Grave Undertaking (Buryin' Barry Clayton Series #2)

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Overview

Barry Clayton has left the Charlotte police force to manage his ailing father's funeral home in the peace and quiet of the Appalachian mountains. But Buryin' Barry is an undertaker with a problem—he keeps finding unwanted business.

Moving a grave on a snowy mountainside should be routine. No funeral, no procession, no grieving widow to console. Routine until Barry unearths an unexpected intruder, a skeleton lying atop the original occupant. A bullet hole in the skull piques his ...

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Overview

Barry Clayton has left the Charlotte police force to manage his ailing father's funeral home in the peace and quiet of the Appalachian mountains. But Buryin' Barry is an undertaker with a problem—he keeps finding unwanted business.

Moving a grave on a snowy mountainside should be routine. No funeral, no procession, no grieving widow to console. Routine until Barry unearths an unexpected intruder, a skeleton lying atop the original occupant. A bullet hole in the skull piques his ex-cop curiosity; the photograph of his girlfriend Susan Miller in the murdered man's wallet makes the case very personal. Suddenly, Barry's life is turned upside down, as Susan becomes the prime suspect.

Joining forces with his pal Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins, Barry sets out to find the real killer. But a terrible secret had been buried in that mountain grave and one murder is only the down payment someone is willing to pay to keep it hidden. Barry is torn between discovering the solution to the crime and uncovering a part of Susan's past that could destroy their relationship.

When the killer strikes again, Barry learns that even more is at stake. In a duel of deceit and misdirection, one thing becomes crystal clear. Barry's grave undertaking could very well lead to his own funeral.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Morticians are hot, both in print and on screen....
A well-written debut featuring an engaging buddy team and a picturesque setting."
- Booklist
Booklist
Morticians are hot, both in print and on screen....A well-written debut featuring an engaging buddy team and a picturesque setting.
Jenny McLarin
It's not every day that the second entry in a series trumps the debut but de Castrique accomplishes just that with this follow-up to Dangerous Undertaking. Set in the Appalachian mountain country of North Carolina, the novel again stars undertaker Barry Clayton, who left his police career in Charlotte to help run the family funeral home. With his dad suffering from Alzheimer's, more of the responsibility for the business falls to Barry.

Then trouble develops with his girlfriend, Dr. Susan Miller, when the skeleton of one of her ex-boyfriends is discovered with a bullet hole through its head and a photo of Susan in a pants' pocket. The plot is nicely layered with suspense and will certainly hold readers' interest on its own, but what really stands out about this series is de Castrique's rich yet respectful portrait of life in the Appalachians. Add to that his poignant take on how Alzheimer's' affects a family, and you have a first-rate installment in an excellent series.
Booklist

Publishers Weekly
The North Carolina mountain country in winter provides the atmospheric setting for de Castrique's second well-crafted mystery to feature undertaker-sleuth Barry Clayton (after 2003's Dangerous Outing). While moving the old grave of Pearly Johnson, Barry unearths a skeleton lying on top of Johnson's casket with a bullet hole in the skull. In the wallet of the victim, Sammy Calhoun, is a picture of Barry's girlfriend, Dr. Susan Miller. As Barry and his friend, Sheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins, dig for the truth, Susan's status as the prime suspect in Calhoun's murder puts considerable strain on her relationship with Barry. The revelation of past secrets that some highly respected citizens would prefer to remain hidden poses an even greater threat to Barry's well-being. Realistic and sensitively drawn characters, including Barry's Alzheimer's-afflicted father, together with a neat plot that builds to a powerful ending, help lift this poignant novel above the common run of regional cozies. Agent, Linda Allen. (June 9) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781590582701
  • Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
  • Publication date: 2/28/2006
  • Series: Buryin' Barry Clayton Series , #2
  • Pages: 266
  • Sales rank: 1,262,006
  • Product dimensions: 5.14 (w) x 8.22 (h) x 0.70 (d)

Meet the Author

Mark de Castrique grew up in the mountains of western North Carolina where he sets his Barry Clayton mystery series. Mark is a veteran of the television and film production industry, and he serves as an adjunct professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Mark and his wife, Linda, live in Charlotte. Final Undertaking is the fourth book in the Buryina Barry series. http://mark-et-al.com/

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Read an Excerpt

Grave Undertaking


By Mark de Castrique

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2004 Mark de Castrique
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-61595-040-9


Chapter One

"You beat me to the cemetery," I said.

