“You got it.” Brock fished a card out of his jeans. The news scoop had obliterated any grudge he might have held.
Tommy Lee tucked the number in the chest pocket of his uniform. “Cover Rachel on what we discussed. I’m only doing this once.”
“Yes, sir.” Brock hustled out the door.
I stared at Tommy Lee.
“What?” he asked.
“I’ve never known you to crawl in bed with the press.”
“I don’t know if I’d put it that way, especially since one of them is your ex-wife.”
“Aren’t you giving the killer what he wanted? Publicity?”
Tommy Lee closed the office door. “That happened the instant he pulled the trigger. I’m just trying to control what’s released when.”
“An old man’s voice. Could it have been Ralph Atkinson?”
Tommy Lee leaned against the edge of Pace’s desk. “We have to consider it.”
“When I saw Ralph at the funeral home, he didn’t have enough energy to shoot himself let alone drive out here in the rain. He would have had to hire someone to kill Travis.”
“And then he tipped off Dave Brock?” Tommy Lee shook his head. “Why risk drawing attention to an assassination attempt?”
“And we don’t know whether Travis was killed for revenge or to silence him.”
“That’s why I decided to talk to Edna Oakley tonight. I want you to go with us, but you’ll have to change.”
“I’ve got extra clothes at the funeral home. That’ll be faster than going back to my cabin.”
“Okay.” Tommy Lee stood straight and tucked in his shirt. “Let me get this TV nonsense over with. Do you know Melissa Bigham’s number?”
“It’s stored in my phone.” I grabbed my cell from my belt. “You want to talk to her?”
“Hell, no. I promised Brock an exclusive. But you didn’t. Give Melissa everything I’m telling Rachel.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be time to reset the Vista’s front page. She’ll need to withhold Travis’ name until we see Edna and don’t tell her that Brock got the call. Just say Rachel must have followed you from town.”
“I’m not comfortable lying to her.”
“Well, get over it. She won’t care because as soon as Shelton gets a print match, you’re going to call her with the information that Travis killed Carl.”
“Why release it so soon?”
“Because I want to have a very public reason to link the deaths. Three families are in mourning. The Atkinsons, the Nolans, and now Edna Oakley. We’re going to have to dig further into the lives of their sons, and we could look pretty heartless in the process.”
“You think Blake Junior was murdered?”
“No. But like Reverend Pace said, it’s what Travis thought that matters. You find me what connects the three dead men and in the middle of the triangle we’ll find our murderer.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tommy Lee turned off the Crown Vic’s engine. “Lester, I’ll let you break the news. Barry and I’ll stand a few feet behind so we don’t overwhelm the poor woman.”
“The news will be overwhelming enough.” The preacher pushed the passenger door open and grabbed his walking stick from alongside the seat. The straight shaft of hickory looked strange in his hand after years of carrying the gnarled rhododendron.
Tommy Lee opened the rear door and let me out. He’d parked in the turnaround of the dirt driveway. The gravel had long ago been pounded into the earth or washed away, and the faint light from the front windows of the farmhouse created a patchwork of shadows over the rutted road.
“Watch your step, Lester,” Tommy Lee said. He took the lead, testing the ground with short strides.
I fell in line behind Pace and the three of us walked like half a team of pallbearers without a coffin. The weathered steps creaked under our feet. As we crossed the porch, Pace placed his cane in the center of the boards to avoid the gaps between the warped planks.
Paint that had once been white was peeling off the side of the house. The screen door stood ajar, sagging on tired hinges with its frame so twisted the latch couldn’t close. No welcome mat lay in front of the threshold and no knocker or doorbell invited visitors to announce their presence.
I figured the single story had the typical small farmhouse layout: on the front right, a living room with a fireplace; on the front left, one of two bedrooms; in the center of the house, a dining room with a hall to the second bedroom and single bathroom; and across the rear section, a kitchen with a pantry for home-canned goods and staples. Maybe a covered back porch and work sink provided space for cleaning game or fresh vegetables before they were brought inside.
