Foolish Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series Book 3)

by Mark de Castrique

  “This isn’t Boston,” Tommy Lee said. “Everything’s not politics.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Got that right, buddy. This ain’t Boston. Drove my rental car all the way from your so-called airport and not one driver flipped me the finger.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” I wasn’t in the mood for Bean Town humor.

  Tommy Lee stepped closer. “Let’s go in the house. The crime lab will be here soon. Barry, you need to just lie low and let us handle this.”

  “No,” I said sharply. “Y’Grok’s visitation and funeral are scheduled for two. I’m not telling his son over the phone that I lost his father’s body.”

  “And you’re in no condition to drive,” Tommy Lee shot back. “I’m telling you we’ll handle the situation. I need to talk to Y’Suom anyway to see if he’s got any ideas about why somebody would do this.”

  I grabbed Tommy Lee’s arm. “The man’s father was stolen from my funeral home. I’m telling Y’Suom in person and I’m telling him now.”

  “Bless me, my lad, I hear some Irish blood bubbling in your voice.” Kevin put his arm on my shoulder. “I’ll take you to Y’Suom if you’ll show me how to get there. Tommy Lee doesn’t want me correcting his mistakes in front of his men anyway.”

  The Boston detective and southern sheriff stared at each other. I knew the look of policemen who’d been through stressful situations together. This look was different—these men had been through a war together.

  “All right,” Tommy Lee finally said. “Change clothes, Barry, and then you two go ahead. I’ll finish processing the scene and talk to Y’Suom later.” He shook his head and spoke to no one in particular. “Just doesn’t make any sense. Why steal a body?”

  I left them pondering the question.

  Upstairs, I dressed as quietly as I could and washed my face with lukewarm water, avoiding the swollen, tender spot where Susan had stitched my forehead. I tried wearing a hat to conceal the damage, but the band cut painfully into the raw skin because the lump on the back of my head must have added at least two sizes. One look at my face would settle any doubt whether the body had been forcibly taken from me.

  As I came down the stairs to the kitchen, I heard a rapping on the back porch door. Through the window, I saw a uniformed deputy standing with Archie Donovan Junior peering over his shoulder. I glanced at the red clock on the wall. Ten after seven.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Clayton.” Deputy Wakefield touched the brim of his cap in an informal salute. “This man says it’s urgent he speak with you.”

  Archie Junior looked like he was ready to crawl over the man’s back. Then he saw my battered face. “Good God, Barry. What happened?”

  “We had a break-in. I got in the way as the culprit made his escape.”

  “Are your mom and dad okay?”

  “Yes. Sheriff Wadkins is investigating.”

  Archie turned to the deputy. “Meth labs. That’s where y’all should look. I’ve read they steal embalming fluid to make that stuff. Isn’t that right, Barry? They took your embalming fluid.”

  “No. But maybe that’s what they were after. I’ll mention it to Tommy Lee. Thanks for your concern. Now I’d better let you get to the office.” I didn’t want Archie delaying me a second longer.

  Archie bit his lip, pausing before deciding to continue. “Listen, I know this isn’t a good time, but I’ve got to talk to you about this Y’Grok Eban fellow.”

  He said the magic words and my heart beat faster. “Do you want to talk to Tommy Lee?” I opened the door wider and Archie stepped around Wakefield.

  Archie shook his head. “What for? Is he involved in the funeral?”

  I realized Archie knew nothing about the body’s disappearance, but I’d made the mistake of letting him in. “Well, he knew Y’Grok from Vietnam.” I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. “I’ve only got a few minutes. They’re waiting on my statement.”

  I shot a look at Wakefield, hoping he wouldn’t contradict me. The deputy closed the door and returned to his post outside.

  Archie sat down and I took the chair across the table.

  “So what’s up?”

  “Barry, we’ve been friends how long? Twenty-six, twenty-seven years?”

  “Since kindergarten.” I leaned back and folded my arms across my chest, readying my defenses for what sounded like a touch for money.

  “Then nearly twenty-eight years. And Barry, I really admire you. What you’ve done coming back here when your dad got sick.”

  I didn’t say anything. My father wasn’t going to be a ploy to soften me up.

