Dangerous Undertaking (19 page)
“Yes, and he felt confident enough to stand close to a homicidal maniac and stab him. I don’t buy a coincidence that Dallas just appeared on the tracks. I think he was taken there alive. He had to hole up somewhere for a week. He might not have been alone.”
“Who would help him?” asked Pace.
Tommy Lee leaned across his desk. “Someone who wanted a three million dollar tract of land. Someone who turned Dallas against the migrants to spoil the Waylon Hestor deal, and then against his own brother and sister when he discovered Dallas couldn’t stop Lee and Norman Jean from selling to Hestor.”
“The power company,” I said.
“No, I’m beginning to think Fred Pryor kept the power company in the dark. I think he was setting up a way for New Shores to control the property.”
“Dallas would never talk to a man like Pryor,” said Pace.
“Dallas probably didn’t even know Pryor existed. But Odell Taylor is another story. Taylor is a worker, a regular guy. He and the Kentucky group wouldn’t be a threat to Dallas. Taylor could ingratiate himself on Pryor’s behalf. Maybe even incite Dallas to murder his brother and sister while all the while Fred Pryor pulled the strings.”
“And now Dallas is a dead witness,” I said.
“Convenient isn’t it. Get rid of him after he’s served his purpose.”
“How can you prove it?” asked Pace.
I looked at Tommy Lee. “You’ve already laid the groundwork, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, and I want you to get his permission. I’ve got to set up a surveillance plan.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Pace.
“The best evidence is to catch someone in the act of committing a crime,” said Tommy Lee. “I’m going to give Pryor a new problem. Someone who will be just as stubborn as Dallas about selling the property. The newly discovered legal heir, Talmadge Watson.”
I heard the dull thuds of an axe on seasoned wood. Turning the corner of the cabin, I saw Talmadge Watson by a pile of cordwood. His back was to me, his concentration directed on the log standing end-up on the chopping stump.
Talmadge lifted the axe even with his shoulder, gave a half swing, snapping his wrists with precision born of practice, and cleanly split the wood in two. He tossed the pieces into the growing stack, positioned another log and swung again. His fluid motion never faltered as he worked like some mechanical man in a hardware display.
I watched for a few minutes until Talmadge leaned the axe handle against his leg and mopped his brow with the hip-pocket red bandanna.
“Wood for the stove, or wood for the still?” I asked.
Talmadge looked over his shoulder. “Little of each. They both keep me warm. You come for some?”
“Thanks, but no. Came to talk, if you got the time.”
Talmadge embedded the axe head in the stump. “It’ll wait on me. Let’s go inside.”
I followed the old man across the threshold into the front room. In the funeral business, I’d been on enough house calls that the sparseness of the mountaineers’ living conditions no longer surprised me. I expected the wood-burning cooking stove and the wellspring right in the middle of the kitchen with the heavy metal dipper hanging above it. What I didn’t expect was the neatness of a man who lived alone. The cabin’s plank floor was swept clean and a braided throw-rug lay in the middle. A few odd chairs and a sofa flanked off the fireplace. Every arm was covered with a doily. Lace curtains framed in the two front windows, and a white tassel hung from the center of each pulldown shade.
Shelves lined the walls. A few held cooking utensils, but most were filled with birds, birds perched on branches or mounted in flight—birds hand-carved from solid wood and painted in realistic detail. I could not take my eyes off them. My hands went behind my back with the reflex of a kid whose momma had trained him in the shops where the breakable merchandise was more than we could afford.
“You can touch ’em,” said Talmadge. “This ain’t no museum.”
“These are fantastic. You carve them?”
“For my wife Lottie. She loved her birds. Guess they were her children. Many a winter evening’s up on these shelves. The carving part was easy. I always whittled, ever since I was a kid. Lottie did the paintin’. She had the eye for it. Her Cherokee grandmother taught her to make the dyes. Showed her the roots and berries.”
“She made her own paints?”