A cheap shade covered the window on the right, glowing hot in the middle where a lamp sat near it. Pace moved ahead of Tommy Lee and rapped on the dirty pane of glass. The harsh rattle broke the night’s silence.
“She’ll want to see who’s on the porch before opening the door,” Pace said, and kept his position in front of the window.
In less than thirty seconds, the shade trembled and then springs squeaked as a woman rolled it halfway up. She leaned across a narrow table until her face was a few inches from the glass. The yellow glow from the lamp backlit her dirty blond hair. Her features remained in shadow. Pace bent over and the light reflected off him enough to illuminate the whites of her eyes. She stared at the preacher without speaking.
“Edna. It’s me. Lester Pace.”
“Who’s with you?” The words came in a breathy whisper.
“Sheriff Wadkins and one of his deputies.”
Pace avoided saying “Barry Clayton” because “the undertaker” would be her immediate thought.
“If you’re looking for Travis, he’s not home.”
“I know that. He came to see me.”
The woman shook her head in disbelief. “He came to the church?”
“Yes. And we need to come in and talk about it.”
Edna jerked away. The front door opened a few seconds later and she waved us inside. “Did he accept the Lord? Does my boy know Jesus?” She clutched her housecoat tightly to her chest and searched the preacher’s face as he walked by.
Edna wore no makeup and her haggard cheeks were etched with lines of hardship. By contrast, Angel Crowder still had her looks and self-esteem. Her husband hadn’t beaten them out of her yet. Edna was probably a few years north or south of forty, slightly older than Angel, but she looked over fifty.
Laurey’s, a popular eatery in nearby Asheville, sported the motto: “Don’t Postpone Joy.” Being in the funeral business gave me a special appreciation for the phrase. Edna’s joy had been placed on indefinite hold and her only hope rested in the hereafter. The here-and-now was to be endured, not enjoyed.
She closed the door after me but never took her gaze from Pace. Tommy Lee and I could have been the President and Vice President of the United States and she wouldn’t have noticed.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Pace pointed to a worn armchair beside a marred end table.
A smaller, mismatched chair with an extra cushion propped against the back sat to the table’s other side. Knitting needles and a skein of dark blue yarn were in the seat. Both chairs faced an old cabinet television that was now useless in the digital broadcast age. On its top were two framed pictures: a recent photograph of Travis standing beside a row of Fraser firs and a familiar painting of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Christ submitting to God’s will. Pace’s words about Edna rang in my head. “A victim. One of those poor souls who chalks every hardship up to God’s will.”
“No. Please.” Edna lifted the knitting from her chair. She pointed the needles at a lumpy sofa on the far wall. “You gentlemen are welcome to sit there.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Oakley,” Tommy Lee said.
I took the end nearer the TV and farther away from Edna.
Pace eased into what I assumed to be Tom Oakley’s favorite chair. “Travis came to see me. We prayed together and he confess
ed his sins.”
“Praise Jesus,” Edna murmured.
“But it pains me to tell you he was shot as he left the church tonight. He died despite everything we tried to do to save him. I’m so sorry.”
Edna froze, the smile on her lips now a cruel mockery of her joy. Then she crumpled like her bones had turned to jelly. She buried her face in the yarn and her thin shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Pace went to her side. He laid a hand on the back of her head and gently stroked her hair. His touch released a wail of pain that burst out in strangled gasps.
“You can let go, Edna,” he said. “Don’t hold it in.”
She turned in her chair and clutched him like she was dangling over an abyss. Pace knelt as she pulled him to her.
Tommy Lee and I looked at each other and said nothing. A mother had lost her child and there were no words of consolation equal to the magnitude of her grief.
