Free Grave Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page B

Ewbanks.”
    “I’m not going to bring up the picture unless he directly asks me about it.”
    “And he might not ever ask. Ewbanks now has a connection stronger than whether you recognized a photograph.”
    “I appreciate the advance warning.”
    “I trust you to use it appropriately.” He zipped up his jacket and stepped onto the unshoveled walk. “And here’s another tip. If Stony McBee is here, don’t let him leave without frisking him. That man’s got magnetic fingers.”
    I watched him trudge to his patrol car in the driveway. He and someone in Ewbanks’ department had gone out on a limb for me. I’d be very careful not to saw it off.
    “I called Wayne,” Mom said behind me. “He’s coming in.”
    “I wish he wouldn’t do that. Freddy should be available.” Freddy Mott worked as our on-call assistant, and I’d rather have him on the roads than my elderly uncle.
    “He’s taken care of calling Freddy. Wayne says he knows the McBees won’t do anything before Saturday and he wants you to keep your Atlanta appointment.”
    “All right,” I agreed, but I resented Uncle Wayne preempting my decisions. In some ways, I would never outgrow being little Barry, the favorite nephew. “I’ll make the arrangements with the McBees and then I’m going to snow-blow everything. It’s my responsibility to see Clayton and Clayton is open for business.”
    I met for about half an hour with Claude McBee’s four grandchildren. They were representing Claude’s son and daughter, who were still at the nursing home. They wanted “to get in line,” as a granddaughter phrased it, in case somebody else died. I gave them basic information to take to their parents while watching the lanky young man named Stony. Although it may have been my imagination, he seemed to be casing the room. We set an appointment for a more detailed consultation, and I made it a priority to shake Stony’s hand and eye his pockets for suspicious bulges.
    After they left, I cleared the snow from the walks and driveway. The mindless chore let my thoughts ramble. I kept thinking about the pistol in the grave. I was surprised that Walt Miller even owned a gun. Maybe he bought it as a paperweight. Walt made his living with a calculator and tax forms, and if Central Casting were asked to supply a CPA for a movie scene, Walt Miller would be the guy. The idea that he could outgun a private eye and then bury him on top of someone else was so preposterous as to be laughable. Except I couldn’t laugh away the picture of Susan in the murdered man’s wallet.
    Between the top and bottom of the handicap ramp, I made the connection how I could get information from Walt without compromising Tommy Lee’s informant. Ted Sandiford’s phone call gave me my cover.

    The winter sun raced toward the Appalachian ridges as my jeep moved slowly but steadily along Highway 25. It wasn’t quite four-thirty, and I became concerned I hadn’t allowed enough time to travel from Gainesboro to Walt Miller’s cottage north of Asheville.
    Susan’s father was a sixty-five-year-old widower who had found himself surrounded by too many memories. Three years ago, he had sold the house where he and his wife had lived and moved to a two-bedroom stone cottage purchased from a client’s estate. