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

by Mark de Castrique

  Instantly I recognized the caller. “Archie, where the hell are you?”

  “Disney World. In line for the little teacup ride. Gloria took the kids to the potty and I’m saving their place.”

  “Hold on a second.” I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s only Archie. Since I told him I was alone, maybe I should be.”

  The two men left, Shelton closing the door behind them.

  “What do you want, Archie?”

  “To see if the coast is clear. Have you got Pete Crowder in jail?”

  “Yes. But for assaulting Angel on your front lawn.”

  Archie took a quick breath. “He came to my house?”

  “Hard for me to keep your little indiscretion a secret now.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Archie whined. “What am I going to tell Gloria?”

  “The truth would be a start.”

  For a few seconds, all I heard were squealing kids. How appropriate, I thought, for Archie to be bewildered at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “Gloria and I’ll talk tonight. How’s Angel?”

  “She’s got a bad bruise on the side of her face. Pete will probably make bail today. If Angel’s smart, she’ll get a restraining order.”

  “But you don’t think Pete was after me?”

  “His prints aren’t on the murder weapon. We figure Carl was the intended victim.”

  I heard the muffled sound of Archie speaking to someone else. His wife must have returned with the kids.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I told Gloria I’m talking to the office. Give me a second to move away.”

  Again, the sound of screaming children filled my ear. Then I heard Archie’s heavy breathing. He must have run to an isolated spot.

  “If someone killed Carl on purpose, then why would he shoot at me?”

  The question was the first intelligent thing Archie had said, and I didn’t have an answer.

  “You and Carl weren’t involved in some kind of scheme together, were you?”

  “No,” Archie said. “Carl was always snotty to me. Wouldn’t even let me work up an insurance proposal, let alone buy anything.”

  “Then I don’t know. Maybe the killer thought you were connected to Carl. Maybe the shooting at the café isn’t related. Somebody wanting to create a stir in front of all the TV people.”

  “What should I do?”

  I hesitated to tell Archie to return home if there was the slightest chance his life was in danger.

  “Stay another day. We may have some developments that break the case.”

  “Really?”

  “Call me tomorrow morning.” That’s all I was going to tell Archie about the investigation. Then I looked up at the flipchart pages and saw my note “Track down the haunted house money.”

  “Archie, what happened to the Jaycees’ money from last Friday?”

  A few seconds of silence.

  “I have it with me. Why? Do people think I stole it?”

  “Did you?”

  “Jeez, Barry. Where was I supposed to deposit it over the weekend? I didn’t want to leave it in the house in case whoever is after me broke in.”

  His excuse sounded plausible. “Have you spent any of it?”

  Archie said nothing.

  “Well, have you?”

  “A little. I’m running short of cash. But I’ll pay it all back.”

  “Some of those bills could be evidence. Did you mix what Carl brought with the rest of the money?”

  “Yeah. You saw me counting it Friday night. Don’t worry, I’ll give Ralph what he’s due.”

  Even if some of the bills showed traces of drugs or were marked from some hold-up, a direct link to Carl had been broken.

  “Do you know where he got the money?” I asked.

  “I guess from the registers at the tractor store. That’s why I’ll return it to his dad.”

  Archie’s guess was a good one. A mix of small bills was more likely to come out of a cash register than a bank withdrawal.

  “How much did Carl bring?”

  “Three hundred. We thought two hundred would be enough to make change but between the turnout and a Friday payday we got caught off guard.”

  “What’s payday have to do with it?”

  Archie laughed. “And you claim to be a detective? People cash their checks and carry larger bills. We had a couple Hispanic families come through and all they had were fifties.”

  True enough, I thought. But the point would be more relevant to a robbery than a murder where the victim’s wallet wasn’t taken.

  “All right. I’ll tell Ralph just in case there’s a shortage in the cash drawers. He doesn’t need to think he was burglarized with everything else going on.”

