Grave Undertaking (17 page)

“Suspect?” I asked. “So, this isn’t an overdose?”

“Oh, it’s an overdose all right. I just don’t believe she took the injection willingly.”

“Did she write Calhoun’s name?”

Tommy Lee handed me the news item on Gibson torn from the Vista. I saw “Sammy Calhoun” written above the headline and a seven-digit phone number I recognized as Pace’s.

“You call him?” I asked.

“No. Figure it can wait till morning. Handwriting matches other notes she’s got posted on the refrigerator. She had to know something. No link between Calhoun and Gibson has been made public.”

“This was under the phone?”

“It makes sense. That’s where she’d keep it to call Pace. I found an Ingles receipt in her trash for a newspaper and some groceries. Time is stamped at two-ten this afternoon. She probably called Pace when she got home.”

“I doubt if she reached him,” I said. “He was with the Metcalfs all day.”

“I’ll know tomorrow,” said Tommy Lee.

“Wouldn’t be the first time an addict calls a preacher.”

“But it’s her first time for shooting up. There’re no other needle marks on her arm. Also, the trailer is too neat for a druggie.”

“Too neat?” I looked at the mess around me.

“Yes. Someone tried to create the impression that Gentle was a stoned slob, but I’ve noticed very little dust in this place.” He bent down and sniffed the small, marred table which held the phone. “Lemon Pledge. The bedroom has bureau drawers left out and the closet in disarray, but that could be because someone was searching for something. We also found a sandwich bag of grass in the bedroom, but no ashtrays, no roach clips, and no rolling papers. I asked Ryan, the delivery boy, if she ever tried to sell or buy drugs. He said she didn’t even drink. And then there’s the guitar in the bedroom.”

“Guitar?”

“Yeah, the advantage of my son playing in a bluegrass band. I ran my hand across the strings to hear if something was stashed inside the soundboard. The strings are tuned backwards.”

I looked at the tourniquet on the girl’s left arm and understood.

“She’s left handed.”

“Yeah. Calluses are on her right-hand fingers from fretting the strings, and her writing has a backwards slant.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Even if this is a first-time fix, odds are she would have used her left arm to inject her right. This girl was set up, Barry. Set up by someone who thought her death would be dismissed as the unfortunate end of just another junkie. Write her off as trailer trash.” Tommy Lee was so angry his jaw trembled. “But the son of a bitch who killed this girl made the mistake of doing it in my county. Sheriff Horace Ewbanks just got himself an unwanted partner.”

“We have to link her to Sammy Calhoun,” I said. “How are we going to do that?”

“Through an anonymous source close to the investigation.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you have means, motive, and opportunity,” he said, as if that made it crystal-clear.

I just stared at him.

“Look. I want this handled by my department. Any connections between Gentle Deal and Sammy Calhoun are to come to me where they can’t be buried or ignored by Ewbanks.” Tommy Lee stepped around the footlocker and walked between Hutchins and me. “At this point, I don’t think Ewbanks has any information to give us.” He turned his back on his deputy and mouthed the word “Bridges.”

I realized the well-placed informant was a secret not shared by Hutchins. Through Bridges, Tommy Lee could learn everything he needed from the Walker County department while keeping Ewbanks out of the Gentle Deal case. That was assuming Bridges himself wasn’t involved, an assumption I wasn’t willing to bet my life on.

“I don’t need to trade Ewbanks anything,” said Tommy Lee. “Let him figure it out.”

“And somehow I’m going to help you do what Ewbanks can’t?”

“Right. Means—
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, motive—clear Susan and save your own ass from whoever’s trying to kill you, opportunity —as soon as you can get in touch with Cliff Barringer.”

“Barringer? The creep’s a hatchet man. Look at the job he did on Susan and her father.”

“The creep’s heading the coverage of Sammy Calhoun’s murder investigation. If he thinks he’s getting an exclusive, he’ll work with us.”

I still didn’t understand where Tommy Lee’s grand scheme was leading, and from the look on Hutchins’ face, I knew the deputy was just as confused.

“First, make sure Susan has an alibi for the time of Gentle’s death,” said Tommy Lee. “We’ll have a better idea after the coroner’s report.” As if summoned by the words, the sound of arriving vehicles rose above the staccato beat of the sleet against the trailer. “Reece, go tell the crime lab what we’ve got. I’ll be out in a minute.”

His deputy nodded and dutifully tended to business.

