Grave Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  Chapter 20

  I had just walked into the funeral home the next morning when Tommy Lee telephoned.

  “Bridges told me the lab work on you and Skeeter would be back today or tomorrow.”

  “That fast?”

  “He said Claiborne twisted every arm and used his political clout to get the report expedited. It doesn’t look good for a candidate for attorney general to have a murder committed on his own doorstep.”

  “We know what the reports will state. Skeeter was drunk as a skunk, and neither he nor I had any trace of gunpowder or blow back.”

  “Probably. But at least Claiborne can claim he pulled out all the stops.”

  “Are you going to pull out all the stops searching for the video?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got contacts in banking security to trace a safe-deposit box, and the SBI can coordinate with U.S. Postal authorities as well as the private mailbox franchises. What’s your schedule?”

  I looked at my desk calendar. After the Metcalf funeral, it was wide open. “There’re some things to tie up for the Metcalfs this morning, and then I’ve got an afternoon meeting. The visitation for the boys is tonight and their service is tomorrow. Why? What can I do?”

  “Disappear. If nobody sees you, then nobody shoots you. It’s as simple as that. And I figure you’re due for a couple of days without the stress of the case. Can you leave town for the weekend?”

  “Maybe. I’d hoped to do my Christmas shopping.”

  “Christmas isn’t till next Thursday. That’s why we have Christmas Eve. It was made for men shoppers. I thought you’d like a break.”

  “You mean hide out somewhere?”

  “I was thinking of a romantic retreat for you and Susan.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “There’s a hunt club cabin near Etowah. I’m not a member, but a friend gave me a key. One of my many perks. No one will be up there this time of year. Plenty of firewood, a pond stocked with rainbow trout, propane for cooking and heat. Just you, Susan, and nature.”

  I got the picture, and I liked it. I wasn’t so sure how Susan would like it.

  “Is this your version of a safe house?”

  “I don’t know how safe it will be for Susan, but nobody else will be within miles. The cabin’s near the top of the ridge. Best cell phone reception in the area in case anyone needs to reach you.”

  “I’ll check Susan’s schedule. I don’t think she’s on call.”

  “Good. I’ll get the key and directions to you tonight. I’m coming to the Metcalfs’ visitation.”

  “Let me know what Bridges says about those tests,” I said.

  “I will. But I’m betting on a clean report too. I’ve also found some interesting information on Gentle Deal.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no record of her in the Walker County juvenile records. I requested information from the timeframe when Slatterly said she’d been brought in by Calhoun. Now that she’s a murder victim there’s no reason for confidentiality.”

  “Did you go through Bridges?”

  “No. This was an official request from an investigating officer. Me.”

  “Maybe her file was pulled when charges were dropped. She was a minor and the judge had the records expunged.”

  “But the judge didn’t issue any such order. And there’s the booking log,” said Tommy Lee. “An entire week is missing. I find it hard to believe arrest records would be accidentally lost that happen to contain her name.”

  I couldn’t argue with him. Missing drugs and missing documents were too much of a coincidence.

  I reached Susan at her clinic. She had early rounds Friday, but nothing that afternoon or Saturday and Sunday. I was a little surprised when she said the prospect of a weekend away was just what the doctor would like to order. With the immediate future under control, I picked up the packet from Hoffman Enterprises and began contemplating the rest of my life.

  Carl Romeo led Josh Birnam and me into his small conference room. The lawyer had a few books on shelves as the obligatory display of his legal resources, but most of the wall space was filled with plaques and photographs commemorating civic and community events. Carl knew marketing was part of any business, and his name and face were attached to numerous worthy causes. He also believed fervently in those causes and was a worker, not just a name on a committee.

  Josh Birnam had been our accountant for ten years, inheriting our business from his father-in-law. Josh had introduced me to the sport of archery and we had spent many an afternoon searching for lost arrows together.

  Normally, a meeting involving the three of us would be informal and sprinkled with verbal jabs. But today both Carl and Josh behaved as if we were about to read the family will. Carl sat at the head of the table and Josh took the seat across from me.

  “What’s the matter, guys?” I asked. “Am I being screwed by their proposal and I haven’t even signed it yet?”

  My two friends looked at each other. Carl spoke first.

  “The offer seems in order,” he said stiffly, “but there are a lot of implications to consider.”

  “Oh, come on, Carl,” said Josh. “Let’s just get it out on the table. Barry, what’s going on?”

  “My dad’s not doing well. I’m trying to plan ahead.”

  “No, I understand that,” he said. “What’s going on with this murder business? You dig up a body. Susan’s dad’s on the news, and then Susan. Rumor has it you were in a gunfight or watched a man commit suicide. The version varies by the hour. I’m wondering whether I need to find you bail money and Carl’s going through his Rolodex of defense attorneys.”

  “It’s just a series of misunderstandings,” I said. “You know how the media has to make everything a scoop. Susan and Walt both knew Sammy Calhoun. He borrowed a gun from them and somebody used it on him. That’s all there is to it.”

  “There’s the guard in Walker County,” said Carl.