"Barry, at my age I'll beat most people to the cemetery." The old preacher chuckled and rocked forward, using his ever-present rhododendron walking stick as an anchor in the slippery stones. Reverend Lester Pace had been leaning against the hood of his maroon Plymouth Duster, and the ice-laced gravel of the Eagle Creek Methodist Church parking lot made walking treacherous. "Lovely day for an outing, though I don't think Pearly Johnson will mind the cold. At least the ground hasn't froze to concrete."

Pace's frosty breath bore witness to the chill of mid-December. The early morning sun was only a glow of lighter gray in the snow-laden clouds.

"The TV weatherman says snow flurries before noon," I said.

"He shoulda called me. My bursitis says four to six inches by nightfall." With his free hand, he clutched the shoulder of his battered canvas hunting jacket to underscore the source of his prediction. Then he turned and stepped off the gravel onto the grassy border at the edge of the graveyard. A dark stain marked where the blood of countless rabbits and squirrels had soaked the game pouch of his canvas back. "Come on. Senator Richards is moving in tomorrow and we'd best get his room vacated."

I walked in step beside him. "No need for you to stay out in this cold. Why don't you wait in the church?" I glanced over my left shoulder to the rear door of the white clapboard sanctuary.

"Thanks, but I promised Pearly's family I'd be their witness. Did you know they asked for you to come over here instead of Williams Funeral Home?"

"That's who's handling the senator? Uncle Wayne just told me to be up here to move a grave. I thought it was a favor for you."

"No, a favor for Pearly Johnson's family. They've got a claim on us. You, me, and the Tucker brothers."

He raised his stick and pointed to a spot down the hill. Over the crest, I saw the top of a backhoe. We kept walking until we came to a modest gravestone with Patrick "Pearly" Johnson carved into the smooth granite. A primer-painted pickup towing a flatbed trailer had backed in from a dirt-lane service road. It was parked between Pearly's marker and a wrought-iron fence enclosing a miniature Washington monument that rose at least six feet high, a skyscraper in the landscape of single-story tombstones. Down the shaft were inscribed the words BLESSED UNION FOREVER.

Pace introduced me to two men he identified as the Tucker brothers. They nodded and resumed getting the hoe from the back of the trailer. A limited mountain gene pool had formed their grizzled, unshaven faces into lean expressionless masks. Their soiled denim overalls and floppy-eared leather caps made them as indistinguishable from each other as two Wall Street brokers in pin stripes. I figured they were in their sixties, younger than Pace but not by much.

"What do you mean the Johnsons have a claim on us?"

"Because of what happened to Pearly."

"When?"

"You ain't never heard of the story of Pearly's grave raisin'?" yelled one of the Tuckers from the trailer. He grinned at his brother. "I can't believe Jack Clayton ain't told his boy about that."

His fashion clone elbowed him in the ribs and I heard the whisper, "Jack's got old-timer's."

"Alzheimer's," I corrected, feeling foolish because I knew they wouldn't remember the proper word for the disease any longer than did my father.

"Then you tell him, Preacher," said the first Tucker.

They went back to work, but I could tell they were listening.

As we watched the Tuckers, Pace walked over to the wrought-iron fence and propped his arm along the rusted railing. "Barry, you know how any time your father and I were moving a vault, we liked to have a family member present."

"Yeah," I said. "Uncle Wayne still feels the same way."

Over the last forty years, my father and his brother-in-law, Wayne Thompson, had probably conducted three-fourths of the burials in Laurel County. Uncle Wayne worked for Clayton and Clayton, our funeral home in the western North Carolina mountain town of Gainesboro.

