Dangerous Undertaking (10 page)

Tommy Lee shrugged off the threat. “You’ll get your phone call and I’ll ask Judge Wood to authorize releasing you on your own recognizance. I’m not making this personal, Cain. You’ll get the same treatment as anybody else who breaks the law.”

“You wouldn’t know the law if it bit you in the ass.”

Tommy Lee turned to Jack. “Thanks for taking the punch. I’ll need a statement.”

“You got it,” said Jack. “I’ll be down to press charges later. He’s not worth interrupting my beer.”

Tommy Lee pushed Cain ahead of him to the patrol car and locked him in the back seat. He picked up the mike and told the dispatcher he was bringing in a prisoner.

“Ten-four. And Sheriff, we’ve had a call about a poisoning,” said the dispatcher.

“Didn’t you call poison control?” He barked the question into the microphone.

“Negative. The victim is a horse.”

“A what?”

“A horse. You know. Trigger. Hi, Ho, Silver.”

“God-damn-it! I’ve got a killer on the loose and my political opponent in handcuffs. I’m not interested in a dead horse.”

The radio went silent for a few seconds as if the dispatcher was trying to build up his courage before talking to his irate boss.

“Uh, the horse, sir, the horse isn’t dead, yet.”

“And,” asked Tommy Lee, stretching the word into at least three syllables, “what? Would they like me to drop by and shoot it?”

“And the call came from Charlie Hartley. He was quite distraught. Pitiful actually. The vet told him he thought it was poison. Charlie insisted I let you know.”

Tommy Lee sighed and the anger left him. He knew as well as I now did how important those horses were to the old man. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. See if you can get somebody up there.”

“We’re spread to the limit, Sheriff. It’ll have to be early this evening when the new shift comes in.”

I raised my hand and caught Tommy Lee’s eye.

Chapter 9

The sun was dropping behind the ridge of Hope Quarry as I drove around Charlie’s house to the barnyard. Parked beside the plow was a white pickup truck with
Blanchard Large Animal Vet
lettered on its side.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do or say in the barn. I wasn’t sure why the hell I had volunteered to come up here. Because it was Charlie and I liked him. Because I liked Reverend Pace and the fact that he once buried an old man’s dog. I might be at a loss for words, but I could be there.

Charlie Hartley leaned over the stall railing and watched the veterinarian examine Nell. I slipped quietly beside him.

“Tommy Lee sent me,” I whispered.

“Thanks,” he said and turned his concentration back to the suffering animal. He didn’t seem to care that I didn’t have a badge or a uniform.

Sporadic convulsions rippled across the mare’s flank, and her nostrils flared with every breath. Charlie shuddered with each sign of the animal’s agony. All I could do was reach my arm across the old man’s shoulders and give a squeeze to say hang on.

Rich Blanchard tucked his stethoscope in his jacket pocket and shook his head. He gave his patient a gentle pat on the rump, then turned to us.

“I’m afraid the foal will be stillborn. We’ll deal with induced labor later.”

Charlie laid his face against the back of his hands and suppressed a sob. “And Nell?” he managed to ask.

“The next few hours are critical. I’ve given her a heavy dose of mineral oil and an injection of a general antitoxin. I’m also flying a blood sample to the Veterinary Research Lab at NC State. In the meantime, we’ll rig a sling to keep her on her feet. Keep her flushed with large quantities of distilled water. You can get it by the gallon at Ingle’s Supermarket.”

“You think she was poisoned?” I asked.

“Never seen anything like it. No sign of disease. Yes, I think she ingested something toxic. Charlie said she was fine until yesterday evening.”

“Downright frisky when I let her out to the south pasture,” confirmed the old man.

“The stallion with her?” asked the young vet.

“No. Keep them separated.”

“And he is fine,” observed the vet. “Must have been something she got in the pasture.”

“Who’d want to poison my Nell? That’s why I called the sheriff.”

Blanchard shook his head. “I don’t mean to suggest it was intentional. Maybe somebody dumped rancid garbage. Then she ate it, or it got in the water supply.”

“Never found any dumping on my land, and the only stream in that pasture flows from the quarry. No way for anybody to get back up there since the road growed over.”

“Your other horse been in that field?” I asked.

“Not for a couple days.”