  “I went to see him because I heard he was a friend of Calhoun’s. We don’t know what happened and I’ve been told by the D.A. and sheriff not to discuss it. As an officer of the court, you can appreciate that.”

  “Okay,” said Josh. “We’re worried about you. And now your father’s problems and the offer for the business are dumped on top of everything else, and it’s got to be a ton of stress. Carl and I are here for you.”

  I was touched by their concern. “Thanks,” I said. “You’ll be a big help just navigating me through this Hoffman deal.”

  But Carl’s mind was elsewhere. “So, you can’t talk about the guard’s death. He knew this Calhoun. You were investigating and the guard kills himself. Sounds like they’re wrapping up the case with the suicide.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The guard killed Calhoun. You found Calhoun’s body and the trail led straight back to him. He took the quick way out.”

  Carl’s rapid-fire verdict left me speechless. Of course, it was wrong, but without the element of a sex scandal, the motive could have been an argument in The Last Resort that turned deadly.

  For that matter, why wasn’t Gibson the murderer? Because I knew he hadn’t killed himself. Because Gentle Deal died after he did, and because an empty video camera told me explosive evidence was still out there somewhere.

  I just nodded. “That’s true, Carl. A suicide ties everything up nice and neat. You’re a regular Perry Mason.”

  “Yeah, but can he make sense out of this contract?” asked Josh.

  The question brought us to the business at hand.

  “You’re the numbers guy, Josh,” said Carl. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his salt and pepper moustache. “You tell us when two million dollars isn’t two million dollars.”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look,” replied Josh.

  “He couldn’t be,” I said. We were back to our normal give-and-take. “I’m neither a lawyer nor an accountant, but I thought the sale price came from a lot of assumptions.”

&
nbsp; “True,” agreed Josh. “The formula is basically a cash down payment, a cash installment plan, and a stock distribution running in concert with the cash payments.”

  “So, what do you think?” I asked. “The down payment is only three hundred thousand of the two million.”

  “That’s fifteen percent,” said Josh. “Not that uncommon. Like a down payment on a home.”

  “A funeral home,” chimed in Carl.

  “Are you charging Barry by the stupid utterance?” asked Josh.

  “My humor’s free.”

  “And worth every penny,” said Josh. “Look, Barry, it all comes down to predicting the future. You get three hundred thousand in cash, plus three hundred thousand worth of shares in common Hoffman Enterprises stock at the current market price. That leaves one point four million. Over the next four years, you get one hundred thousand per year in cash and one hundred fifty in stock. At the end of the four years, you’ll have gotten four hundred thousand in cash and six hundred thousand in stock for a total of one point six million counting the initial payments.”

  “Forget the stock for a moment,” I said. “The cash will total seven hundred thousand.”

  “Yes,” said Josh. “The remaining balance of the purchase price will then be paid in stock over four more years at one hundred thousand per year. The timeline from start to finish is eight years. During this time, you are prohibited from selling your shares on the open market. Furthermore, they have predetermined share prices of future distributions. If the stock overperforms, you get the bonus. If it underperforms, tough. You’re still credited at receiving the stock at the projected value.”

  “Their appreciation rate is fifteen percent a year. Is that realistic?”

  Josh shrugged. “It’s consistent with the last five years, but as any good broker will tell you, past performance is a guarantee of only one thing—past performance. Hoffman Enterprises is a maturing corporation. Acquisitions will only take their share price so high.”

  “What should I count on?” I asked.

  “To be safe, I’d say half. I don’t think you’re looking at a dot-com bust. People are still dying, and I haven’t read about online funerals yet. But mortality statistics are very stable. To boost profits, they’ve got two options—cut costs and raise prices.”

  I thought about the bulk ordering of supplies for the entire chain and the use of cheaper brands. “So, I’m getting seven hundred thousand in cash and maybe seven hundred thousand in actual stock value.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well,” I said, “One point four million’s not too bad.”

  “No,” agreed Josh, “but you’ve got the time value of money. This is all in current dollars, and you lose the investment opportunity by having the cash payout over four years, plus you can’t sell the stock for eight. Just things to consider.”

  I turned to Carl. “What about the proposal as a contract?”

  “No surprises. You’ve got advantages in no longer having to administer your payables and receivables. You won’t be chasing down people for money. Your employment contract has a three-year no-compete clause should you leave and decide to open another funeral home. Those are simply nuisance paragraphs. Half the time they’re unenforceable if you left for just cause and are being prohibited from earning a livelihood in the field you were trained. You’re planning to move your mother and father, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Hoffman Enterprises forbids use of their property as residential. That’s behind this phrase—premises are for commercial practices only.”

  “I didn’t catch that,” I said. “Would they have to move immediately?”

  “Negotiable, I’m sure. Might not be an issue if you’re anxious to get them settled in a retirement facility.”

  Getting settled by choice and getting settled by eviction were two different propositions. I didn’t know how Mom would take to having her holidays burdened by an imminent deportation.

  Carl drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “What’s your inclination, Barry? They’ve asked for a fast response. Monday the twenty-second. If you’ve got concerns or points for modification, we’d better notify them.”

