Dangerous Undertaking (8 page)
“Then why wasn’t he mad at his grandmother?” I asked. “She drew up the map, but Dallas made it a point for me to tell her he loved her when I met up with her in heaven. That’s the reason he shot me.”
“Yeah,” said Tommy Lee. “I couldn’t quite square that part either. Thought maybe you’d have some ideas.”
I examined the sheet of paper. It didn’t look like a legal document, more an illustration of intentions. The April date corresponded to the time Norma Jean had prepaid Martha’s funeral. It was logical that if Norma Jean and Martha were making final burial arrangements, they would also update or complete a will. Perhaps all the grandchildren had received such a drawing, and somewhere an attorney would have the proper documents to turn this sketch into a surveyed and registered inheritance.
Why was Dallas excluded? And who was F.W.? Then the answer came to me. “This is Dallas,” I said, pointing to the middle layer. “Remember I told you Grandma Martha had started calling him Francis.”
“Oh, yeah, Saint Francis of Assisi because he talked to the animals.” He shook his head. “What a family. How could she possibly be considered to be of sound mind and then will part of her land to Saint Francis?”
“Norma Jean probably went to the attorney with her. It’s not considered irrational to bequeath your estate to your nearest of kin. I’m sure the official paperwork does not include the name Francis.”
“Well, knowing the Willard property like I do,” said Tommy Lee, “it makes sense. That center section is the highest ground, and it’s the prettiest. Couple of bold streams flow off of it. I could see Dallas moving up there.”
“Nobody lives on this property now?” I asked.
“You know mountaineers own land they set aside for hunting,” he explained. “They settled in the valleys and surrounded themselves with ample forest for both privacy and game. It’s only in the last fifteen years that developers have eyed these ridges as prized real estate. I’d say Martha Willard was just stubborn enough to hold onto her tract.”
“But the grandchildren may have seen it differently,” I said. “That’s cause enough for a feud.”
“Yep. Look into it while I try to make some sense of the madness here.”
“Can I take this?” I asked, reaching for the map.
“It’s yours. The original is in the case file and this copy sure as hell ain’t doing me any good stuck in my pocket.”
Linda Trine’s office was located in the limbo land between Gainesboro’s commercial district and the more popular Sky High Mall several miles out at the interstate where the incoming tourists first exited. The stretch of highway included light industrial offices, fast-food franchises, and an assortment of gasoline and convenience stations.
The Appalachian Relief Center was not a center at all, but rather a loose network of charity organizations with the common purpose of serving mountain families in need. A.R.C. offices were scattered throughout the mountain cities of the Carolinas, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky. Linda Trine had taken what twenty-five years ago had been her church social service committee and through hard work and unwavering dedication unified relief efforts into a nationally recognized operation. She accomplished all of it without creating proliferating bureaucracy and escalating overhead.
A.R.C. shared a metal warehouse building with a dog-grooming business. I drove past the first entrance. It led into the front lot where women parked their cars and carried their precious canines in for the absurd beautifications performed by the Purple Velvet Poodle Parlor. The second drive looped around the backside of the building to the offices and warehouse that dispensed food, blankets, and clothing to a segment of humanity upon which life had lavished only hard times.
The waiting room was furnished in the ever popular curbside-recyclable motif consisting of a lumpy sofa, three straight-backed chairs, and a recliner permanently jammed in the extended position. The furniture was peopled with two lean-faced women, four shaggy children, and a grizzled man, aged somewhere between fifty and seventy, who sat beneath the
THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING
poster, a cigarette dangling between his lips. They all waited in impoverished silence.
I walked over to the receptionist who, giving me little more than a cursory glance at the hand protruding from my stomach, shoved a form across the counter, turned back to her filing and said, “Fill it out and report the date of your last visit if known.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m Barry Clayton, and I’m here to speak to Linda Trine about Dallas Willard.”
The woman gave me her full attention. Everyone knew about Dallas Willard.
“Mr. Clayton?” She questioned if she had repeated my name correctly. I nodded reassurance. “Let me ring her for you.” After a brief word on the phone, she directed me to the back door. The hallway beyond fed four small offices before flowing out into the storage warehouse.