  “Barry, I’ve got two words for you. Just two words that can be the key to a golden opportunity.”

  “If you’re pitching some investment, please don’t say the deal’s so good it’s a no brainer. Those two words only mean someone doesn’t have a brain.”

  “Good one, Barry, but you’re wrong.” Archie leaned forward and whispered, “Daniel Boone.”

  “Daniel Boone?”

  “Yep.”

  “The TV show?”

  “No, man, the man. The pioneer.”

  I was so astonished I uncrossed my arms and held out my hands trying to pull some sense out of Archie. “Daniel Boone is a golden opportunity?”

  He grinned. “A celebrity plot. Just like Mr. Y’Grok Eban.”

  “I hear your two words, Archie, but you’re speaking a foreign language.”

  He slid back his chair and stood up, too excited to stay at the table. “I went to this insurance conference last February in Frankfort, Kentucky. You know who’s buried in Frankfort?”

  “Daniel Boone.”

  “Right. But he didn’t die there. I think he died out in Missouri. But after he’d been buried a good while, a cemetery in Frankfort got his kids to ship back his bones. You see, these investors had a cemetery that wasn’t selling for squat, so they brought in a celebrity. Had a big festival about Daniel being planted in his native soil.”

  “If I remember my high school history, Daniel Boone grew up in Pennsylvania and North Carolina, Archie.”

  “Whatever. That’s not important. What’s important is the day after Daniel Boone’s bones went into that floundering graveyard, plots started selling like hotcakes. People wanted to be buried in the same cemetery as Daniel Boone.”

  “What’s that have to do with Y’Grok Eban?”

  Archie walked to my chair and stood over me like a teacher lecturing a slow learner. “Y’Grok Eban’s a hero. I read Melissa Bigham’s article in the Vista. And a bunch of celebrities are coming to Gainesboro for this afternoon’s funeral. This is big. I’ve talked to the mayor and he agrees it would be great if we could have the burial up at Heaven’s Gate Gardens.”

  I couldn’t take Archie leaning over me so I stood up and put a little distance between us. “That cemetery up on Bell Ridge? It’s not even finished.”

  “But we’ll give him a free plot. We have a section ready enough. We can get some publicity shots of the celebrities standing around his final resting place.”

  The light went on. “Who besides you has a financial stake in this venture? The mayor?”

  “Yes. And his brother-in-law. We’ve told you all about it. You agreed to help.”

  I felt my anger boil to the surface. “I agreed to take a look at the cemetery when you had something to show. I agreed to mention the cemetery as an option to families who need a burial plot. But I’m not hawking graves and burying Y’Grok Eban in a god-damned coonskin hat.”

  I heard a sound behind me and turned to discover Mom standing in the doorway from the stairs. She looked like she wanted to retreat, but couldn’t with both Archie and me staring at her. “Sorry. I heard Archie’s voice and was checking to see if you wanted me to fix something.”

  “No, he wants me to fix something, but he’s not going to get it. We were just going to finish our conversation outside.”

  I opened the door, crossed the back porch and headed down the driveway. Deputy Wak
efield sat in his car at the entrance. Archie’s BMW was parked alongside. I figured the only way to get rid of my unwanted guest was to lead him to his car.

  He jogged up beside me. “Look, Barry. I hate to spring this on you at the last minute. The mayor and I met last night and decided the town could really benefit from the publicity. The cemetery could become a major tourist attraction.”

  I stopped and stared at him. “It’s out of the question. First of all, Y’Grok wanted his remains returned to Vietnam. His son has made that clear. Second, the memorial service isn’t going to be attended by as many celebrities as you think. Some of them aren’t going to make it in time for the funeral. Your big star-studded event isn’t even going to happen.”

  Archie took a few short gasping breaths like the oxygen had just been sucked from his lungs. “But why don’t they wait? Let everybody get here?”

  “Because we’re doing what’s best for Y’Grok’s son, Y’Suom, and the resettled Montagnards who’ll drive here for the service. Senator Millen is trying to get permission from the Vietnamese government for the return of Y’Grok’s remains. Until his remains are returned to Vietnam, he’ll be buried at Grace Lutheran. Sheriff Wadkins got him a plot there.”