Rich Blanchard thought for a few seconds. “I’m going to take a sample of the creek water and send it with the blood. Might be nothing, but right now we got too many questions and no answers.”

He pulled a clean vial from his black bag and walked out the back to the south pasture. Then I heard car doors slam in the barnyard. Charlie stood oblivious to the sound, staring at his beloved mare.

“I’ll see who’s here,” I said.

Reverend Pace and a young woman were standing by his maroon Plymouth Duster, circa 1970. He smiled at me and pointed to the veterinarian’s truck.

“Is she foaling?”

“No,” I said in a tone that dissolved the smile from his face. “The foal’s dead. The vet thinks Nell ate something poisonous. Charlie may lose her too.”

Reverend Pace leaned against the hood of the car. “Oh, dear God.” He squinted his eyes shut as if he wanted the sockets themselves to close up. “Don’t let that happen.”

He took a few deep breaths, opened his eyes and turned to the woman beside him. “Wait here. I’d like to speak to Charlie alone.”

I took his words to apply to me as well, and I stayed with his companion as the old preacher disappeared into the barn to comfort his friend.

“I’m Barry Clayton.”

“Sarah Hollifield. I’m an intern with Reverend Pace. Just started today. We were on our way back to town from another visit, and he said he wanted me to meet someone. Guess we came at a bad time.”

“No. You came at a good time. I can’t think of anyone who could help Charlie more.”

“Is it bad?” She looked to the barn and her smooth forehead wrinkled with concern.

Sarah couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Her auburn hair framed her cherub face in a simple page-boy cut. She wore a green, V-necked sweater over a crisp, white blouse that was open at the neck and exposed a small gold cross hanging from a delicate chain. Her skirt was a muted tartan plaid hemmed just below the knee. Her black flats, dangerously close to a fresh horse-dropping, were polished to a soft finish. I imagined they had been extracted from terry cloth shoe bags assigned a special compartment in her suitcase. She was the eager angel wardrobed in a parochial school dress code.

“Bad,” I said. “About as bad as it can get for the old man.”

Sarah lifted her right hand to her mouth and chewed her fingers nervously. I noticed a smear of blood on the cuff of her sweater.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“No,” she said absently. Then she saw I was looking at her sleeve. “It was in Reverend Pace’s car. Must have been from the rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

“Yes. He said somebody left him rabbits they’d shot. Just dropped them on the front seat.” She shook her head in amazement. “He said it happens all the time. People give him vegetables, deer meat, even pigs’ feet.” Her mouth scrunched up at the thought and she tried to pick off the flecks of dried blood. “Reverend Pace warned me to wear a different outfit next time, and that I especially wouldn’t want to step in any surprises in these shoes.” She glanced down and saw the pile of horse dung. “Oh, my.” She edged closer to me. “And he said this skirt will never make it over a barbed-wire fence. ‘You applied for field work, Sarah. That’s just what this is.’” She smiled. “He told me when he first started, he rode out in the hills wearing a tailored suit, and then walked home with a load of birdshot in his rear. Learned the hard way never to dress like a Federal Revenuer.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“This afternoon we took a sugar-cured ham to a family that lost a child.”

“The Colemans?”

“Yes.”

“But they wouldn’t be home,” I said. “Reverend Pace should have known they went to Kentucky last night.”

“Oh, he knew. He said it would be easier for them to accept the gift if they just found it when they got back. He didn’t even leave a note. He said they’ve got a long row to hoe, and they don’t need to worry about thanking a preacher they don’t know. I couldn’t believe the Colemans didn’t lock up, but I guess they don’t have anything worth stealing. Reverend Pace just looped a rope around the shank bone, double-knotted it and hung the ham from the woodstove pipe. Then we closed the door and walked around their property looking for rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Yes. Do you think he’s kind of eccentric?”

“No. I’d say he has a practical reason for everything he does.” I also knew if Pace and his intern had been on visitations all day he hadn’t heard about Fats McCauley. I’d catch him alone before I left. I walked over to his car and looked in the front window. “Did he leave the Colemans the rabbits too?”

“No. He took them out before he picked me up. He said greeting me with a couple of dead bunnies would be too much.” Her brown eyes widened at the thought. “This is a lot different than seminary, Mr. Clayton.”

“They both sound like they’re from another era,” said Susan. She lay stretched out across the braided throw-rug on my living room floor. Beside her, George nibbled a leaf of lettuce while Susan scratched the guinea pig behind her ears.