Clayton and Clayton was more than a funeral home to me. It was where I grew up living over the visitation room, the embalming equipment, and the casket displays. It was also where I had been forced to return when my father developed Alzheimer's and Mom and Dad could find no one to run the business.

Buryin' Barry defied Thomas Wolfe by coming home again. To the funeral home.

"That's cause your Uncle Wayne was there with me and your dad," said Pace. "Nearly seven years ago. Hard to believe. Seems like only yesterday we were standing together around Pearly Johnson's grave."

"Yep," the brothers muttered in unison.

"That first time was back up in Whiteside Hollow," said Pace.

"The first time?" I began to suspect I was in for one of the mountain tales the Methodist circuit-riding preacher could spin by the hour. I never tired of hearing them.

There was a rattle of chains as the Tuckers started unhooking the backhoe from the trailer.

"Yes," said Pace. "Pearly was originally buried on family land. That must have been in the Forties. In 1996, they sold their land to developers so that a new retirement community could be constructed. The Johnsons bought more acreage on the other side of the ridge and still came out with extra money to boot. Trouble was what to do with Pearly."

"Well, sounds like Pearly had been permanently retired," I said. "He should have felt right at home."

"Reckon he didn't care much one way or the other, but Pearly's ninety-five-year-old widow didn't want to leave him behind. Your dad and I suspected nothing had been done in a proper fashion when Pearly died, you know, official notifications, death certificate. But, we agreed to help relocate him to the church cemetery, and we had assurance he had been buried in a coffin and a sealed vault. We arranged for the Tuckers and their truck with a hoist. What we couldn't get was a family member."

"I thought they wanted him moved."

"Yes, but they were too superstitious. Even the three grown grandchildren were convinced Pearly didn't approve of the sale, and none of them wanted to be near him until he was securely returned to six feet under."

Pace paused long enough to breathe in a lungful of the brisk mountain air. A network of capillaries had blossomed on his cheeks, but the cold wasn't going to hinder a good story.

"I take it things didn't go as planned," I said.

I heard the Tuckers laugh behind me.

"Not hardly," continued the preacher. "We dug down to the top of the vault. Even your dad and uncle didn't recognize the make. We managed to loop the chains around each end and start the winch. When we had cleared the hole by three or four feet, Barney let out a cry I can still hear. 'Gol-durnit. It's a septic tank. Can you believe it? They crapped in an outhouse and put Pearly in a septic tank.'"

I turned around to see which one of the Tucker brothers would own up to being Barney. They both just grinned at me from either side of their trailer, shaking their heads in agreement.

"Then Barney stopped the hoist motor," said Pace. "Don't know if it was because he was laughing so hard or he thought we wouldn't load a septic tank on the truck. Whatever, it jarred the hoist and set the chains to swinging. I can still see them starting to slip and tipping the septic tank to one side. Sure enough, the whole thing toppled over. The tank landed on one end, cracked open and tumbled Pearly Johnson's pine box onto the rocky ground. Fortunately, the coffin stayed closed, but there we were with an open tank and Pearly's bones only a board-width away from the light of day."

"What did y'all do?" I asked, unable to suppress a laugh.

"Your uncle stayed with the coffin while your dad and I went and told the family what happened. I insisted one of them come with us to decide what to do. You'd think we'd walked in with Pearly's ghost beside us. They all went white as a sheet. I finally got them to agree to cut a deck of cards to see who came out to the grave. In the end, we put the coffin in a real vault and brought Pearly to this new resting place. Ain't that right, boys?"

"God's truth," swore the witnesses.

"And now we're moving him again," I said.

As confirmation of that fact, the backhoe roared to life and the Tuckers began guiding it down the ramps.

Pace raised his voice over the throaty rumble. "Yep, family got an offer on this plot they couldn't refuse. Or so they say. Now Pearly's wife is dead and buried with their daughter in Waynesville. Pearly's going over to join them. Even though they're good Christian people, the grandchildren are afraid of haunts, of unquiet spirits. Said we owed it to Pearly to be the ones to get him settled. In peace and in one piece. And so we will."