  “What if his remains aren’t returned?”

  I knew Archie meant returned to Vietnam, but I was so concerned about Y’Grok’s body being returned to the funeral home that his question caught me off guard. After an awkward moment, I stepped closer and tried to appear sympathetic. “Look, Archie, I’ll mention your offer to Y’Suom this morning, but that’s it. Frankly, I think you’ll have better luck convincing Frankfort to dig up Daniel Boone.”

  Chapter Four

  Kevin Malone opened the passenger door to my jeep and helped me into the seat. I welcomed his assistance. The determination to see Y’Grok’s son was fading as the pain in my head increased. I’d popped a couple Tylenol and hoped they’d kick in before I had to face the music.

  For the first few minutes, I spoke only to give directions. Y’Suom had been invited by Senator Ryan Millen to stay with him at Asheville’s legendary Grove Park Inn. We had a thirty minute drive. Tommy Lee said he’d call the senator to let him know we were on the way and ask Millen to make sure Y’Suom was there. Breaking the news would be my responsibility.

  As we merged onto I-26, I reclined my seatback to a more comfortable position. At seven-thirty, traffic was light, the few cars scattered among the eighteen-wheelers bound for Tennessee. “Follow the signs for I-240. Then we’ll take exit 5B. It’s about fifteen miles.”

  Kevin looked out his side window. “Pretty.”

  A touch of gold brushed the tops of the mountain ridges. Although the days were growing longer, the time between first light and the sun’s actual appearance would be more than an hour. The Appalachians threw up several thousand feet of extra barrier to scale.

  “Must be a great place to grow up.” Kevin’s gaze returned to the road.

  “Yeah. Even though we lived in town, my buddies and I could ride our bikes to ponds and creeks in less than fifteen minutes. I was always bringing home snakes and turtles.”

  “I grew up in Dorchester. That’s a section of Boston where the only snakes I saw were hanging out on the street corners, running numbers or pushing dope.”

  “We’ve got our share. Meth labs have replaced moon shiners, and Tommy Lee’s busted some Christmas tree growers for squeezing in a little marijuana between the rows.”

  “So that’s why Santa smokes a pipe.” Kevin laughed. “I tease Tommy Lee about policing Mayberry, but he’s been shot at more times than I have.”

  “You never know what you’re going to walk up on. Some of the wildlife totes AK-47s.”

  “Tommy Lee says if people ever stop dying, he’d like to get you in the department. Maybe even get you to run for sheriff when he hangs up his badge.”

  “Sheriff?” The idea startled me.

  “Yeah. He’s never mentioned the possibility?” Kevin gunned the jeep and zipped around a UPS truck struggling up the grade. “Peppy. I could use one of these to climb over Boston potholes.”

  “I can’t see Tommy Lee ever retiring.”

  Kevin looked at me and shrugged. “We all lose our edge. That’s when the job really gets dangerous. Tommy Lee doesn’t talk much, but he’s always thinking. Me, I’m just the opposite. Ted Williams, the greatest ballplayer the Red Sox ever had, said ‘If you don’t think too good, don’t think too much.’ He could’ve been talking to me.”

  “The detective of the year?”

  “Lucky break. On patrol in Nam, Tommy Lee used to say even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then. That’s me. Root around long enough and I’m bound to find something.” Kevin glanced at me. “Don’t tell Tommy Lee I mentioned you running for sheriff.” He paused. “You know it’s not a bad deal. You could shoot them and then bury them. The ones you only wing, your girlfriend could patch up.”

  I wondered how much of my life quiet Tommy Lee had told this guy. “So, you’ve known the sheriff a long time.” I was anxious to change the subject.

  “Not sure of the exact years, but Lieutenant Tommy Lee Wadkins had two eyes.”

  His reference to Tommy Lee’s war injury piqued my curiosity. Vietnam was one subject Tommy Lee rarely mentioned. “Were you there?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was my platoon leader. As a matter of fact, he lost his eye on a mission trying to make contact with Montagnards. They were our best source of reconnaissance.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody told the VC we were in the area. Our Special Forces unit was in the central highlands working with the Montagnards to break the Ho Chi Minh trail. I mean the trail wasn’t an expressway like this, but Charlie had definite routes for his supplies and we wanted to know when and where movement occurred. We moved from village to village picking up information.”