  “Thanks, Barry. I’ll have it to him Wednesday. Gotta go. The kids are getting in the teacups and I’ve got the camera. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  The line went dead. I hoped by the next morning the biggest worry on my To-Do list would be getting Ralph Atkinson his money.

  Chapter Twelve

  Atkinson Farm Equipment was on the north end of town just before Highway 25 hit the first stoplight. Even though the sign atop the building was disproportionately large and the word Atkinson underlined, everybody called it the John Deere store because of the rows of distinctive green tractors and work vehicles in the showroom.

  Unlike a car dealership, salesmen weren’t waiting to pounce on any prospective buyers who walked through the door. People coming in for farm vehicles and accessory equipment knew what they wanted. They didn’t bring the family to test drive a tractor and check out its sound system.

  I walked past a monster machine with tires towering over my head. Glancing up at the well-appointed enclosed cab, I revised my opinion. Maybe a family would come in to hear the sound system.

  I moved through garden tractors and lawnmowers to a long wooden counter at the back of the showroom. On the other side, a woman with graying hair peered through thick glasses at a computer screen. She held a ledger book in her left hand and a mouse in her right and seemed to be comparing numbers.

  The physical layout looked more like the registration desk at an old hotel. Glass-front cabinets lined the wall behind her. The shelves didn’t display sales or service awards. Instead, trophies for bowling, softball, Little League, and Pop Warner football teams crammed the cases. Atkinson Farm Equipment sponsored participants in every sport Gainesboro offered. Small businesses were the lifeblood of small town activities and Ralph Atkinson contributed more than his fair share as a responsible corporate citizen.

  I rapped softly on the countertop and the woman said, “Can I help you,” a few seconds before looking up.

  She saw my badge first and her eyes widened. Then she recognized me. “Barry, you startled me. Are you here to arrest me or buy a tractor to replace your hearse? Remember, ‘Nothing Runs Like a Deere.’”

  I laughed politely while trying to recall her name. Most likely she was an acquaintance of my mom and we’d met in a totally different context. “Official business, I’m afraid. Is Mr. Simmons in?”

  Her expression became serious. “I shouldn’t have teased you. It’s about Carl’s murder, isn’t it? Terrible thing.”

  It dawned on me that here was a woman who knew all the workings of the business. She’d probably been behind this counter for years and could be transferring her handwritten data into the computer, unwilling to trust the new technology without first entering her figures the old-fashioned way.

  I leaned against the counter. “Yes. Right now we’re just trying to puzzle out why anyone would want to kill Carl. Did he have any recent arguments with customers?”

  She shook her head. “Carl didn’t spend much time here.” She lowered her voice. “He didn’t spend much time here when he was supposed to be here. So Ralph promoted Ron from parts manager to general manager about a year ago.”

  “What about ownership?”

  “The dealership was always in Ralph’s name. G
ood thing, too, because when Carl’s divorce got so nasty, we were worried his wife would come after the business. Ralph paid Carl to help with the farm. That’s Ralph’s first love, and I think he hoped Carl would grow to love it as well.”

  “Was Carl to inherit it?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What about the dealership?”

  The woman gave a quick glance behind me to make sure we were alone. “That’s another question. Ron would like to have some sort of buy/sell agreement with Ralph. He’d been promised an equity interest when he took over managerial responsibilities. But Ralph has yet to draw up the paperwork. Ron was getting antsy about it.”

  “What did Carl think about his father’s plans?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t like them. You know the word ‘entitlement.’”

  I nodded.

  “That’s the way Carl viewed the world. He was entitled and hard work had nothing to do with it.”

  “Thanks. If you think of anything or anyone you believe has a bearing on the case, let me know.”

  “I will. And it’s Lucille.”

  “What?”

  “My name. I’m in your mother’s sewing circle. She’s a sweet woman. I’ll page Ron. He’s back in the parts department.”