For ten minutes Edna Oakley cried from the depths of her soul. For ten minutes Reverend Pace knelt with his bony knees pressed into the tattered braided rug that covered the hardwood floor. For ten minutes Tommy Lee and I sat as mute witnesses, waiting for Edna to exhaust herself. Heart wrenching as the scene was, questions needed answers and Tommy Lee and I would stay till dawn for the chance to ask them.
When Edna’s crying faded to whimpers, Pace extricated himself from her desperate hug. She sat back and dabbed her eyes with the yarn. Then she twisted the skein like she was wringing a dishrag and flattened the strands in her lap. She picked at them mindlessly. “He was saved. He confessed his sins.”
Pace remained on his knees. “Yes. Yesterday afternoon. He wanted to be right with God. He was.”
Edna nodded. “And Jesus called him home to stand unblemished before the throne.”
“Edna!” Pace called her name like she was ten yards away. “Look at me.”
The woman lifted her eyes. “Yes?”
Pace leaned in over the arm of the chair and spoke softer. “I don’t claim to understand the ways of God, but I know one thing as sure as I breathe. He doesn’t use murder as a means to bring us to heaven. Travis was murdered.”
Edna bit her lower lip. “Who?”
“We don’t know. Sheriff Wadkins and Deputy Clayton will do everything they can to find out, but you have to help them. You need to answer their questions now.” Pace gripped the chair’s arm with both hands and pushed himself up. His knees cracked with the effort.
For the first time, Edna took a good look at Tommy Lee and me. She glanced at my nameplate. “Barry Clayton,” she whispered. Then louder, “Buryin’ Barry?”
I nodded, conceding the notorious name Archie Donovan pinned on me.
“I don’t have much money, but I want it to be nice.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Oakley,” I said. “I’ll have my uncle Wayne and my partner get in touch. They can work through Reverend Pace.”
Pace returned to the other chair. “Yes, Edna. We’ll deal with funeral arrangements tomorrow.” He paused and looked at Tommy Lee.
“Tell her,” Tommy Lee said softly.
“There’s something else you need to know,” Pace said. “Be assured God has forgiven Travis, but your son committed a crime. A very serious crime. He told me he killed Carl Atkinson.”
Edna’s mouth dropped open. “No. Not my Travis. There must be some mistake.”
“No, ma’am,” Tommy Lee said. “I received confirmation a little while ago that Travis’ fingerprints match the ones we found at the crime scene and on the weapon. Travis was voluntarily surrendering to us. He’d done right by God and he was turning himself in. But he never got the chance to say why he killed Carl. Do you have any idea?”
She shook her head. “Tom always said the Atkinsons ran this town. That no one would stand up to them.”
“Did your husband have dealings with them?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Tom kept his business to himself. But I know Mr. Atkinson wanted to buy some of our land.”
“Was this Ralph or Carl?”
“The old man. Tom told him no. But then when Tom went to Raleigh, Mr. Atkinson came to me. He said if I needed money while Tom was in prison, he’d buy the property or make me a loan with the acreage as collateral.”
I remembered the story of the father of D.A. Jamison losing his land to Atkinson the same way.
“Mr. Atkinson claimed he was just trying to help,” Edna said. “I mentioned the offer to Travis and he said he’d starve first.”
“When was this?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Nearly two years ago. When Travis quit school to work the farm.”
“Do you know if any of the Atkinsons approached Travis directly?”
“If they did, he never told me.” The hint of a smile played across her lips. “Travis didn’t want me to worry.”
“So there were difficulties with the farm,” Tommy Lee said.
“No more than usual. Mr. Atkinson refused to sell us seedlings. We had to pay more because we used a supplier from Ashe County. That was the last time I heard Travis mention the Atkinsons.”
“Was that recent?”
“No. Back in the early spring.”
Tommy Lee looked at me. I could tell he was frustrated that nothing explained Travis’ motive.
“Had the Atkinsons sold you seedlings in the past?” I asked.
“Tom wanted to control everything. When he started, he grew his own seedlings. Travis was still in diapers. We didn’t cut our first trees till three years ago.”