“Indians been making paints for hundreds of years. Lottie took to it like a duck to water.” Talmadge chuckled. “And my moonshine made a thinner much better than store-bought. Lottie was agin my distillin’, but she had to confess it put life in them colors. Never seen a bird’s markings she couldn’t match.” He looked around the room as if appreciating the collection for the first time. “I sure do miss her.”
I picked up a big blue jay with his head cocked to one side and a tuft of feathers cresting his head. The bird eyed a wood beetle carved atop the branch near his talons. It was a frozen moment capturing the split-second before Nature’s food chain offered one less wood beetle.
“You’re too modest, Talmadge. If I had this talent, I’d have my birds in galleries all over the country.”
“Why? We made ’em for our enjoyment. Why trade that for money?”
I didn’t have an answer. I set the blue jay up on the shelf.
“You come to talk birds?” Talmadge pointed me to the sofa and eased himself into a cane-bottom chair.
“No. I guess you could say I’m on official business. We think we’re closing in on who murdered Dallas. That may lead us to who killed Fats McCauley.”
“How do I figure in?”
“There’s a possibility the deaths are related to the Willard land, who will be able to buy it.”
“Sheriff said it was coming to me.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But nobody knows that yet. The assumption is the land will be auctioned.”
“Cause Martha and I disowned each other,” he said. “Only a few of the old timers remember we was kin.” He thought for a moment. “So, I’m the meat in the snare.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s as good a way of putting it as any.”
“When is this snare gonna be set?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “If we have your permission.”
“Well, I guess a man can’t let another man kill his family no matter how distant and then go on as if nothin’ happened. What do I need to do?”
“Sit tight. The sheriff will assign a deputy to watch you.”
“Watch me do what?” Talmadge Watson chuckled softly at the thought of having a guard. “Well, tell him to send a young one who don’t know me. The old deputies will just keep pesterin’ me for a swallow.”
The offices for the
Gainesboro VISTA
were in a brick building at the north end of town. A line of five parking spaces in the adjacent lot had been stenciled
VISITORS
. All were open. The news business on a Tuesday afternoon must not have been bustling.
I entered a modest reception area. Bookshelves on either side touted the various awards and trophies the small daily had earned since its founding seventy-five years ago. Across the room, a woman as old as the paper sat at a multi-line telephone. The headset hung around her neck and she read the large-print version of
Reader’s Digest
. On the front of her desk were two signs with arrows pointing in opposite directions: Editorial to the left, Advertising to the right. The lettering for Advertising was twice the size of Editorial.
The woman looked up and shoved the magazine out of sight. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Melissa Bigham, please.”
“She’s a reporter in Editorial,” answered the woman, and the smile which briefly appeared for a potential advertiser vanished.
“Yes. I have information for her.”
The receptionist looked at a pegboard mounted alongside her phone. Six or seven sets of initials were listed in dry marker. “M.B.” had a blue peg sticking out of the In hole.
“Melissa’s here but she’s on her line. You can go on back,” she instructed. “I can’t leave my post. She’s in the third cubicle on the left.”
I saw the top of her head first, short brown hair cut for easy maintenance. She heard me step behind her and glanced over her shoulder. She must have been in her late twenties, cute now that I could take a closer look and I wasn’t intimidated by Jack Andrews and his biker pals. She sat in front of a computer terminal. Her Nikon rested atop the monitor and her notepad hung from a suction cup stuck on the metal cubicle wall.
“Hey, what’s up?” She tucked the phone against her shoulder and kept her fingers speeding across the keyboard to complete her thought.
“I need space on the front page of tomorrow’s paper,” I said.
“Expanding the funeral home to handle all the bodies?”
Just the irreverence I expected from a reporter, no matter how small the paper.
“We’re going to trap a killer,” I whispered.
Melissa took her hands off the keys and said, “Gotta go” into the receiver.
“I can wait a minute,” I said.
She hung up the phone. “Just a call from the school system. Next week’s lunch menu. Country-style steak is not the kind of thing to yell stop the presses over. Barry Clayton, right?” She stood up and rested an elbow on the top of her cubicle. “Are you serious about trapping a killer?”
