Secret Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  I turned and saw Tommy Lee on his hands and knees, peering under the double bed. “You’re taller than me. See if you can reach whatever’s on the upper shelf.”

  As he got to his feet, the sheriff’s knees cracked like dry branches. I stepped aside and glanced back at Roger. He seemed curious as to what might be stored on the shelf. Tommy Lee’s fingers crested the top edge of the box, enabling him to slide it toward him until it dropped into his other hand.

  He set it on the foot of the unmade bed. “Have you seen this before?” he asked Roger.

  “Yeah. Dad used to collect pennies in it. I’d forgotten about it.”

  The box looked like something a small business would use for petty cash. It was about a foot long and eight inches wide. There was a keyed latch on the side and a small wire handle attached to the top.

  Tommy lifted it a few inches. “Too light to hold many pennies now.”

  He set it on the mattress and pushed the latch’s button. The top opened on squeaky hinges.

  “He never kept it locked,” Roger said. “The key was lost years ago.”

  Tommy Lee pulled out a bound stack of twenty-dollar bills. Then he pulled a second and a third. “I’d say his pennies have increased in value.”

  Roger’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus. Do you think he stashed that away from the store? You know, in case of a robbery?”

  “Maybe,” Tommy Lee said. “But my guess is we’re looking at five or six thousand dollars. Pretty good cash register reserve.”

  Roger shook his head. “Am I going to have to sort this mess out? What bills need paying? What supplies need to be ordered? Where the hell is his partner? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “So would we,” I said. “Have you found his lawyer yet?”

  “I just got a name from my mother this morning. During the divorce, her lawyer dealt with Bert Graves, whoever the hell he is.”

  “We know him,” Tommy Lee said. “Call his office this afternoon and tell him I advised you to see him as soon as possible.”

  Graves was a second-tier attorney who operated solo and was known for taking any case that walked through the door or rode by in an ambulance.

  From the box, the sheriff lifted several pages that had been folded in half lengthwise. Some were from a newspaper; some appeared to be plain white paper. He spread them out flat. The longest newspaper article was from the Charlotte Observer and dated last October. The story was about fraud in the food stamp program and documented cases in Charlotte and the eastern part of the state where investigators from the Food and Nutrition Services and the SBI had cracked rings of convenience and small grocery stores who accepted EBT cards for the purchase of off-limits items like cigarettes and beer. The worst offenders simply rang up items that never left the store and split the cash paid from the benefit account with the cardholder. That scam had all the trappings of what Rufus Taylor and Toby McKay had been doing.

  The white pages were Internet reprints of similar stories from news sources around the country. Big busts in Detroit, New York City, and Trenton. The scams ran into the millions of dollars and I began to understand we weren’t dealing with some nickel-and-dime corner store operation.

  A smaller article from the Asheville paper last April was the most disturbing. A fourth-grade girl in rural Buncombe County had gotten off the school bus to find the headless body of her cat stuffed in the family’s mailbox. The bus driver was just pulling away when he heard the child screaming. He stopped the vehicle and ran to help her. Then he called the police. The girl’s father, a Buddy Smith, owned a small grocery store. He said he’d caught some older boys shoplifting beer the night before. He didn’t know them, but believed they might have targeted his family for revenge. Smith was quoted as saying, “There’s some sick people out there.” Rufus or someone had circled the one line in the news story identifying the store as “Wilmer’s Convenience Corner.”

  “There weren’t any shoplifters,” I said.

  Tommy Lee gathered up the papers. “No. And it wasn’t revenge. It was a message.”

  Our search of the rest of the property turned up nothing. We watched Roger count the cash in the metal box, gave him a receipt for it and the news articles, and took them as potential evidence. Although we had no direct proof linking the money and the El Camino restoration to earnings from the food stamp fraud, the temporary confiscation gave us some control over Roger.

  We instructed him not to say anything about what we had found. His role was to follow the legal path for settling his father’s estate and discover this new partner in the process. In the grand scheme of the murder investigation, the money and a restored pickup weren’t items we’d refuse to return if their connection to a crime remained murky. Our objective was to find who killed Rufus and Sonny, not convict a dead fraud suspect.

  When Tommy Lee and I arrived at Sonny’s trailer, activity was winding down. The mobile crime lab was packing up and the head technician reported they’d lifted prints from the front door, the tool chest, the whiskey bottle and glass, and numerous knobs and open surfaces where the UV light revealed good images.

  As Tommy Lee had predicted, the M.E. estimated the time of death to be between midnight and three a.m. The body had been transported to the morgue for a full autopsy. There was no exit wound, and the working theory was a light-caliber bullet had ricocheted inside the skull and caused extensive brain damage.

  The small trailer felt claustrophobic and Tommy Lee asked Reece to step outside away from the forensics team. We walked to a storage shed about ten yards away.

  Tommy Lee leaned against a wall of rough plank boards. “I covered Ferguson with a quick phone call. Any state boys show up?”

  “No,” Reece said. “Only who you requested.”

  “Good. Did you find any papers?”

  “A utility bill and a bank statement were in a kitchen drawer.”

  “Nothing else? He didn’t have a place for his truck or motorcycle titles?”