  If Ron Simmons was surprised to see me, he covered it well. Sporting a big smile, he asked Lucille to bring us fresh coffee and then led me to his office.

  The cheap paneling and worn, John-Deere green carpet were what I expected served a man who preferred to spend his time among the shelves of parts and in the service bays. Papers and files littered his desk. The only item that could be remotely called art was a hat rack in the corner adorned with John Deere caps that must have gone back half a century. On the floor beside it sat a tan safe about two feet square sporting both a combination lock and a keyed handle. It appeared to be the newest thing in the office.

  “Pull up a chair,” Simmons said, as he crossed the room to his desk. “Sorry for the mess.”

  “No problem.” I moved some sales brochures off the seat of a cane-bottomed chair and slid it closer to him. “Guess there’s a lot of paperwork to keep up with.”

  “You got that right.”

  “How’s business?”

  The old springs groaned as Simmons sat in the desk chair. “Depends on which business you’re talking about. New sales are in the crapper. Nobody’s got any money and the bankers are so tight with credit they squeak when they walk. Parts and service are keeping the doors open. Farmers can’t buy new equipment so they have to repair what they’ve got.”

  “Parts and service must be your specialty.”

  Simmons shrugged with feigned modesty. “Let’s just say if I went blind tomorrow, put me back in parts and I wouldn’t miss a lick. I’d find every gasket, sparkplug, or belt no matter what the model.”

  “Ralph must appreciate that,” I said.

  “Ralph appreciates hard work. He knows I go the extra mile.”

  “Was that why Carl wasn’t involved in the dealership?”

  A flash of anger appeared in Simmons’ eyes. He started to speak and then hesitated. He forced a smile. “Let’s just say it wasn’t his thing.”

  “But farming is?”

  “Not really. Carl thought it was beneath him.”

  I waited for Simmons to elaborate.

  “I’ve got a farm,” he said. “Not enough acreage to support my family, but I grow some corn, raise a few chickens, work the land during my time off and on weekends. Like some people play golf to relax. But now I’m surrounded.”

  “Surrounded?”

  “Yeah. On one side I’ve got Cascading Falls, on the other Heaven’s Peaks. Four hundred thousand dollar homes in gated communities.”

  I knew what Simmons meant. During the last five years these high-end developments and others like them had sprung up throughout the county. Not everyone welcomed the retirees and the owners of second homes who were driving up property values.

  “Had you hoped to buy more land?” I asked.

  “No. I hope to hold onto what I’ve got. But these people in their big houses are different. I hate to sound this way but I don’t like them. They move here and then expect all the services they had in the big cities. They look at the locals as people who should be catering to them.”

  “Can’t you ignore them?”

  “They won’t let me. I’m a minority in my own mountains who’s looked at as a nuisance. If I run my tractor early on a Saturday morning, their homeowners association complains because they hear it. If my chickens or guineas get out and wander in their yards, someone calls the law. This is the way we’ve lived for two hundred years and now they say I’m lowering their property values. They want to be in the country, but they don’t want to get any country on them.”

  Simmons summed it up well. “They don’t want to get any country on them.” More and more frequently I heard the locals express the sentiment in other ways but not quite as concisely as his single sentence.

  His chair squealed as he leaned back. “What the hell can you do? I know they pump money into the economy. Maybe one good thing about this damn recession is they’ll stop building exclusive communities.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “How does this figure in with Carl?”

  “Carl’s more of the gated community type, although those people at least worked for their money. Ralph’s trying to get him excited about the apples and Christmas trees, but I know Carl. He was doing just enough work to keep his daddy hopeful. As soon as Ralph died, Carl would have looked for a buyer or co-developer. He’d have loved nothing better than to have a big house on the ridge and an electronic gate to keep out the people who put him there.”

  “And you said he was spending his inheritance in advance. Did he really tell you he’s into loan sharks?”

  Simmons looked a little sheepish. “I might have said more than I can prove. But I wanted you to check it out. Carl was spending the money like he was entitled to that life style.”