I looked around the deserted newsroom.
“There’s nobody else here,” she assured me. “But we can talk in the conference room if you like.”
“No. If we’re alone, this is fine. I am serious, but you’ve got to print what I say and no more.”
“You know I can’t agree to that. I’d be compromising the paper, not to mention my own ethics. I do have a few.”
“The paper won’t be publishing anything that’s not true. Just consider me an anonymous source with limited but accurate information.”
“I can’t make any promise for placement. I don’t make up the front page.”
“Then tell whoever does it’s the inside, exclusive track on a major story.”
Melissa’s eyes brightened at the carrot dangling in front of her. She cleared the screen with a single key stroke. “Give it to me now. I’ll take it straight to the editor as soon as I finish.”
Except for the time I spent at college or working in Charlotte, P’s had been the only shop where a barber had ever touched my head. Since my first wailing episode in the toddler’s booster chair to the trim the week before my gunshot wound in the cemetery, P.J. Peterson had clipped my curly locks. P.J.’s dad Pete had founded the barbershop/gossip emporium in 1935. Twenty years later, Pete Jr., aka P.J., had joined his dad and his older cousin in the family business. In the early 1970s, P.J. acquired me, red-faced and screaming, as a new customer. P Senior died in 1978, and although the surviving Petersons hired another barber, no one sat in or worked old Mr. P’s chair. It reigned near the storefront window as a constant reminder that eventually we all get that final haircut.
Melissa Bigham’s story had been in the newspaper’s version of primetime—the front page, above the fold. Reading it had given me the urge to get a haircut.
The shop chatter abruptly ceased as I walked in. All eyes turned to me, formerly Jack Clayton’s boy, now town celebrity.
“Mornin’, Barry,” P.J. called from behind the balding pate of Mayor Sammy Whitlock.
“Mornin’, Barry,” echoed the mayor. “How’s the arm?”
“Mending fine,” I said.
There was a round of “that’s good” from the six other men, only half of whom were waiting for haircuts.
“Guess you saw the paper this morning,” said P.J.
“No,” I lied. “Something special?”
“You’ll never guess who has come forward to claim the Willard property,” said P.J.
“I haven’t a clue,” I said and eased into a plastic chair beneath the shelf stacked with vintage Butch Wax.
“Wait, don’t tell him, let me read the article.” Mayor Whitlock fumbled his hands free of the barber’s cloth and reached out for a newspaper. One of the assembled court passed him the front page. No one loved the sound of the mayor’s voice more than the mayor.
“‘The aftermath of Dallas Willard’s murderous rampage that ended in his own death took a surprising turn yesterday. An exclusive investigation by the
VISTA
has uncovered a previously unknown heir who stands to inherit the entire tract of land in the Willard estate. Talmadge Watson, the reclusive brother of the late Martha Willard, plans to file his claim as sole surviving heir at the Laurel County Courthouse tomorrow. When asked why he had not stepped forward sooner, Mr. Watson said, “Martha and I had some distance between us and hadn’t talked in over sixty years. But that was our business, nobody else’s.”’
“That sounds like ol’ Talmadge, don’t it?” commented the Mayor.
“Yeah,” agreed P.J., “except everybody knows his business.”
The men laughed. Mayor Whitlock said, “He’ll keep making shine till he drops dead in the fire. With all that acreage, he’ll have plenty of new places to hide a still.” He glanced back to the article and paraphrased. “Says he’s not concerned whether county records prove his claim or not. He’s got the family Bible with his and Martha’s birth dates entered in their grandmother’s handwriting.”
“Talk about an old testament,” said P.J.
A wheezy voice from the corner piped up, “Shoot-fire, probably has Jesus’ autograph in it.”
That got an even louder round of laughter. Mayor Whitlock handed the paper back, P.J. resumed his scissor snips, and the talk wandered to property taxes and how much land Talmadge would probably have to sell to keep the best. I enjoyed the free entertainment while awaiting my turn. My only commitment wasn’t until noon.
