Tommy Lee pulled in back of the first and signaled for me to park behind the second. We effectively pinned both cars against the porch. I got out and waited as the sheriff came over to me.
“Well, we don’t have to worry about getting in,” he said.
“Who do you think is here?”
Tommy Lee walked between the two sedans. “State boys. Probably Sid Ferguson, the special agent in charge of this region. Since Graham James is an elected official, the SBI’s got to pee its scent on the case. Ferguson’s putting in his face time so he can issue a firsthand report.”
“Do we have a jurisdictional problem?”
Tommy Lee grinned. “Let’s see whether or not Ferguson greets us with open arms.”
As we stepped up on the porch, a white man in a dark suit came out the front door. His gray hair and lined face pegged him somewhere north of fifty. He opened his arms wide, but raised them palm out as double stop signs.
“Whoa, Sheriff. Mrs. McKay isn’t here. You’ll have to wait outside while we execute our search warrant.”
“Good to see you, too, Sid.” Tommy Lee retrieved his folded warrants from his chest pocket and held the one for Toby McKay’s home in front of the other man. “I’m not here to see Mrs. McKay. I’m here with my own warrant.”
Ferguson shook his head. “We’ve got this one. You can go back to DUIs and escorting funerals.”
Tommy Lee kept his cool and I could see the SBI agent had expected a different reaction to his barb.
“And what one would that be?” Tommy Lee asked.
Ferguson looked at me as if to say Is this guy kidding? “McKay’s attack on the commissioner.”
“Different case. But you can play nice and I won’t go back to Judge Wood to report that you impeded a murder investigation. Last I heard Commissioner James was alive and recovering nicely while the perpetrator was dead in the morgue.”
The SBI agent’s eyes widened. “Murder? That convenience store shooting? It’s tied to this?”
“Circumstantially. That’s why my deputy and I are coming inside. Unless you’d prefer you and I arrest each other.”
Ferguson scowled, but said nothing. He withdrew into the house and we followed.
The living room was sparsely furnished with an old floral sofa, two rockers, and a small flat-screen TV and over-the-air antenna sitting on what looked like a bedside nightstand. Two agents wearing latex gloves were pulling the cushions off the sofa and running their hands into the crevice between the base and back. They both looked up, clearly annoyed by our presence.
Ferguson cleared his throat. “Our esteemed colleagues from the Laurel County Sheriff’s Department are working a potentially overlapping case. They have a proper search warrant.” He turned to Tommy Lee. “But, Sheriff, I suggest instead of our stepping over each other, you and your deputy monitor our search and then you’re free to conduct your own.”
“All right,” Tommy Lee said.
“What are you specifically looking for?” one of the agents asked.
“Evidence that Toby didn’t operate alone.”
“That’s our task too,” the agent replied. “Anything that might show a conspiracy.”
“And firearms,” Tommy Lee added. “A twenty-two would be nice, preferably semi-automatic.”
“Really?” Ferguson asked. “That’s an odd caliber for a mountaineer unless it’s a rifle.”
“Our victim took two shots, close range. One to the body, one to the head. Nothing was stolen.”
The three agents looked at each other, all drawing the same conclusion.
“You think it’s a hit?” Ferguson asked.
“The possibility’s crossed my mind. But I don’t think the trigger man was Toby.”
“Then what ties Toby to the crime?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that. We’re just starting and I’m trying to work the case in between the DUIs and funeral escorts.”
Ferguson’s jaw tightened. “If the convenience store was a hit and you can tie it to the man who tried to assassinate James, then I’m very interested.”
“Well, then why don’t we share some information and avoid a pissing contest? You first.”
Ferguson took a deep breath. He didn’t like being mocked in front of his agents. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Have you run financials on Toby yet?”
“No. We will, but it’s Sunday and because of Labor Day, we don’t have access till Tuesday.”
“Okay. Can I have your word I’ll see them when you see them?”
“Yes. Now what’s the link?”
“The victim, Rufus Taylor, had Toby McKay’s EBT card in his wallet. I need to find out if there’s an innocent explanation or if Rufus was cashing it out. The financials could help explain that.”
“You talked to FNS?” Ferguson asked.
I knew FNS stood for the USDA’s Food and Nutrition Services. They had their own set of investigators charged with rooting out fraud in the food stamp program, whose official name, SNAP, stood for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.
“Like you said, it’s Sunday,” Tommy Lee answered. “And I’m not ready for another level of law enforcement to complicate life. Are you ready to have them in your lap as well?”
Ferguson shook his head. “I’ve got a full plate.” He smiled with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “And I don’t have to do funerals.” He turned to his agents. “Back to it, gentlemen. Find the sheriff his weapon and we’ll close two cases in one day.”
My cell signaled an incoming text. I snatched the phone from my belt.
Uncle Wayne regained consciousness
wrote Susan.
Has no memory of the shooting.
I handed the cell to Tommy Lee.
He read the message. “Go,” he said.
“What’s up?” Ferguson asked me.
“My uncle was in a coma. He’s come out.”
