Grave Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page A

wasn’t evidence tying her to Sammy Calhoun? I sorted through the jumble of contradictions with the mind of an ex-policeman and the heart of a lover.
    “He was bad news,” said Walt. “I thought he moved away.”
    “He followed her to Asheville?” I asked.
    Before he could answer, a solid knock sounded from the front door.
    “Who could that be?” asked Walt.
    I followed him, knowing Horace Ewbanks had arrived.
    The sheriff stood straight as a new fence post. The only thing different in his attire from when I’d last seen him was a toothpick dangling on his lip instead of a Pall Mall. He planned on coming inside.
    Behind him, a deputy slouched against a stone column of Walt’s porch, his easy grin in contrast to the sheriff’s scowl.
    “Mr. Walter Miller?” asked Ewbanks.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m Sheriff Horace Ewbanks from over in Walker County. This is my deputy John Bridges. We need to talk with you a few minutes.” He looked at me. “Evening, Mr. Clayton. Small world ain’t it?”
    “Mr. Clayton’s here for an appointment,” said Walt. “Is something wrong? Has there been an accident?”
    “No. Just a few questions. Where can we talk in private?”
    Walt looked back at me as if I somehow had a say in the matter.
    “It’s all right. I’ll wait.”
    “Okay,” said Walt. “I have an office, Sheriff.”
    “That’ll do. Bridges, keep Mr. Clayton company. Have a little chat. I don’t think we’ll cut into his appointment too long.”
    “Y’all can use the den,” said Walt.
    The fact that Ewbanks gave me a keeper rather than follow a two-on-one interview procedure made me nervous. He wasn’t pleased to discover the man who found Calhoun’s skeleton in the home of the owner of the murder weapon.
    Deputy Bridges trailed me into a pine-paneled room with a stone fireplace at one end. An oval, brown and tan braided rug covered the hardwood floor between a cracked leather sofa and the high hearth.
    “Have a seat,” I said. “I’ll tend the fire.” I dropped the kindling on the glowing coals and heard the crackle as new flames greedily devoured the dry oak strips. For a few seconds, the acrid smoke leaked from the fireplace until the air warmed enough to carry it aloft through the chimney. I added split logs, and then I sat down on the hard hearth. The long shadows of the andirons danced like animated bones on the floor between us.
    “That was quite a surprise yesterday,” said Bridges. He angled his body in the corner of the sofa and propped one leg across a cushion, careful to keep his damp boot clear. He looked about forty. Close-cropped black hair. A moustache starting to turn gray at the edges. Everything about him was easygoing except his eyes. “Who would have thought to hide a body in a graveyard?”
    “You didn’t take my call yesterday, did you?”
    “No. That was Clint Carson. I hear he hung up on you. Failed to see the humor in the situation.”
    “So did I.”
    “It’s no laughing matter, that’s for sure.”
    Bridges closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sheriff was lucky you were the undertaker.”
    “How’s that?”
    The deputy ignored the question, content to enjoy the warmth of the fire. After a few minutes, I thought he might be squeezing in a quick nap. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me as if he’d been watching me through his closed lids all along. “Tommy Lee Wadkins says you’re a good man. I heard all about that Willard business last year.”
    Dallas Willard had killed his brother and sister at the funeral of his grandmother. He’d turned the shotgun on me but didn’t go three for three. I had a nice scar on my shoulder as a souvenir of the adventure and a closer friendship with Tommy Lee because of the collaborative success we had in bringing a killer to justice.
    “You’ve worked with Tommy Lee?”
    “Used to be his deputy. My wife died about ten years ago and Tommy Lee arranged a job with Ewbanks so my thirteen-year-old daughter and I could