“See you got your ears lowered.” Tommy Lee gave his review of P.J.’s handiwork as I sat down across from his desk.
“Undercover work. Talmadge was the talk of the morning.”
“Good. I’d have been surprised otherwise.”
“Anything happening?”
“Not yet. Cain is spending the day politicking. I called in some favors from Buncombe County and a couple of their people are shadowing him. I’ve got tails in place ready to pick up Taylor and Pryor when they leave Broad Creek. I expect Kyle Murphy to call soon.”
“Sounds good.”
“And while I was at it, I asked Buncombe County to keep an eye on Waylon Hestor and Alex Soles. Just because we couldn’t see a connection doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Especially Soles,” I agreed. “Psychologist for a man whose land he wants.”
Tommy Lee had set his plan in motion yesterday while I called on Talmadge and Melissa Bigham. He contacted Murphy and learned Odell Taylor was scheduled to spend this morning with his men doing general clean-up. Grading had been halted pending the outcome of the EPA investigation and further soil tests. Murphy reported the EPA had not discovered any additional contamination, but they still had ground to cover. Ridgemont Power claimed that if the suspension lasted much longer, Taylor and his men would be laid off.
That prospect wouldn’t be the only problem on Taylor’s mind. Murphy had been instructed to tell Pryor the sheriff would be by at noon to ask Taylor a few questions about Dallas Willard. Pryor knew he had to fully cooperate, and the sheriff was free to take as much time as he required. Taylor had all morning to wonder what prompted Tommy Lee’s return visit. He had made his statement once already, and his men had all corroborated they had not been on the site the night Dallas died.
The morning hours would pass slowly for him. At a quarter to twelve, Taylor was to break his men for lunch and walk from the gravel base of the dam construction to the EPA’s trailer. Kyle Murphy would give Sheriff Wadkins the use of his office for the private interrogation. Except Tommy Lee never planned to be there.
At ten after twelve, the call came in from Murphy. Tommy Lee put him on the speaker phone. “How’d it go?”
“Like we expected,” said Murphy. “Taylor found me sitting in Jane Cummings’ vacant chair, reading the
Gainesboro VISTA
. I sent Jane to lunch early. I acted surprised when Taylor came in. He asked where you were and I said I was sorry. I forgot to send word you had to cancel.”
“How did he react?” asked Tommy Lee.
“At first he was relieved. I could tell he had been nervous about talking to you.”
“Good. I want him nervous.”
“Then it dawned on him this was probably only a postponement. He would still have to face a new round of questions. He asked me what happened. I said you had a development you had to check out and I slid the paper over to him.”
“Had he already seen it?”
“I don’t think so. He read it. Repeated Talmadge Watson’s name to himself, then looked at me like I had some explanation.”
“What did you say?”
“I laughed and said sounds like this old coot is going to be a real estate tycoon. Taylor asked if you thought Talmadge had killed Dallas for the land and was that why you canceled. I said I had no idea. You were tight-lipped with me, but you told me you’d be back to see him in a day or two. He said if Talmadge Watson was the killer, then you had no cause to bother him again.”
“Right,” said Tommy Lee. “He wishes. Interesting he tried to immediately peg Talmadge Watson as the man who killed Dallas Willard.”
“I guess that’s natural,” said Murphy. “Talmadge gets quite a windfall.”
“Also natural for someone who is looking for a fall guy for his own crime. I think Taylor doesn’t like the heat. If Talmadge could be convicted for the murder, then the property is back on the auction block and he’s off the hook. But, Taylor knows that’s not going to happen. Then what did he do?”
“He gave me back the paper and said, ‘Murder’s a terrible thing, ain’t it?’ I agreed and apologized he came up to the trailer for nothing. I told him to take an extra fifteen minutes for lunch and I’d clear it with Pryor. I waited until I heard the gravel crunch of his footsteps fade, and then peeked out the window. Taylor went straight to Pryor’s office.”
“We should have had it bugged,” said Tommy Lee.