  “I’m not nuts about the stock arrangement, and I want to make sure we’ve got some transition time for my parents.”

  Josh flipped through his legal pad. “I took the liberty of calling an accountant friend in Raleigh. He has several funeral homes as clients, and I ran the broad parameters of the deal by him without any particular figures attached. He dealt with a Hoffman buyout last year. Basically, the same setup in terms of the ratio of cash to stock. He told me there were no negotiations. They have a business model and they stick to it like a fisherman sticks to a favorite lure. I do suspect we can get some leeway on the move.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to go over this with Mom and Uncle Wayne. If I don’t respond by Monday, what do you think will happen?”

  “They have the right to rescind the offer,” said Carl. “But if they’re interested on Monday, they’ll be interested on Tuesday.”

  “There was some consideration of year-end taxation and asset acquisition,” I said.

  “Probably for their quarterly report to the stockholders,” said Josh. “Do you need more information or just thinking time?”

  “I need the right time to talk to my family. We’ve got the Metcalfs’ visitation tonight and their service tomorrow. I’m going out of town Friday and don’t want to get into a discussion of this magnitude and then leave.”

  “Let me call Hoffman,” suggested Carl. “Lawyers are always bogging things down. Maybe I can delay them a week. That still leaves three business days in the year. I’m sure they’ve got a legal staff ready to railroad this through.”

  “Going out of town with anyone we know?” asked Josh, and he winked at Carl.

  “Just stick to your numbers. I’ll worry about how many people are in my jeep.”

  They laughed. Meeting adjourned.

  Libby Metcalf sat between the two caskets. Maynard and their twelve-year-old daughter, Alice, stood beside her. A line formed in front of them and stretched out our front door to the parking lot where arriving visitors waited in the frigid December air for the chance to express their sympathies.

  The ordeal was grueling for everyone. Time would tell whether the parade of mourners would serve to further the family’s healing. Tonight, the extended hands of condolence lifted the burden more from the givers than the receivers.

  I stood just inside the front door, ushering people along as space allowed. Coats stayed on because our furnace couldn’t keep up with the loss of heat. I knew many of the people had only a casual acquaintance with the Metcalfs, but the magnitude of their loss, the decimation of a family during the season when the sense of family was strongest, had touched the heart of our community.

  I had worried about Libby’s first sight of her sons’ bodies. Wayne and I had labored over the boys, addressing not only their physical appearance, but also the lighting in the room. Libby had approached the caskets cautiously, supported by her husband and daughter. She had gone first to the older boy, Michael, and reached out a hand to touch his cold cheek. Then she let her fingers feel the nap of the new sweater. “He looks good,” she had whispered, and then cried and smiled at the same time.

  She had then turned to Ned and said nothing. I had placed the top of the turtleneck high under his chin to cover the marks of his lacerations. For a moment, I was afraid she would adjust it lower. She had fumbled with her small purse and pulled out a comb. With a steady hand, she guided a few errant strands of her son’s brown hair off his forehead. Then she licked her fingers and patted the locks down in the same way she must have done countless times before his death.

  My breath had caught painfully in my chest as I knew this final act symbolized the past, present, and future of a mother’s love for her child, locked in place with the gentle press of her hand. She had looked up at me but said
nothing.

  I had left them to Wayne’s care and busied myself where my own tears wouldn’t be noticed. Dealing with death doesn’t callous one to the loss of life. Libby Metcalf’s grief was neither maudlin nor exaggerated, but the sheer force of its honesty engulfed me. I could do wonders in mending the physical ravages an accident made upon the body, but I could do absolutely nothing to mend the gaping hole in a mother’s heart.

  “This is really tough,” said Tommy Lee. He stepped across the threshold as one more visitor in what seemed an endless procession.

  “You’re telling me. I’m by the door because I can’t handle it as well as my uncle. He’s with the family.”

  “Patsy wanted to come, but I knew we’d be standing outside for awhile. She’s getting one of those colds that come from being in crowded shopping malls.”

  “Everything will be a blur for the Metcalfs. You’re good to be here.”

  He cleared his throat and whispered, “I picked up some information late this afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “Ewbanks and Claiborne have been contacted by Duncan Atkins’ attorney.”

  “The contractor serving time?”

  “He’s sniffing out a deal.”

  “For Atkins?”

  “Along the lines that for a reduced sentence Atkins will testify that Walt Miller talked about shooting Sammy.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why’d anyone believe Atkins now?”

  “He’ll claim he didn’t realize Walt had actually done it until the body was discovered.”

  “You get this from Bridges?”

  “Yeah. Claiborne talked to Ewbanks but he doesn’t want to move on Walt till he sees Atkins’ signed statement. The attorney wants his client sprung for time served, which Claiborne doesn’t have authority to guarantee.”

  “But that doesn’t explain Skeeter and Gentle,” I argued.

  “Skeeter’s a suicide and Gentle’s not a problem. She’s my case.”

  “When’s this going to break?”

  “I don’t know. Right now it’s just a line of inquiry. Claiborne can’t broker a deal without help at the state level.”