Linda Trine stuck her beaming face out of the last door on the left. “Barry, I heard you were in season. Remind me never to stand beside you at a funeral.” She ushered me into her office, picked up a stack of files from the seat of a chair, dumped them on the floor, and bade me sit down. Organized chaos surrounded us. In addition to the piles of paper on the floor and desk, the walls were adorned with Post-It notes proclaiming a variety of names, dates, and phone numbers.
Linda pulled a wooden swivel chair from behind the desk so that she wouldn’t have to stare over the mountainous mess. She was what folks in the country call a big-boned, healthy gal, probably pushing six feet in height and sixty years in age. We crossed paths occasionally if I was conducting a funeral for one of her clients. She was always good to attend and be of comfort to the family. Linda sported a no-nonsense attitude, and I knew whatever I asked her, she would give me a straight answer. In keeping with that trait, her welcoming humor vanished and her brow furrowed with undiluted concern.
“How can I help?” she asked, getting straight to the purpose of my visit.
“Dallas Willard,” I said. “This hasn’t been made public yet, but it looks like he killed Fats McCauley last night.”
“Good God,” she exclaimed. “You sure?”
“Evidence needs to be checked, but I’d say the odds are Dallas walked into town and killed Fats in his apartment. We have no idea why.”
“Have you talked to Alex Soles?”
“He said you told him Dallas acted strangely.”
“Did he say I thought Dallas needed help?”
“Yes. Alex came to me in the hospital tremendously upset that he hadn’t followed up on your request.”
“He never saw Dallas? I can’t believe it. I was very specific about it.” Her amazement turned to visible anger.
“What made you speak to Alex?” I asked.
“I’ve known Dallas since he was four. He’s always been shy and reserved. Everyone knew he wasn’t quite normal, but he’d never been violent. So, it was completely out of character when Miguel Rodriguez complained about him.”
“Who’s Miguel Rodriguez?”
“Oversees the migrant camps. He’s an investigator for the wage and hour division of the U.S. Department of Labor. Compliance officer is the old term. He works with migrant farm laborers from Florida to Virginia. He makes inspections throughout the growing season, not only regarding wage payments but also living conditions.”
“How’d Rodriguez cross paths with Dallas?”
“It seems a few months ago Dallas verbally harassed a bus load of workers unloading at the Bennetts Creek camp that borders the Willard property. Stood off on the side of the road shouting for their destruction. ‘Set one foot on my land and God Almighty will consume you with hellfire.’ Miguel said it was stuff like that. Most of the workers are Hispanic and speak little English, but it still unnerved them to see Dallas ranting and raving. Miguel was there that day.”
“Did he talk to Dallas?” I asked.
“He tried, but Dallas turned his epithets on Miguel, then drove off in his pickup. I swung by the next afternoon when the bus brought the workers from the fields. Dallas was standing by the road, like a prophet out of the wilderness, yelling as they got off and went to their shanties.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Just for a few minutes. He knew me well enough to calm down. Told me they were plotting to take his land and that he would die first. I tried to get through to him that these were simple people with no power to do anything. He just looked at me for a few seconds, then he whispered more to himself than to me, ‘Yes, the power controls them and they don’t know it.’ With that cryptic pronouncement, he left. Barry, Dallas seemed psychotic, and that was my big concern. I telephoned Alex Soles. He said Dallas wasn’t his patient, but that he was part of an Alzheimer’s support group. Alex said he would speak with him.”
“Well, that explains why Alex was so upset when he saw me at the hospital.”
“And since Dallas never came back to the camps, I thought everything was under control.”
“Why would he think the migrants wanted his land?” I asked.
“Because there is a proposal to build a central migrant facility. It grew out of a government study that concluded better care and living conditions could be provided if everything in the county were consolidated at one location. Dallas must have gotten wind of it and thought they wanted the family property. Maybe he was actually approached, or he heard some of the farmers discussing it. That’s all I know, Barry, and I’ve only learned that since I spoke to Dallas. It still doesn’t explain why he’d murder his own family, or why he tried to kill you.”
I pulled the map from my pocket. “Did he show you this? It’s a rough drawing of how Martha Willard’s property could be divided.”