  Entitled. Lucille used the same word and I figured she and Simmons had often discussed the owner’s wayward son.

  “Playing around on his wife,” Simmons continued. “Taking women to fancy hotels in Asheville. He had to be getting the cash from somewhere. Then he’d come asking me to loan him money from the dealership. Said he had to make a payment or he’d be in trouble. If you put two and two together, you come to the same conclusion I did.”

  “Did you give him money?”

  “No. But small sums started going missing from the registers in the parts and service departments.” He glanced back at the safe. “I began keeping the cash drawers locked up at night in here. That stopped it.”

  “Did Carl have a key to the dealership?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t tell Ralph I thought his son was a thief and demand his key back.”

  I pulled my notepad from my chest pocket to signal I’d come to the official reason for my visit. “Archie Donovan said Carl brought three hundred dollars to the Jaycees’ haunted house for change. Do you know anything about that?”

  Simmons nodded. “It’s true. Carl caught me as I was locking up Friday. I was doubtful but he swore it was for the Jaycees. I knew the event would draw a big crowd on Halloween. I made him sign for the money, which pissed him off. The note’s still in the safe, if you want it.”

  “Hold onto it. Archie Donovan’s returning the cash Wednesday.”

  “Good,” he said. “I felt kind of bad bothering anyone about it. Right now my priority is to help Mr. and Mrs. Atkinson get through the funeral.”

  “Are my uncle and Fletcher taking good care of them?”

  “The best. Tell them I said so.” Simmons smiled. “And if you ever need a tractor or mower, Barry, I’ll give you a sweetheart deal.”

  He followed me out to the patrol car. I left him standing under the words “Nothing Runs Like a Deere” and drove back to the department to pick up Carson. We headed for the site where Blake Junior had run into a de
er.

  Or not…

  ***

  We assembled in the conference room at four. I still hadn’t heard from Reverend Pace, but we were proceeding as if the surrender would happen.

  Tommy Lee motioned me to sit at the head of the table and then he took a chair across from Carson and Shelton. “Bring me up to speed.”

  I looked at the two deputies. “Feel free to add or correct anything.”

  Shelton nodded; Carson shrugged.

  I cleared my throat and glanced at my notes. “Archie called this morning from Disney World. I told him to sit tight and check back in the morning. He said he has the Jaycees’ money and three hundred dollars of it came from Carl for change. I didn’t want to bother Ralph so I checked with Ron Simmons, the dealership manager. He confirmed that Carl got the money from him late Friday.”

  “Good,” Tommy Lee said. “So, the cash has a legitimate source.”

  “Yes.” I cocked my head toward Shelton. He had called me after searching Carl’s Lexus, and I wanted him to tell Tommy Lee of his discovery.

  Shelton smiled. “But we found $4,000 in a paper bag under the front seat of Carl’s car.”

  “Loose and all in hundreds?” Tommy Lee asked. “Maybe a brown bill strap in the bag?”

  “Yes,” Shelton said, surprised by the accuracy of the description.

  “How’d you know?” I asked

  “Because Friday afternoon Carl made a $5,000 cash withdrawal from United Community Bank. The teller had it banded with a $5,000 strap. It came from an account Carl opened immediately after his divorce had been finalized. There was the occasional deposit check, but most of the money moved in and out in cash increments of $7,500 or less.”

  I nodded. “Lower than the $10,000 threshold that would mandate a report to the Feds.”

  “Exactly,” Tommy Lee said. “So Carl spent a thousand dollars some time Friday between three and when he parked in the pasture at the haunted house.”

  “We’ll need to trace his steps,” I said.

  Tommy Lee pointed to the wall. “Stick it up there. I want to know where that money went regardless of whether Pace delivers tonight or not.”

  Shelton jumped up and scrawled “Carl’s Friday Activities” across the bottom of one of the sheets.