"Why'd they sell his grave?"

Pace patted the fence. "Because of this guy. Caleb Turner."

"No-Reb Caleb," said a Tucker.

"Turncoat Turner," added his brother.

"Evidently Senator Richards looked upon Caleb Turner as some kind of personal hero," said Pace. "He paid good money to have his earthly remains buried beside the Civil War maverick. Funny thing, the reason I could get Pearly in this spot seven years ago was because nobody else had ever wanted to be buried beside Turner."

I nodded, now realizing BLESSED UNION FOREVER didn't mean being at one with the Lord. Pace signaled to the Tuckers to begin digging. One of them crawled up in the metal seat and manned the controls. The jaws of the digger swung out over the plot. I stepped closer to the preacher.

"I've never heard of Caleb Turner," I said. "Was he a traitor?"

"Depends upon which side you take. Even I wasn't alive in 1861, but I know these mountain people were just stubborn enough to rebel against the rebels. About the only slaves around here were owned by the Charleston bluebloods who fled the lowland heat in the summer. Mountaineers didn't care much for them. Thought they were pretentious and pampered. It'd be like the Floridians seceding from the Union today and expecting us to join them because they've got summer places here. You know how that would go over."

"I guess some things don't change."

"Always been some kind of culture clash. But, the outsiders want the summer climate and the locals want the summer cash."

"What did Caleb Turner do?"

"He argued against secession. Then he coordinated a network of spies working between western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee. He knew the hills too well to ever get caught. They say he hijacked a shipment of engraving plates as they were being transferred from Alabama to Virginia. Hard to print confederate money without them."

"Sounds like he wound up a traitor to hear the Tuckers talk."

I looked at the two brothers. Their attention was no longer on the preacher's story but on the task at hand. The teeth of their backhoe bit into the center of Pearly's grave, scooping out a deep wound in the brown, wintered grass. Exposing the vault would not take long.

"Being branded a traitor came later," said Pace. "After the war, Turner joined the Republican party to get in tight with the Yankee carpetbaggers. The mountaineers didn't want to secede, but they sure as hell didn't like Northern reconstruction either. Over the years, the big monument Caleb Turner got for himself became a lightning rod. That's why the church put up that fence back in the 1920s. People used to dump garbage on his grave."

"Well, maybe now Caleb Turner, Pearly Johnson, and Senator Richards can all rest in peace."

I looked out beyond the maligned monument. The land dropped off steeply and the bare hardwoods at the lower edge of the cemetery no longer screened a view of the broad valley below. Thin trails of chimney smoke hung in the breezeless air, marking the resting places of the living on this cold Monday morning.

After a few minutes, I felt Reverend Pace move away. I turned to watch him step closer to the deepening excavation. It sank down at least four feet. The hoe began to make shallower gouges in the soil so that the vault wouldn't be damaged upon contact. Pace nodded his approval to the Tucker brothers. Then he suddenly flailed his stick at the backhoe. I saw a blurred shape topple out of its steel teeth and fall into the pit. It came to rest staring up.

The eyeless sockets fixed on me. The eyeless sockets of a human skull. Centered above those sockets was a single bullet hole.

Chapter Two

"Jesus God Almighty, Barney! Stop it, Barney, stop it!" The Tucker who wasn't Barney punctuated his screams by jumping up on the side of the machine and pounding his brother on the shoulder.

The engine sputtered and died. Barney jumped from the seat and crouched down at the lip of the hole. He looked at the skull and then up at Reverend Pace. "I'm sorry, Preacher. I never felt nothing. I swear to God. I thought it was all dirt."

"Of all people, it would have to be Pearly Johnson," exclaimed Pace.

"We're just to the top of the vault," I said. I sat on the edge, dangled my legs over the side, and dropped to the bottom. I bent down and worked my hands a couple inches into the soil. "Here's the vault. It's not damaged. Somebody get a shovel."