  “No.”

  I looked around the driveway filled with police vehicles lined up behind Sonny’s truck like they’d cornered it after a high-speed chase. “Where’s the motorcycle? He must have finished working on it yesterday.”

  Reece pointed to the shed. “It’s in there.”

  A sliding wooden door on overhead rollers covered an area large enough for a small tractor to drive through. Reece grabbed a wrought-iron handle and pulled the door to the left. A shiny black motorcycle with chrome pipes stood just inside.

  “His bike’s probably worth more than everything else he owned combined,” Reece said.

  I remembered the comment by Charlie the mechanic that Sonny would marry his motorcycle if he could. I walked around the sleek machine. A black helmet dangled from a chin strap looped around the handlebar. A black leather pouch sat on the rear fender just behind the seat. Double buckles sealed the flap closed.

  “Did you check the saddlebag?” I asked Reece.

  He flushed. “No. There was a lot going on.”

  I made no comment as I slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The metal buckles could yield a clean set of prints.

  I found a pair of dark goggles, leather riding gloves, and a small weatherproof packet closed by a Velcro strip. Inside was the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles registration and the bike’s title. There was also a folded piece of white paper. Scrawled in a mix of cursive and print handwriting was a list of names. They were not the names of people; they were the names of more than twenty stores. Two names jumped out at me: Taylor’s Short Stop and Wilmer’s Convenience Corner.

  Chapter Eleven

  When we returned to the Sheriff’s Department, Tommy Lee immediately went to his office to call Ferguson and push for any information the SBI might have. The discovery of the list of stores, coupled with Pauline McKay’s statements and Sonny’s desire for protection, fueled the
theory that Rufus and Sonny had been murdered, either under the orders of, or directly by, a person or persons running a network of food stamp fraud.

  I, however, set the investigation aside and phoned Mom at the hospital for an update on Uncle Wayne.

  “How is he?”

  “Restless. Today wasn’t a good day.”

  “Well, you knew he’d be anxious to get out.”

  Mom sighed. “He’s running a fever and they’ve started him on a heavy dose of antibiotics.”

  My throat went dry. “Is there an infection in his brain?”

  “No. A spot of pneumonia in his right lung. In addition to the antibiotics, they’re coming in every two hours with breathing exercises and nebulizers to try to knock it out.”

  I felt a little better. Developing pneumonia in the hospital wasn’t that uncommon. There’s probably more bacteria and germs per square foot there than in a shopping mall at Christmas. But at Uncle Wayne’s age, pneumonia was nothing to fool with. Susan said she and her medical colleagues often refer to it as the “old folks’ friend” because it will take them when they’re suffering from a prolonged terminal disease, sparing them pain and misery.

  “I’m leaving the department now,” I said. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “I’m fine. You don’t need to come.” She spoke the words without real conviction. I knew she was worried about her brother.

  “No. I want to see him. Tommy Lee and I are finished for the day. I can swing by the funeral home and be there in thirty minutes.”

  A pause. Another sigh. “Well, if it’s no trouble, it would be nice to have Wayne’s electric razor. I’d like to keep him looking as neat as possible.”

  “All right. Anything you need?”

  “My knitting. It’s in the canvas bag in the bedroom. I might as well be productive.”

  I parked behind the funeral home a little after five and saw Fletcher’s Miata in the same spot it had been earlier. I felt a twinge of guilt that so much of the business of the funeral business was falling on him while my “part-time” deputy duties consumed ten and twelve hours a day.

  I found him and his fiancée, Cindy Todd, sitting at the kitchen table. Cindy worked as a loan officer at the Bank of America branch a few blocks away. The petite, attractive woman was not just the perfect mate for Fletcher but gave him credibility with the locals. She’d grown up in Gainesboro and her mother ran the Cardinal Café, whereas Fletcher was a native of Detroit. Grieving families don’t want to entrust their loved ones to strangers. Cindy’s engagement meant Fletcher was now accepted as part of the town’s family.

  Seeing them at the kitchen table presented a believable image of what could come to be in the years ahead after my mother and uncle were gone.

  “You okay, Barry?” Fletcher stood.

  I realized I’d been staring at them.

  “Yes, sorry. Thinking about something from the case.”

  Cindy rose and lifted Mom’s knitting bag. “Your mother called and said you were coming by.” She bent over and picked up a second bag. Mom’s overnight valise. “I put your uncle’s razor in here, as well as some clothes she wanted for herself.”

  “Thank you.”

  She handed them to me. “Fletcher told me about Sonny McKay. That’s just terrible. I feel so bad for Mrs. McKay.”

  “I hope that was all right,” Fletcher said. “I figured the word was out.”

  His comment reminded me that the murder hadn’t generated media coverage. Tommy Lee had kept it off the scanners, but no one was denying what had happened. I remembered Melissa Bigham of the Vista was taking the two weeks after Labor Day off. Otherwise, she probably would have beaten the crime lab to the scene. “It’s fine. We’re just keeping it low-key. We’re starting with forensic evidence. Afraid I can’t say any more.”