“Okay,” Tommy Lee told me. “I’ll make this quick. We know Gentle was supposed to be at the Pizza Hut at five and she bought groceries at two-ten. Assuming she would have left for her shift twenty to thirty minutes ahead of time, the killer probably crossed her path here between two-thirty and four-thirty. We’ll check the other residents along this road to see if they remember another vehicle during that time, but that’s a long shot. Tell Barringer a source close to the investigation reports a suspected link between Gentle Deal and Sammy Calhoun. He’ll soon learn we’re friends and figure it’s from me. He can broadcast that
NEWSCHANNEL-8
has learned the Laurel County Sheriff’s Department is questioning anyone who might have known the two victims. Tell him your name is to be kept out of it. I’ll give my no comment statement when the press comes asking. Then he should encourage any viewers harboring such knowledge to step forward and call the Laurel County Sheriff’s Department, like it was the station’s idea to see justice done.”

“You think that will work?” I asked.

“Barringer’s a snake, but he won’t turn down an exclusive, and right now, until I learn more about Gentle Deal, it’s all we’ve got. We need to move fast because the killer beat us here.” He stared at the dead girl. “And we all know who else he’s trying to eliminate.”

I shivered. “You keep trying to scare me.”

“Do I now? Then why don’t you listen for once. I’m getting tired of sounding like a broken record. Maybe I should try singing a warning. That should frighten you.”

The storm ended as I returned to the cabin. It was nearly five-thirty, and the pale silver of the moon set the world alive with the glow of a million iridescent icy pearls. The temperature hovered just below freezing, cold enough to create a crystal wonderland, warm enough to keep the roads passable.

I decided to get on Cliff Barringer’s voicemail at the station, requesting a callback after ten. Four hours of sleep would at least make my brain functional again. Instead of a menu of automated phone options, a real person answered the newsroom number. I realized
NEWSCHANNEL-8
was preparing for their six a.m. broadcast.

“I’m calling for Cliff Barringer.”

The young woman laughed. “You won’t find him here. Not at this time of the morning. Can I help you?”

“Thanks but I need to talk to him. Does he have voicemail?”

“He does, and sometimes he even checks it. If it’s urgent, I can call his pager and he’ll phone in.”

Power in a newsroom is the control of information. I understood the young reporter was curious as to why I’d be calling so early in the morning. “Tell him Barry Clayton has information regarding the Sammy Calhoun murder. He should call me after ten.” I gave her the number, and she repeated it for accuracy.

“I’ll see that the message is passed along. He can probably call before ten.”

I could hear the excitement in her voice.

“Ten will be fine. Thank you.”

I hung up while she was still saying the company slogan, “Thank you for making
NEWSCHANNEL-8
your choice for news.”

I tumbled into bed, my mind so numb that even the murder in the trailer and the questions it raised couldn’t keep me from sleep.

Chapter 18

“This is Nelson Darius calling for Barry Clayton.”

“Nelson Darius?” I answered. I knew who he was. I couldn’t believe he was asking for me. I checked the bedside clock. It was only nine.

“I’m the president of
NEWSCHANNEL-8
. Is this Mr. Clayton?”

“Yes.”

“Our early morning producer notified me that you telephoned for Cliff Barringer. As you may know, I’m personally supervising and coordinating our coverage of the Sammy Calhoun murder investigation. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind meeting with me rather than Cliff. I’m trying to approach this story in a fair and balanced manner. I know your name is associated with certain aspects of the case and I’d like the opportunity to talk directly.”

Tommy Lee hadn’t mentioned Darius as our contact person, but Barringer was only a means to an end. Enlisting the cooperation of the station owner seemed a much more productive idea.

“Have you discussed this with Barringer?”

“No. And for right now, I’d like to keep this between you and me. I’m home this morning and can meet anywhere at your convenience.”

“Your house is fine,” I said, preferring to stay away from the prying eyes at his station. Darius must have felt the same way.

“Very good,” he said, and then his presidential authority resurfaced. “I’ll expect you at eleven.”

Nelson Darius lived in one of those houses most people in the mountains never see. Plain stone columns marked the driveway entrance, and a mile of winding road climbed under bordering pines whose ice-coated boughs sparkled in the morning sunlight. The fairytale approach ended at a white mansion. The size was appropriate for a multimillionaire. The only surprise was that Nelson Darius lived in Walker County.