“I’m happy for your family,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of anticipating a trip to the dentist.
Tommy Lee put his hand on my shoulder. “His uncle is the man who stopped Toby McKay and the reason you’re not dealing with a murder case.”
Ferguson reddened. “Then I’m really happy. He was a brave man and the entire state owes him a debt of gratitude.”
I smiled to show no hard feelings. “He’s been promised free haircuts for life.”
The agents laughed.
“I’d take a bullet for that,” Ferguson said. “Tell him the SBI sends wishes for a speedy recovery.” He shifted his gaze to Tommy Lee. “And we’ll have total cooperation on the investigation from our end.”
“Same here,” Tommy Lee replied. “I need to cover a few things with Barry. I’ll walk him to his car.”
I stepped out on the porch with the sheriff behind me.
“Let’s take a quick look around back,” he said.
He took the lead. We passed a rusted oil tank that fueled the furnace and a water hose stretched from a faucet to a chicken coop.
“What are we looking for?”
“We’re not looking, we’re foraging. I want to assess the McKays’ food supply.”
An outbuilding sheltered an old tractor hooked to a trailer loaded with ladders. More than a hundred empty bushel baskets stood stacked against the back interior wall of the shed. Between that building and the orchard lay a vegetable garden that had yet to exhaust its produce for the season. Late corn, beans, and tomatoes were closest to us. The furrowed patch must have been at least half an acre.
Tommy Lee took makeshift concrete-block steps up to a back porch door. He found it unlocked and we entered. The porch was fitted with a large work sink, wooden counters, and pegboards holding large cooking instruments. The space stretched across the back of the house. Part of the wall
was covered with shelves of empty mason jars and cardboard shoeboxes. The only interior door went directly to the kitchen.
Tommy Lee opened one of the boxes and found it filled with jar lids. “This is where Mrs. McKay does her canning. Let’s check the other side.”
We continued our loop around the house and saw double doors closed over a slanted concrete wall on the far side. Tommy Lee lifted one of the doors to reveal steps descending under the house to the cellar.
He raised the second door and let it drop on the dirt. “Let’s check it out.”
The air temperature dropped ten to fifteen degrees. The cellar floor was packed earth. The house floor above was no more than six feet over us, and Tommy Lee had to stoop. He found a bare light bulb hanging from a cord and pulled the chain switch. The first thing we noticed was an oil furnace tucked up against the wall closest to the outside tank. The other walls were actually shelves rising from the floor to overhead crossbeams. They, too, held mason jars but these were sealed and filled with vegetables. Other shelves held cans of store-bought items like Vienna sausages and Spam.
“Good little food stock,” Tommy Lee said. “Productive garden, chickens for eggs and meat, venison in and probably out of season, and maybe mountain trout if he’s got a stream on his acreage.”
“What’s he need with food stamps?”
“The one green he can’t grow in his garden—cash. He’s got the low income to qualify, especially with two crop failures, but food’s not the problem. I believe he used the card fraudulently to get cash. Without cash, how’s he pay his taxes, vehicle insurance, heating oil? All those things that even a rudimentary lifestyle requires in the modern world.”
“And Rufus was his money supply?”
“What’s the old phrase? Follow the money? Go check on your uncle, and then be ready to start down that trail.”
Chapter Seven
I found Mom and Susan standing on either side of Uncle Wayne’s bed. Mom held a cup and straw as my uncle took a few sips of water.
He motioned for Mom to move the drink away from his face and gave me a weak smile. “Throat’s raw,” he whispered.
Monitors and IVs were still hooked to him and a white bandage encircled his head like a fallen halo.
“Then don’t talk,” I replied.
“Need to. Alone.” He looked first at Susan and then my mother.
“Connie, why don’t we run down to the cafeteria?” Susan said. “We need to eat something.”
Mom nodded at Susan’s suggestion and handed me the water. “Don’t let him talk too much.”
When they’d left, I pulled a chair bedside. “Now, don’t push yourself. Whatever you have to say can be said slowly. Okay?”
“Hmm,” he grunted. “Two words. What happened?”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Just waiting at P.J.’s for the parade to start. I remember seeing the sheriff’s car.”
Uncle Wayne had probably been hanging out with some of his barbershop buddies.
“And Susan and Mom didn’t tell you anything?”
“That I stopped some man trying to shoot the commissioner.” He paused for a couple of breaths. “And he died. But they sugarcoated everything.”
Mom wouldn’t have wanted to go into details about Toby McKay, and Susan was probably reluctant to upset either of them.
“I want to know,” Uncle Wayne insisted.
So, I gave a summary of what I saw and what I knew, including the murder of Rufus Taylor, but omitting the discovery of Toby McKay’s EBT card.
A few tears trickled from the corners of my uncle’s eyes. “You’re telling me I killed a man?”
“No. A gun went off. McKay’s more likely to have pulled the trigger than you. He’d already wounded the commissioner and a second shot at closer range could have been fatal. Witnesses say you definitely saved a life. That’s what you need to focus on.”
“I can’t remember any of it.”