  “Sure. We understand,” Fletcher said. “And don’t worry about anything here. Freddy’s clear to work the next two weeks and Cindy’s offered to help any way she can.”

  After eliciting a promise from Fletcher to let me know if things got crazy, I headed for Mission Hospital in Asheville. I phoned Susan and she insisted on meeting me after stopping at our house to feed Democrat.

  I’d just disconnected when the cell rang again. The caller ID flashed “Archie.” Tommy Lee was supposed to let him know when to initiate contact with Sonny. Had he heard about the murder or was he calling to put the now-defunct plan into action? Either way, I wasn’t ready to deal with him. I let the call go to voicemail.

  Uncle Wayne was asleep. The color I’d seen in his cheeks the previous day was gone. Instead, his pallid face looked tense and troubled. His fingers twitched and kneaded the bed sheet. His breathing rasped. A clear tube supplied a boost of oxygen to each nostril.

  Mom was reading a book in the visitor’s recliner. She set it aside and stood. “Here, let me take those.”

  She grabbed the valise and knitting bag from my hands and placed them on either side of her chair, building a nest with her possessions.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “Fever’s down to one hundred one. They’re hopeful that the antibiotics are taking effect.”

  “Have they discussed putting him back in intensive care?”

  “No. The treatment would be the same, and as long as he’s breathing on his own, they’ll keep him here.”

  “How about you? Are you getting any rest?”

  “Enough. Hilda’s waiting on me hand and foot.” She smiled. “I actually find it easier being here rather than constantly having Hilda attempt to do things for me.”

  “Maybe I should stay at Hilda’s.”

  Mom laughed and gestured to the recliner. “Why don’t you sit? I know you’ve had a long day. Have Mrs. McKay and Sonny decided how to handle Mr. McKay’s funeral?”

  I realized Mom had been out of touch with the day’s events.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Why don’t you sit? I have some things to tell you.”

  She gave a worried glance at Uncle Wayne and did as I requested. I told her about the murder, avoiding details. The tears came as she grieved for Pauline McKay—a woman who in less than a week lost both her husband and her son.

  “Fletcher’s being very consoling,” I said. “He’s helping her reschedule the funerals, and Freddy’s available to assist as much as needed. So, I don’t want you to worry.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try. But it’s hard not to. I sit here all day, looking at my brother and realizing neither he nor I will ever be any younger than we are right now. Time is moving into twilight for both of us.”

  “Mom, I’m sure he’s going to make a full recovery. And you, you’ve got more energy than I do.”

  “Barry, I look at your uncle and I see an old man who I worry about going up and down stairs. I see myself facing a future with few options and a loss of control. Wayne will need rehab, possibly at home. I’ll do what I can, but what I won’t do is become a burden to you and Susan. You made one sacrifice coming back to help with your father. I’m not going to let you make another.” She bit her lower lip and looked out the window. The sun sat low on the mountain ridges.

  “Mom, you’re not a burden. We’ll get through this together.”

  “Yes. But I believe your uncle and I can make it work better for everyone if we move out of the funeral home.”

  A part of my mind heard her statement with relief. This was the logical, rational action I hoped she would take. But, a larger part, spanning from childhood, recoiled at the prospect, surprising me with its intensity. I’d not known Mom in any other context. To me, she was as much a part of the funeral home as the creaking floorboards or Formica kitchen table. Fletcher and Cindy were suddenly aliens invading a space I wanted to preserve.

  “I made a call,” she said. “To Alderway. I asked if they had any rule against a brother and a sister sharing a two-bedroom unit.
They don’t.”

  Alderway, a retirement community about five miles out of town, offered a continuum of options from independent living to critical care and dementia services. Several of Mom’s friends were already there. As those places go, Alderway was safe, secure, and beautifully maintained. But my first thought was the nickname bestowed upon the complex. Black humor dubbed it, “Clayton’s Waiting Room.” In other words, Alderway was the last stop before our funeral home.

  Three sharp taps sounded from the doorway. An elderly man brandishing a gnarled rhododendron walking stick entered.

  “Reverend Pace!” Mom rose from the chair, thrilled to see the visitor.

  “I’m so sorry, Connie. I would have come sooner but I was out of town for the weekend.” He opened his arms and engulfed Mom with a hug.

  Reverend Lester Pace was a vanishing breed. Nearly eighty, he still roamed the hills serving a few isolated Methodist congregations as a circuit-riding preacher, although instead of a horse, he rode a Plymouth Duster. His worn jacket and string tie could have come from the Salvation Army and were probably as old as his car.

  He’d preached at funerals my grandfather had conducted. A larger-than-life figure, he held himself above no man, woman, or child. With his weathered, lined face, white hair and piercing eyes, Lester Pace was a paradox of gentleness and ferocity. What he elicited from those who crossed his path was respect, which often grew into reverence. Far from the fire and brimstone image a first glance might create, Pace was a rugged shepherd tending a flock that lived on the margins. His very presence seemed to charge the air around him.

  “Barry.” Pace shook my hand and the calluses on his palm were like sandpaper. “You’ve got a full plate, don’t you, son?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all very tragic.”

  He nodded gravely, and then looked at Uncle Wayne. “What’s his status?”