My jeep emerged from the tree-lined lane and approached the stately historic residence. It must have been erected by some long-dead plantation owner who shipped his family to the mountains each summer to escape the lowland heat of South Carolina. Instead of a horse and carriage, the circular loop in front of the house was blocked by a black Lexus with the trunk open in a half salute. I parked behind it close enough to read the Ingles Supermarket logo printed on four brown bags which had toppled over on the trunk’s plush gray carpet. Darius may have been a multimillionaire, but he or his wife did their own shopping and chose paper over plastic.

I looked up on the wide, wrap-around porch and saw that the front door stood open. Someone must have had an armful of groceries and couldn’t close it. I grabbed a couple of bags and had started up the two steps when Darius came through the door.

“Mr. Clayton?”

“Barry,” I corrected.

“Good. I was afraid you’d beat me here. My wife is in Florida for the week. After we talked, I realized I didn’t have any decent food to offer you, so I ran down to Ingles.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” I said as I reached the door. The aroma of fresh muffins rose from the bag in my left hand, and I was hungry enough to eat them through the paper.

“Just set those inside the foyer. I’ll fetch the rest.”

I placed the groceries at the base of a walnut grandfather clock and walked back out on the porch. Darius hoisted the remaining two sacks in one arm and lowered the trunk lid to a point where a motor hummed and closed it automatically. I stood aside and then followed him into the house.

“Give me a minute to put these away,” he said. “Just make yourself at home in the living room.” He nodded to an open double doorway on the left.

The room must have been at least twenty feet by thirty. I have an untrained eye, but the eighteenth-century furnishings didn’t appear to be reproductions. The room’s dark hardwood floor matched the crown moldings, and the chalk-white walls were liberally hung with period portraits and landscapes. One wall was dominated by a finely carved gilt mirror. It was nearly six feet tall and four feet wide and crested with an ornate pagoda top. Nelson Darius seemed too down to earth to be caught preening in front of the slightly milky glass.

I was walking the perimeter, admiring the artwork, when the brightness of the gold chandelier in the center of the ceiling suddenly increased.

“There,” said Darius, twisting a dimmer. “I hope that will make it seem less like a museum. I realize everyone doesn’t find my wife’s Chippendale taste as livable as she does.”

I made the obligatory complimentary comments to the contrary, which Darius graciously accepted without indicating he knew I was full of it. My honest reaction was that velvet ropes, stanchions, and a tour guide could easily be a part of the room’s décor. Resisting the urge to dust off my butt, I sat on a green velvet upholstered chair whose mahogany legs ended in elaborately carved claw-and-ball feet.

“Where’d your wife go in Florida?”

“Disney World,” he said, and smiled as he saw my surprise. “She’s with a group taking some underprivileged kids down there during the Christmas holidays. I don’t know who was more excited, the children or the chaperones. We’ve both worked with troubled kids for years, but I decided to stay home when the mess broke about Cassie’s niece and Calhoun. I put my wife on a charter bus yesterday afternoon and they rode all night. Got out ahead of the storm, thank God.” He glanced at his slim gold wristwatch. “Right now, she’s probably in line for the Tower of Terror.”

I took another look at the elegant room in which I was sitting and tried to imagine its designer plummeting thirteen stories, surrounded by screaming juveniles.

Nelson Darius chuckled, and the distinguished, tanned, silver-haired seventy-year-old looked more like somebody’s fishing buddy than a CEO. “Neither Hazel nor I should be considered stuffy,” he said. He sized me up as I sat self-consciously on the velvet chair. “What say we move to the kitchen? We’ll both be more comfortable and closer to the coffee.”

To the degree that the living room was formal, the kitchen was just the opposite. The historical purity in the front of the house had been abandoned for ease of modern living. A wall of thermal-pane windows faced the morning sun, letting an eclectic collection of indoor plants and herbs thrive in the light. The stucco walls of the kitchen were trimmed in gray barn wood, the floor covered in adobe brick, and the exposed ceiling beams decorated with vintage kitchen utensils. If not for the spectacular view of the mountain lake and sharp granite bluff behind the house, I would have thought we were in the Southwest.

Darius pulled two mugs from hooks in a rafter and grabbed the coffee pot from the white-tiled counter.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

“Black, unless it would dissolve a spoon.”

“It’s stiff, but I haven’t lost a guest yet.” He poured me a full cup, and then started putting the muffins on a plate. “I’ll pop these in the microwave. We can sit at the table or stand and eat if that’s okay with you.”

“I’m happy here,” I said and sipped the gourmet coffee.

“Me too. You know, most of the big decisions of my life have been made in the kitchen.”

“Well, I don’t know how big a decision I’m bringing you, but it’s sure important to me.”