George had been my transition from married life to single life. Not that I believed a wife could be replaced by a rodent, although I know some divorced men would argue that point. Some zoologists argue a guinea pig is not a rodent. I did not mean to insult wives or guinea pigs. I had just wanted someone to come home to.

The pet store owner had assured me of the animal’s masculinity, and my new companion had been thereby dubbed Curious George in honor of the playful monkey whose adventures I had enjoyed reading as a child. Within the first month, it became obvious that George had indeed been too curious because I found him one morning in the company of three miniature white and brown Georges who could only have come from what I had assumed was a guinea pig beer belly. The embarrassed pet store owner took back the offspring, but I had grown too attached to trade George in for the ballsy model. And not wanting to create a pet with an identity crisis, I decided to leave George as George, but added the appropriate surname Eliot.

“What do you mean another era?” I asked. I sat on the sofa nursing a cold beer. We had shared a late supper of roast beef sandwiches and salad. George enjoyed the green trimmings.

Susan wore a pair of my sweat pants and a UNC-Tar Heels tee shirt. No hospital rounds tomorrow meant she would spend the night at the cabin. After the day I’d had, I was grateful for her company.

“Well, how many circuit-riding preachers still exist?” she asked.

“A few, I guess. Pace is the only one I know.”

“And how many goodie-two-shoes who come across like they’re out of a priory school?”

“Jesus, Susan, she’s training to be a minister. She’s not into body piercing. You of all people should appreciate a woman making it in a man’s field.”

“I do. Don’t be so defensive. I only said they sound like they’re from another era. That doesn’t mean they’re not playing an important role today. They are.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” I took a swallow of beer and thought about what was really bugging me. “Maybe I’m the one who’s out of it. I feel incompetent, Susan. Last night I watched Uncle Wayne defuse the tension between that pompous power company executive and Mrs. Coleman. Me, I’m going through the motions, playing a role of somber sympathizer, standing in the background as a surrogate for my dad so that Clayton and Clayton can continue. Today, I was on the front lines with Tommy Lee and Reverend Pace. It felt more, I don’t know, more important.”

“Who’s more important?” she asked. “Me or the ambulance driver racing my patient to the hospital?”

“You’re each more important at different times.”

“Very good, Mr. Deputy Reverend Clayton. And since I can’t save every patient who comes to me, and since death eventually comes to every family, there will be a time when you are the most critical person in the life of the grieving. If that’s not important, I don’t know what is. Buryin’ Barry has the respect and love of this little town, he has the respect and love of me.” She got up, came over and kissed me on the cheek. “So, don’t quit your daytime job.”

Chapter 10

I had a restless night. Every time I moved, the pain in my shoulder conjured up the face of Dallas Willard. When I did drift off, my dreams always ended at the door of Fats’ bathroom with water flowing red around my feet and horror waiting on the other side. Dallas and Fats claimed me waking and sleeping.

I heard Susan’s rhythmic breathing beside me, and gently slipped from under the covers. Looking down at her slender form, barely visible in the faint light, I felt both protector and protected. A woman’s strength has depths that men too late appreciate. I had first met Susan four months ago at the graveside of a patient to whom she had given every measure of her skill and talent. Her courageous dedication was to people and not to names on medical charts.

A few minutes after five, I braved the morning chill to fetch the local newspaper from the head of my driveway where I found it, as usual, tossed in the ditch. I took the paper to the kitchen, started the first pot of coffee, and assessed the damage reported in the
Gainesboro VISTA
.

The photograph dominated the front page. Cain’s bloodied nose was visible, although the black and white picture made the blood look more like smudges of dirt. The caption “
SHERIFF ARRESTS ELECTION OPPONENT
” was less sensational than I expected, and the body of the story was carried over to a back page. The bylined reporter, Melissa Bigham, emphasized that Cain had started a verbal argument in Clyde’s Roadside and then thrown a punch at an employee of the Asheville police department. Big Jack Andrews sounded like a saint in the newsprint. Melissa Bigham reported Cain was considering a lawsuit for the use of excessive force, but she had also queried a variety of high-ranking legal experts ranging from the local spokesman for the American Civil Liberties Union to the North Carolina Attorney General. They were all quoted as saying Cain had neither a case nor an excuse for his conduct.