  “The Montagnards were your eyes and ears?”

  “A helluva lot more. Arms and legs and brains as well. They’re the indigenous people of the highlands. Like them.” He pointed to a billboard for Harrad’s Casino on the nearby Cherokee Indian reservation. “They were the Cherokees and the Vietnamese were the white settlers. Montagnards. Means mountain people. That’s what the French called them. We called them Yards. They call themselves Degas.”

  “So the Viet Cong were their enemy as well?”

  “And we were their hope, just like the French had been before us. They got screwed over twice, and now they’re still paying the price.”

  “Did one of them tell the North Vietnamese where you were?”

  “Only if he was tortured. Or about to see his wife and kids executed.” Kevin took his eyes off the road to look at me. “No, these people would never have betrayed us. It’s just not part of their culture. Would that we’d been as loyal to them.”

  I didn’t say anything. The vision of an empty embalming table filled my mind. I’d been entrusted with the responsibility for a loved one and I’d failed that trust.

  “It was probably a Viet Cong scout who saw us in the area,” Kevin continued. “Our platoon walked into an ambush of North Vietnamese regulars. First man killed was the radio op. Hell of a firefight. Y’Grok was our guide. He crawled through the storm of bullets to get to the radio. Called in our position to our choppers.”

  “He knew how to work your radio?”

  “Work it? Hell, the man could have built it. Y’Grok’s father had been a radio op with the French before us. Y’Grok grew up in the resistance. He was the most seasoned fighter in the bunch.”

  “Could the choppers get to you?” The pain in my head was forgotten as Kevin’s account pulled me into the action.

  “No. Y’Grok gave the coordinates for a clearing a quarter mile away. Yards are slash and burn farmers and he knew all the fields in the area.”

  I noticed we were passing everything on the highway. Kevin was so caught up in his story that he was driving like we were escaping the enemy. “State troopers patrol this se
ction pretty heavily,” I warned.

  “Sorry.” Kevin eased off the accelerator. “And they might not give a Boston cop a courtesy pass. State boys usually eat and sleep by the book.”

  “They’ll give you five over the limit.” I pointed to the cruise control button. “You’re safe at seventy.”

  Kevin made the adjustment and continued his story. “Tommy Lee knew we had to break through and reach the evacuation point. But a spot clear enough for the pickup would be clear enough for shooting us. We had to stay pinned down until we could make a run and reach the pickup spot just as the choppers arrived.”

  “Y’Grok had to guide you.”

  “And tote the radio. What was left of the platoon made a concentrated charge, the point men firing, then dropping back as their magazines emptied and others took the lead. No one dared stop to reload. Tommy Lee and Pete Slavinsky stayed back and protected our rear. I climbed on a chopper and looked back to see Tommy Lee and Pete as they broke for the hovering birds. Then Pete went down. Tommy Lee wouldn’t leave him. As he threw Pete over his shoulder, a chunk of grenade shrapnel took off half his face. The stubborn son of a bitch still held onto Pete and staggered toward me. I jumped down and helped lift Pete aboard and then tried to push Tommy Lee ahead of me. ‘You get in,’ he gurgled through blood and mangled flesh. Hands of my buddies hoisted me up. Then every man on the bird reached down to grab our Tommy Lee. He was still firing as the chopper rose and we pulled him in.”

  “That’s why he says Y’Grok saved his sorry ass.”

  “If not for Y’Grok and Tommy Lee, our whole platoon would have been wiped out.”

  “And Slavinsky?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Died in the air. Tommy Lee crawled back beside him. Pete’s last words were ‘you damn fool.’ He was right. If Tommy Lee hadn’t stopped for a dying man, he wouldn’t be wearing that eye patch today. But, men do foolish things in war. Guess there’s a thin line separates a fool from a hero.”

  “Tommy Lee said you knew Y’Grok better than he did.”

  “I returned to the central hills with him. We set up a network with the Yards to get downed pilots out. Eventually the operation was taken over by military intelligence. That’s how Franklin Talbert got involved.”