“You or Susan Miller?”

“Both of us.”

The timer went off on the microwave, and he set the plate of warm muffins between us. I broke one in half and watched the steam rise off the exposed surfaces of corn meal and minute pieces of apple.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“I got some information this morning from a source close to a murder investigation.”

“Sammy Calhoun’s?”

“No. A young woman overdosed in a trailer in Laurel County yesterday afternoon. The circumstances are very suspicious. The authorities think someone made it look like a heroin self-injection. But a newspaper account of Skeeter Gibson’s death was found with Sammy Calhoun’s name written on it.”

“Whose handwriting?”

“The victim’s.”

Nelson Darius studied me carefully. “Why would she make that connection?”

“Exactly the question I’m asking.”

“I held back a story last night linking you to Gibson’s death. Barringer’s getting his own inside information, but Cassie speaks too highly of you for me to air uncorroborated speculation.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I think there’s a good chance your station is being manipulated.”

“And that’s not what you’re doing?”

I smiled. “At least I’m being upfront about it. Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins is looking for a concrete tie-in between Sammy Calhoun and the woman, not just the newspaper article.”

“Of course,” said Darius, his blue eyes flashing with a comprehension that anticipated my request. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, she did know something about Calhoun and Gibson. Now she’s dead. If Claiborne and Ewbanks are building a strong circumstantial case against Susan Miller, they’ll dismiss this piece of evidence as simply a note jotted because both men were murder victims recently in the news. The woman followed crime stories. A name is no real proof of anything.”

“That’s why we need more.”

He nodded. “So, my role is to broadcast the possible link as a
NEWSCHANNEL-8
exclusive.”

“You’ve got it.”

He smiled. “Tempting, but what confirmation do I have? Will the sheriff comment that such a piece of evidence exists, or that the apparent suicide is murder? Our news department could look foolish if we make some unsubstantiated claim that turns out to be false. I know your vested interest is in protecting your girlfriend.”

Great, I thought. Just my luck. A journalist with ethics. “That’s true. And I’m also under suspicion for Skeeter Gibson’s death. I want that cleared up as well. I’m doing what I can while Sheriff Wadkins is proceeding along more traditional investigative lines.”

“And if we find other people who knew of a relationship between Calhoun and this woman?”

“Then the game changes,” I interrupted. “You’ve broken the story and Sheriff Wadkins will have a trail to follow which the D.A. and Sheriff Ewbanks can’t ignore. I think that’s worth the risk of your news department looking foolish.”

“Well put,” he agreed. “I didn’t get where I am by not taking risks. Okay, your name stays out of it and we go with our source close to the investigation line. We’ll ask people to volunteer any information that could help the authorities establish the link. Who’s the victim?”

“I can’t tell you until I know her next of kin have been notified.”

“All right.” He thought for a second. “If she knew Calhoun, how old would she have been when he was killed?”

“I’d say sixteen or seventeen.”

He took a sip of coffee. “Interesting. You know Calhoun had approached Cassie with a story about allegations of sexual misconduct with minors in the justice system.”

“Cassie thought he meant Asheville.”

“Calhoun was cagey, wasn’t he? We’re the dominant station in Walker County. We would have gone for it in a heartbeat.”

“The story’s still out there,” I said. “Bigger than ever.”

“I think I’ll keep Cliff Barringer out of the loop,” he said. “I’m going into the station this afternoon. E-mail me the girl’s name and photo by five-thirty, and we’ve got a deal. Your story will lead the six o’clock broadcast.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to call Cassie right now and have her reserve at least ninety seconds. She says that’s an eternity in news time.” He excused himself and went to a back office.

I took my coffee and walked around the spacious kitchen. A wall of photographs caught my eye. Nelson Darius was in many of them, and I quickly determined an older woman with him must be his wife, Hazel. Some of the pictures were with kids on camping trips and other outdoor activities. Not their own children because the groups were large and racially diverse. Probably YMCA or church field trips. I saw a younger Cliff Barringer standing with Darius and some kids by a waterfall. Good public relations for the then
NEWSCHANNEL-8
anchorman. Barringer was flashing a canned smile. My gaze froze on the photo beside his. Darius’ wife was in a whitewater raft with five teenagers. Even in the safety helmet, the face of Gentle Deal was clearly recognizable.

I telephoned Tommy Lee from the jeep and we agreed to meet at the Cardinal Café for a late lunch. When I arrived, he had my roast beef sandwich and iced tea waiting for me.