I chuckled. Melissa Bigham had done Tommy Lee a favor. She had neatly boxed Cain in by shifting the story’s focus to the appropriateness of his behavior rather than the physical fracas of two political combatants.

Fats McCauley’s death was covered as a separate story, complete with speculation that the crime was linked to Dallas Willard. Tommy Lee was quoted regarding the ongoing manhunt and the appeal for people to remain calm but vigilant. In the local section, the paper gave a brief obituary on the Coleman boy. I decided I’d read enough bad news. I got my first cup of coffee and a sharpened pencil, and lost myself in the crossword puzzle.

I walked into the Sheriff’s Department at twenty minutes after eight. Reece Hutchins turned around from the coffee machine and gave me a cautious nod. “So, it’s true then. The paper said you were at Clyde’s consulting with the sheriff.”

“Nothing official, Reece. Just reviewing how I discovered Fats.”

Reece visibly relaxed. “Want some coffee? County lets us have it free.”

“To keep you from sleeping on the job?”

“Sheriff didn’t say that, did he?”

I realized Deputy Hutchins had no sense of humor, only a sense of importance.

The door to the private office opened, and Tommy Lee stuck his head out. “Barry, I hoped that was you. Come on in.”

Reece got up from his desk to follow, but Tommy Lee waved him back. “Watch the front desk, Reece. We’ve got things to go over.”

I closed the door. “Don’t make things hard for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Reece. I can tell he thinks I’m horning in.”

“That’s his problem.”

“It’s my problem if I’m going to keep living in this community.”

“Okay. I’ll give him some attention later. You see the paper?” He pointed to the
Gainesboro VISTA
spread out over his desk.

“Yes. That reporter did a good job defusing things.”

“She did a great job. Cain’s lawyer already called this morning saying there would be no lawsuit because quote—‘Cain didn’t want to muddy the issue of competent law enforcement with the personal affront he suffered.’”

“Magnanimous of him. What’s the issue of competent law enforcement?”

“That Gainesboro is under a crime wave and needs big city experience for dealing with a hard-core criminal element.”

“I don’t know if I’d call Dallas Willard a hard-core criminal element,” I said.

“But it certainly blows the murder statistics for Laurel County all to hell. In politics, it’s all spin. We’ve never had so many homicides. Barry, the best thing for me to do is catch Dallas Willard. Then no one will remember Cain’s name.”

“Any word?” I asked.

“Nothing on Dallas. I did get some preliminary information out of forensics for Fats. The shell was fired from Dallas’ shotgun.”

“Why would Dallas kill Fats?”

“Are we back to the land?” asked Tommy Lee. “You hear anything from Carl Romeo?”

“Not yet.”

“Wonder if it’s too early for him to be in his office?” Tommy Lee hit an intercom button and instructed his secretary to get Carl Romeo on the phone.

“You said he was researching other heirs,” said Tommy Lee. “I’d like to know what he discovered.”

“Forensics find anything else?”

“Not really. I got this stuff over the phone. Full report won’t be ready for a day or two. Oh, the lab man did mention one thing. You know how they like everything accounted for.”

“Yeah. They don’t care how gruesome the details are as long as they have an explanation for them.”

“Well, forensics is interested in the notepad you pointed out in Fats’ bedroom. By checking the depression on the top sheet, the lab determined your name was written in Fats’ handwriting. But, the actual note could not be found. I figured Fats might have jotted down your name as a reminder that you’d be calling him and then written another note about checking the weather forecast. Maybe it would affect his plans for something. The wastebasket contained little notes for a lot of things.”

“But, if he tore it off and didn’t throw it away, it should have been on a calendar or the refrigerator or somewhere. Did they check his pockets?”

“Yes. And we don’t have any reason to think that Fats went out after you and Susan took him home. Unless the crime lab overlooked it, or Fats destroyed it in a way we haven’t traced, I’d have to say the murderer took it.”

“That’s real comforting.”

“Yeah. Dallas still has his shotgun, and he still might want you to talk to his grandma in heaven.”

The phone on Tommy Lee’s desk chirped, then a woman spoke through the intercom. “Carl Romeo is on line three.”

“Pull up your chair,” Tommy Lee told me. He punched a button on the instrument. “Good morning, Carl. I hope you don’t mind being on speaker phone. Barry Clayton is here with me.”

