There you are,” Mom said breathlessly. “Mrs. Sinclair showed up thirty minutes early. I was still in my housecoat.”
My mother lived upstairs, where she and my father had raised me, their only child. After Dad died, I tried to convince Mom to move to a retirement community but she would hear nothing of it.
She set the cookies on the table with the coffee. “Fortunately, Wayne was still here and took her into the parlor.”
Her brother, my Uncle Wayne, had moved upstairs a few months ago after selling his home in the county. If anything offered the possibility of encouraging Mom to join a retirement community, it was being under the same roof as Uncle Wayne. Although they loved each other dearly, they clashed over everything from politics to which blossoms made the best funeral arrangements. Mom was short, round, and cheery. Wayne was tall, slim, and skeptical. He was mid-seventies; she mid-sixties and forever the little sister. The only thing they shared in common was a headful of curly, cotton-white hair. And the belief that I was the smartest son/nephew in the world.
“Is he still with her?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “If he hasn’t run her off.” She lifted the coffee tray. “Bring the cookies and we’ll see.”
I followed her out of the kitchen and down the hall to the parlor. Before we were halfway there, I could hear Uncle Wayne speaking at the decibel level common to those who are hard of hearing.
“It’s a crime, I tell you. I just don’t want you shocked when you hear how much.”
I tensed. Uncle Wayne must have jumped to providing cost information, something that was supposed to be left to Fletcher or me. My uncle quoted prices from memory—from 1975. And he apologized for them. I wondered how much damage I’d have to undo and whether Mom’s homemade cookies would make our guest more amenable to whatever adjustments would be necessary.
“Barry’s here,” Mom called, as she crossed the threshold. “And I brought coffee.” She set the tray on the table in front of our guest who sat on the sofa. Uncle Wayne was in a wingback chair angled across from her.
Mrs. Sinclair looked grateful for the interruption. She wore a gray skirt and a white blouse with a small rounded collar. The top two buttons were unfastened to reveal a pearl pendant hanging from a delicate gold chain. She started to rise, but I shifted the cookies to my left hand and offered my right.
“Please don’t get up, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Janet, please.” She stood anyway.
Her grip was firm.
“And thank you for the coffee. Black will be fine.”
I set the cookies on the table and stepped back so Mom could pour.
“We were just getting started,” Uncle Wayne said. “I was telling her how outrageous it is what the newspapers charge for an obituary. I mean when someone leaves this Earth, that’s a news event. The family shouldn’t be expected to pay for it any more than a sports team should pay to post the score of a game.”
Janet Sinclair looked bewildered by the comparison, and I worried if she envisioned her loved one sandwiched between a stock car race and the local shuffleboard tournament.
“Wayne, can you help me in the kitchen a moment?” My mother wrapped her demand in the veneer of a question, but even Wayne understood he had no other option.
“Certainly,
Connie.” He stood and gave a slight bow to our guest. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Barry will take good care of you.”
I remained standing until they left and then took the chair my uncle had vacated. Janet Sinclair took a sip of coffee and I took the chance to examine her more closely.
She appeared to be in her mid to late forties. Her pale skin had a hint of blush on her cheeks. Her black hair was cut short and a stark contrast to bright blue eyes. Those eyes were free of crow’s-feet. If she’d had cosmetic surgery, it was excellent. The only discernible indications of age were lines along her neck where the skin wasn’t as tight.
Unlike so many bereaved who came to our funeral home, Janet Sinclair gave no sign she’d been crying—no running mascara, no tissues clenched in tight fists. All she’d said when she’d spoken with my mother earlier was could we meet at eleven. Her early arrival suggested an urgency that hadn’t come through her initial request.
“I’m sorry to show up a half hour before our appointment,” she said. “I was to meet our insurance agent, but he’d evidently been called out of the office.”
Archie, I thought. He’d been so excited about his parade appearance that he’d skipped out on a client.
“That’s all right. Any questions about what my uncle might have told you?”
She smiled. “No. He was waiting for you. He was lamenting the cost of obituaries because I asked if you handled them.”
I made a mental note to tell my mother that Uncle Wayne hadn’t strayed off the reservation after all.
“Yes, we can coordinate that for you. Has there been a death? I’m sorry but I don’t know the circumstances of your visit.”
Secret Undertaking Page 1