“He only stayed about five minutes, and then went back to his men. I’m going to hang in here until everyone leaves.”
“Murphy, you ever want the quiet life, I’ll find you a job up here.”
We could almost see the Fed smile through the speaker phone. “Quiet life? Sheriff, I’ve never been in the middle of so many dead bodies in my life.”
I waited with the dispatcher in the radio room of the Sheriff’s Department. Communication was essential and the network of surveillance needed a nexus for efficient operation.
The two-way crackled. “I’m ready for him,” said Tommy Lee. “Won’t press him too closely. I don’t expect anything to happen until after nightfall anyway. No sense taking chances. Once I know he’s headed home, I’ll ease back.”
“Want some company?” I asked.
“Sure. Just don’t drive up here with rap music blaring. There’s an abandoned barn on adjoining property. Looks right down on Taylor’s. If he stays put, you can probably come in after dark. Bring a fresh thermos of coffee and—hold on, I see him. He’s at the main highway. At least he’s turning in the right direction.”
Two hours later, I pulled my Jeep Cherokee beside Tommy Lee’s patrol car. The sheriff had parked broadside against the rear of the dilapidated barn. Missing slats of siding afforded a view through the back wall and out its open doors. I joined Tommy Lee in the front seat of his car, bringing a thermos, binoculars, and a white paper sack.
“Here’s a bag of doughnuts. This is an official stake-out, isn’t it?”
“It is now,” said Tommy Lee, “although I never eat these things. I’d weigh four hundred pounds. Just pour me a cup of coffee.”
“Anything going on?” I asked.
“No. And that’s unusual. I would have thought he would run out somewhere. Pick up a few groceries, beer, or cigarettes. He just came straight from work. Maybe he spotted me.”
“It makes sense he wouldn’t leave,” I said. “If he wants to get to Talmadge, he’s got to be making a plan and getting his arsenal together.”
“Maybe,” agreed Tommy Lee, “or maybe he’s just not sure what to do.”
The two-way radio crackled as the dispatcher’s voice broke through our conversation.
“I copy you,” replied Tommy Lee. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a phone call for you from Kyle Murphy. I can patch him through if you like.”
“Okay,” said Tommy Lee.
“Wonder what he wants?” I asked.
“Sheriff, do you hear me?” Murphy’s voice was tinny but clear.
Tommy Lee paused a beat, then depressed the mike key. “Yeah. What is it?”
“I just got a report faxed from Somerset, Kentucky, but your deputy says I shouldn’t bring it to you.”
“No. Any more cars up here and we’ll look like a parking lot. What’s the bottom line?”
“We ran background checks on the men who came in late on the Friday morning after we think Dallas was killed. They all came back clean.”
“Dead-end, huh?”
“Not exactly. It’s interesting that we found Taylor’s tracks go back to Kentucky. He migrated here fifteen years ago with enough money to buy a grader and bulldozer. Started putting in roads and driveways for developers and retirees who were building their mountain homes. He did good work and got picked up on the Broad Creek Project.”
“Well, that explains the Kentucky connection,” Tommy Lee said. “He brought Luke Coleman and the rest of Leroy Jackson’s flock down to join him.”
“But you also wanted checks on all the men Taylor supervised, not just the ones who clocked in late. Turns out Leroy Jackson did time. I mean serious time, like more years in prison than out. His sheet goes back to teenage theft and larceny, then various assault charges, some of which were violent enough that he went into observation and evaluation for mental problems. A borderline psychopath. He was a prime suspect in two capital murder cases but the D.A. didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. He has been out eight years now, his longest stretch of freedom. The last conviction was for aggravated assault with a knife. Bar fight over a twenty dollar pool bet. Served eighteen months and his cell mate was an old con man called The Preacher.”
“The Preacher,” repeated Tommy Lee. “So he found himself a mentor.”
“Yes,” said Murphy. “Evidently, Leroy Jackson had a conversion experience. He was released from jail a self-proclaimed prophet and over time attracted enough Kentucky hill people to found his church.”