"You heard him," ordered Barney to his brother. He was still shaking and sucking in air.

I stood up and watched the other Tucker brother run to the pickup. The ear flaps on his cap bounced with each stride, and he looked like some deformed bird trying to fly. He pulled a spade out of the truck bed and hurried back.

I took the shovel and gently pried its point under the layer of dirt beside the last gouge of the hoe. I rocked the blade up and down, and a broader section of ground moved as if a root or stick had been dislodged. I withdrew the spade and began scraping away soil with its blunt edge. After a few passes, a dark, moldy piece of fabric broke through the surface. I tossed the shovel aside and dropped to my knees. The Tucker brothers and Pace leaned over the hole and watched in silence as I used my bare hands to unearth more of the cloth.

"Nylon," I said. "Here's a rusted zipper. Must be a wind breaker or light jacket." I felt underneath the exposed remnant, careful not to damage the fragile material. I looked up at the preacher. "Clavicle."

"What's that?" asked Barney. "More bones?"

"Yes, a shoulder bone," I said. "I expect an entire skeleton is here. This isn't Pearly Johnson, Barney. You didn't do anything wrong."

"What'll we do now?" asked his brother.

"We need to call the sheriff. We won't touch anything until he gets here. I know Tommy Lee's number and I've got a phone in the jeep."

Pace shook his head. "No, we're not in Laurel County. We've crossed into Walker. Sheriff Ewbanks has jurisdiction here. And this county's not set up for 911. You'll have to call information."

Pace and I left the bewildered Tucker brothers to guard the site and speculate as to the identity of the skeleton. I started the jeep's engine, hoping a brief blast from the heater would remove the chill which had penetrated my bones. Pace stretched his hands over the vent and shivered.

"What a mess, Barry. It's like Pearly's under some kind of curse."

I forced a smile. "Well, maybe he invited a friend over, or maybe Turncoat Turner is more popular than you thought."

But it wasn't funny. To think that a body had been buried on top of someone else. This was much more serious than a septic tank cracking open.

"Walker County Sheriff's Department." The mountain twang of the man's voice came through the low hiss of the cell phone.

"Yes, this is Barry Clayton of Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors. I'm calling to report the discovery of a body."

"A body you say?" The voice sounded closer to the phone. "Where?"

"Buried in the graveyard at Eagle Creek Methodist Church."

"You found a body in a graveyard. Look, wise-ass, go chase your refrigerator. It's running." A click and hiss.

"He hung up on me."

"I think you'd better start your story differently," suggested Pace. "Otherwise, we'll be up here all day."

Fifteen minutes later, a tan cruiser with WALKER COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT written on the side pulled into the parking lot. Pace and I got out of the jeep and met the uniformed driver as he emerged from the car.

"You Mr. Clayton?" he asked, talking with a lit cigarette bobbing on the edge of his lip.

"Yes, and this is Reverend Pace."

"I know the preacher. I'm Sheriff Ewbanks. Horace Ewbanks. I'm sorry my deputy hung up on you. Kids give us a lot of trouble." He started walking toward the Tuckers.

"Anybody else coming?" I asked.

"Maybe. Depends on what we got. A deputy's standing by to lead up the state mobile crime lab if it's needed. I'll make that call, Mr. Clayton."

I figured Ewbanks to be in his early sixties. He was shorter than me, no more than five-foot- six, and he looked wiry and tough. White hair stuck out between the upturned collar of his leather jacket and the band of his regulation hat.

"What's Clayton doing burying over in this county?" he asked.

"Pearly Johnson's family asked us to move his grave," I said. "Senator Hugh Richards is being buried here tomorrow."

"Yeah. I knew the senator and his family. You Jack Clayton's boy?"

"Yes."

"Heard something 'bout that. Used to be a police?" He said the word "po-lice" with a couple of extra Os.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Grave Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Copyright © 2004 by Mark de Castrique. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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