“No problem,” said Carl. “Glad you called. I just left Barry a message at the funeral home.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Tommy Lee. “You found a Willard heir.”

“I did. Spent yesterday afternoon at the courthouse going through county records.”

“And the heir is Fats McCauley?” ventured Tommy Lee.

“That would be nice and neat,” replied Carl. “It would also be wrong. I thought the same thing, but there isn’t a connection at all. The legal heir, the one the state will recognize, is Talmadge Watson.”

“Talmadge Watson?” exclaimed Tommy Lee.

He looked at me and I shrugged. I’d never heard of the man.

“That’s a surprise,” said Tommy Lee. “I never knew Martha and Talmadge were related.”

“Oh, they’re related all right. Brother and sister. At least up until sixty years ago. You have to remember that’s before my time,” said Carl. “We Romeos were still in New Jersey.”

“I’ve lived here all my life and never knew that,” said Tommy Lee.

We heard Carl chuckle on his end of the phone. “I did my own detective work. I asked Ruth here in the office. She called her eighty-eight-year-old aunt who said it was a double feud.”

“Double feud?” asked Tommy Lee.

“Yeah. Martha ran off with a Willard when she was fourteen. Back then it was like a Hatfield eloping with a McCoy. Martha was disowned by the Watson clan.”

“Including this Talmadge Watson?” I asked.

“That’s the double feud part,” said Carl. “A couple years later Talmadge committed an even greater crime. He married a Cherokee Indian.”

“Seems like that would have brought brother and sister together,” I said. “They both followed their hearts.”

“We’re talking mountain families here,” said Tommy Lee. “Each of them would have thought the other married beneath them. You don’t back off that kind of grudge.”

“Would Martha’s grandchildren have even known Talmadge Watson was their great uncle?” I asked.

“Talmadge Watson is not what I’d call a high-profile character,” said Tommy Lee. “He rarely comes off his land. His name was probably never spoken in Martha’s household.”

“I know it never came up when the will was drawn,” said Carl. “Dallas might not know at all.”

Tommy Lee cleared his throat for an official pronouncement. “Keep it that way, Carl.”

“I’m going to have to execute the estate,” warned the lawyer.

“Right. Sometime. But not today, not this week, not this month. If Dallas is running around trigger-happy with a shotgun, I don’t want you or me or Barry putting Talmadge Watson in his sights. I mean it, Carl. You tell no one.”

“All right, Sheriff. I can take a hint.”

There was a sharp rap on the glass window of the office door. Tommy Lee thanked Carl and hung up.

“Come in,” he said.

Reece entered stiffly, looking past me to the sheriff. “Radio call from the Highway Patrol. They’re notifying us they may be initiating traffic control up near Charlie Hartley’s farm. Official request is for this afternoon. Said we’re welcome to help.”

“That’s odd,” said Tommy Lee. “What kind of traffic control do you need on that two-lane blacktop? Reece, you take a patrol car and be there. You’re the best traffic man in the department.”

Reece beamed and looked at me to make sure I’d heard the praise. “No problem. If they need me, I’m always ready.”

When the deputy had left, Tommy Lee added, “Why don’t you and I take an unofficial ride up there now. You mind?”

“Not at all.”

Rich Blanchard met us outside Charlie’s barn.

“We lost her. Nell died about half an hour ago.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Tommy Lee.

“How’s he taking it?” asked the sheriff. “Can we talk with him?”

“That would help. If you keep him occupied, I’ll get my assistant and a truck, and we’ll remove the carcass from the stable. He shouldn’t have to see that.”

“And what’s all this about the Highway Patrol and traffic control?”

“I don’t know,” said the vet. “Must be because of the report. I expect we’ll have some visitors today.”

“Visitors?” asked Tommy Lee.

“Yeah. Yesterday, I air-freighted that specimen of blood and a creek water sample directly to the veterinary lab. A friend of mine is the supervisor, and he ran the tests last night. He called shortly after midnight. The toxic waste in the water makes Love Canal look like lemonade. I came right back here and found Charlie still sitting up with Nell, but she never had a prayer. My friend is required to make a full report to the EPA first thing this morning. He said don’t be surprised if they’re here by noon with a battery of forms and questions. To them, a dead horse is just collateral damage, if you know what I mean.”