Linda studied it for a few seconds, and then shook her head. “Have you talked to Carl Romeo?”
“No. How is he involved?” The Gainesboro attorney had drawn up my parents’ wills.
“Evidently he handled Martha Willard’s estate. Dallas said he’d take Carl a paper to stop them.”
“This paper?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you ought to drop by and see him.”
As soon as I got in my Jeep, I called the law office of Carl Romeo and was told Mr. Romeo was just on his way to a luncheon meeting.
“This is Barry Clayton,” I said. “I need to speak to him for one minute.”
After a few seconds of silence, Carl’s voice broke through. “My God, Barry, how are you?”
“All things considered, I’m fine. But I need to talk to you. When are you out of your luncheon meeting?”
“What luncheon meeting?” he said, and then he laughed. “That was just Ruth making sure I get lunch. Plus she wants my clients to think I’m always headed for some power rendezvous. I was running a few errands and grabbing a bite at a drive-through.”
“Sit tight and I’ll bring lunch to you. My treat. You can have anything on the Cardinal Cafe menu.”
Sitting at his conference table, I wondered if Carl Romeo and Linda Trine had taken the same office organization seminar. File folders had to be swept to either side to clear a spot for our roast beef sandwiches and onion rings. Carl declined the jumbo root beer I brought him and retrieved a low-cal soda from the mini-refrigerator in the corner.
“The wife’s got me on a diet,” he remarked, just before popping an onion ring in his mouth and licking the grease traces off his fingers. It crossed his mind that I no longer had a wife to worry about my waistline, and he asked, “You got someone to help you, Barry? Must be a bitch tying your shoes with one hand.”
“The secret is to never take them off.”
He laughed. “And I thought it was the food that smelled funny.”
Carl was first-generation local. For a lawyer that was a good status to claim. It meant your family hadn’t been around long enough for you to know everybody’s business, but you had grown up under the eyes of the old-timers. You weren’t an outsider, or worse, a freshly transplanted Yankee. Carl’s dad had been a doctor who moved down from New Jersey, setting up practice immediately out of residency. When your name ends in a vowel, you’re a Yankee: if you’re also one of ten Catholics in the county, you stick out. Getting established forty years ago had been tough, but Doc Romeo pulled enough emergency room duty and helped enough hurting folks who didn’t care where he moved from or what he believed in as long as he could ease their pain, that local folks were soon eager to pass the word that he was just as good as a normal person.
Carl was several years older than me, falling on the plus or minus side of forty. He had a high forehead accentuated by an ever-receding hairline. Round, gold-framed glasses perched halfway down his nose, and he was perpetually rubbing his hand across a brown mustache that was not only salted with gray but now liberally peppered with crumbs of fried onion rings. The extra chin spreading over the knot in his tie had probably prompted his wife’s dietary demands.
He had the reputation for being a crackerjack attorney. If I knew only one thing, it was that the Willard family had done well to enlist his aid.
Carl swallowed the last morsel of sandwich and swept the wrappings into a wastebasket. He completed my one-armed efforts to clean my own mess, and then sat back down and leaned across the table. “Now, Barry, what specifically can I do for you?”
“First, I need to tell you some bad news.”
He sat up straight, backing away as if what I was about to say could physically touch him.
“What? Has Dallas been killed?”
“No. I gather you’ve been in the office all morning because I’m sure it’s public knowledge by now. Last night Fats McCauley was killed in his apartment by a shotgun. Dallas Willard is the prime suspect.”
“Fats McCauley?” He sighed. “What has gotten into that boy?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me. I’m trying to help run down some loose ends for Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins, and as you can guess, I’ve got a personal interest. I understand you’re handling the Willard estate.”
He shook his head as if I had just asked him to fix the national debt.
“I wish I’d never heard the name Willard.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they’ve been nothing but trouble.”
“Was it just bad luck they came to you?” I asked.
The length of Carl’s silence told me the Willards had been more than walk-in clientele. It must be genetic that people who become lawyers cannot begin a conversation without weighing the implications of every word. When at last he reached some comfort with how to proceed, he cleared his throat and spoke in a tone that made me feel like I was taking his deposition.