“That’s normal. You’ve suffered a head trauma. You very well might not remember this conversation, and we might have to have it again. But, both the commissioner and the State Bureau of Investigation have expressed their gratitude. I’m proud of you.”
He bit his lower lip and raised an arm to brush away more tears. Wires and IV tubes blocked his motion. I found a box of tissues and wiped his cheeks.
He took a deep breath and eyed the cup of water. I held the straw to his lips and he sipped a few swallows.
“What about McKay?”
“He died at the scene. There was nothing anybody could do.”
“I mean about his body. Did we get the business?”
He asked the question without any trace of irony. Like we were serving any other client.
“I think the body’s still in the morgue. And the family might want to go elsewhere, given the circumstances.”
“But we’re the best in western North Carolina. I won’t be there. Fletcher and Freddy can handle it without you or me going near the family. I won’t have the man I killed getting second-rate service somewhere else.”
I smiled. His logic was vintage Uncle Wayne, and I felt a great relief that his unique brain seemed to be undamaged.
Shortly after Mom and Susan returned, Dr. DeMint entered. My uncle had fallen asleep and the doctor gave a brief report that they would keep him another night in ICU and if all went well, move him to a regular room tomorrow. But he cautioned us that Uncle Wayne’s age might mean a slower recovery and he wanted to make sure his balance, walking, and other functions of normal daily living were thoroughly evaluated by physical therapists. In short, he recommended my uncle remain at Mission for at least four or five days to be on the safe side.
When DeMint left, Susan said, “Don’t worry, Connie. Barry and I will work out how to get you here and back each day.”
“No. You’ve got your patients and Barry needs to help Tommy Lee. I’m going to call Hilda Atwood. She’s an old friend, a widow like me, and she’s always asking me to stay with her. Her house is less than two miles away. I’m sure she’ll be glad to help.”
Susan and I agreed that Mom’s plan made sense, and Susan volunteered to take her back to the funeral home to pack. I said I’d stay with Uncle Wayne, but Mom insisted that if there was anything I could be doing to help Tommy Lee, then I should make that my priority.
I phoned Tommy Lee as I drove away from the hospital. A little over two hours had elapsed since I’d left him with Sid Ferguson and his agents, and I wondered if I could catch up with him at Sonny’s trailer.
“How’s your uncle?” were his first words.
“The doctors are encouraged. My uncle’s upset that McKay’s dead and he’s trying to come to grips with actions he can’t remember. But, there’s nothing more for me to do, so I’m headed back. Where are you?”
“Just leaving Sonny’s.”
“Any luck?”
“Toby had a twelve-gauge, an old thirty-aught-six, and a twenty-two bolt action—the standard mountaineer arsenal of a rabbit and bird gun, a deer rifle, and a squirrel and varmint rifle. Sonny had a sixteen-gauge shotgun and a pump twenty-two. Ferguson took both twenty-twos and I’m sending him the slugs from Rufus’ body.”
“He took them or you gave them to him?”
“I gave them. He can run the ballistics faster than I can. And we found motorcycle engine parts spread out where Sonny said he’d been working on a bike.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“That there’ll be no match from ballistics. Rufus wasn’t killed by the McKays, but he might have been killed because of them.”
“Is Sonny still in jail?”
“Yes, but I’m going to release him.”
“Would you hold off till I get there?”
There was a pause. “Why? You want to re-interview him?”
; “Just have a little conversation.”
“One on one?”
“If you’re okay with it?”
“Knock yourself out. We’ll be waiting.”
This time I retrieved Sonny myself, being sure to pause at Archie’s cell on the way.
“Pitt, I’ll be back for you later. Think about what we told you.”
Archie gave me the okay sign and slid his laptop under the bunk. “Go to hell,” he said in the gruffest voice he could muster.
I moved on to Sonny. He sat on his bed, his head in his hands. “Come along, McKay. Just a few more questions.”
He didn’t bother to look up. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Then you can listen to me. Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner we’re done.”
Sonny got to his feet. I unlocked the cell and escorted him to the same interview room. He took his seat at the table.
“Where’s the sheriff?”
“He’s deciding what to do with you.” I slid into the chair opposite him. “We want to cut you a break.”
“How’s that?”
“Tell us what you know about your daddy’s EBT card. Why did Rufus Taylor have it? Who’s been using it for cash?”
Sonny pushed back his chair. “Look, I don’t know nothin’ about that. If I did, I’d tell you. My daddy must have left it on the counter or something.”
“And that’s the truth?”
“Yep. Maybe Rufus was stealing cards. Maybe that’s why he got shot.”
“Okay. We’ll leave it there for now.”
Sonny visibly relaxed. “So, when can I get out? I need to check on Momma. And we have a burial to tend to.”
“What can you tell me about Pitt?”
“Who?”
“The movie star next to you. Brad Pitt.”
“He ain’t that Brad Pitt.”
“So, you’ve been talking to him?”
Sonny shook his head. “Nothin’, man. He was worried about me when I got sick last night. More concern than I got from anybody here.”
Secret Undertaking Page 6