“Long time to wait for a harvest,” I said.
“It took five years before those first seedlings were ready for the upper fields. Tom cleared more forest each year because we couldn’t tie up productive land waiting for Christmas tree growth. When Travis sold our cut last year, he used some of the money for the seedlings from Ashe County.”
“To accelerate the time?”
Edna nodded. “Travis said growers specialize now. Some only sell seedlings. They can plant them denser, and then after five years sell them to folks like us. That way no one waits the full growth cycle before collecting some cash. And it shortens our field time from fourteen years to nine.”
“Why wouldn’t the Atkinsons deal with Travis?” I asked.
“Mr. Atkinson said we were competitors since he also raised trees to maturity.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Edna agreed, “but he sold seedlings to other growers like us.”
“Anything else come up between the Atkinsons and Travis since then? Not necessarily about trees.”
“Not that Travis told me.”
“Had he been upset the last few days?” I asked.
Edna thought a moment. “He was fine till last Tuesday. Then I could tell he was out of sorts about something.”
“Tuesday,” I repeated. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. On Monday he’d cut one of the bigger fields. He hired some Mexicans to help him. He made a deal with a wholesaler out of Florida and they needed the trees early for distribution to lots around Miami. I reckon Christmas trees are big in Florida even though it’s supposed to be like summer.”
“But he didn’t say anything was wrong?”
“No. But a mother can tell. Then he went out late Tuesday night. I never heard him come home.”
“Did Travis say anything about Blake Nolan?”
“You mean Junior?”
“Yes.”
“That was Wednesday night,” she said.
“The night he had the wreck.”
She looked confused. “Blake Junior had an accident?”
“He hit a deer with his truck. He was killed.”
“Oh, my Lord.” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You didn’t know?” Tommy Lee asked.
“No. I ain’t been out of the house since I went grocery shopping last Tuesday.” She looked at Pace. “I was feeling poorly Sunday and didn’t get to church.”
“What about last
Wednesday?” I asked.
“Travis said he was going to meet Blake Junior that night. I went to bed before he came in. He didn’t say nothing about it the next day.”
“Were Travis and Blake Junior good friends?”
“Not particularly. Travis said they had some tree business to set right.”
“He used the words set right?”
“Yes, sir. Then he lit out after supper. I guess he was meeting Blake Junior somewhere.” She paused. “Killed you say?” She shook her head. “I hope he was set right with Jesus.” She looked at Pace. “Like my Travis.”
Chapter Seventeen
At six the next morning, I sat in front of my TV with a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of the Vista in the other. Melissa Bigham made her front-page deadline and Rachel’s standup and interview with Tommy Lee appeared on the Asheville station’s early morning news. She closed with a simple “This is Rachel Clayton reporting,” which made the piece usable for any media outlet willing to buy the rights. She and Dave Brock probably split the fee and Brock knew the ins and outs of the freelance market to insure they got the best price.
Although their video from the church made a big splash, the news anchors also quoted Melissa’s article because she provided the latest information. I’d given her the confirmation that Travis’ fingerprints matched those on the murder weapon.
Rachel had recorded two standups, one identifying Travis and the other saying the victim’s name was being withheld. When we left Edna, Tommy Lee followed through on his promise and gave Brock the go-ahead to use the version naming Travis. But he felt no obligation to offer further details. I knew Rachel would complain she’d been slighted.
Tommy Lee’s second call had been a rare courtesy to Jamison. He woke the D.A. and told him what happened. They agreed to meet at seven and prepare for the new round of questions as the story shifted to why someone would murder Carl’s killer. I planned to join them, but would beg off any news conference appearance. As things stood, the day wasn’t long enough for me to accomplish all I needed to do.
While driving to town, I ran through the priorities. The anonymous phone tip to Brock was our best lead. As soon as he could, Tommy Lee would make an official request for the blocked number. We’d keep that information to ourselves until we identified the source. Not even Jamison would know.
Fatal Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 15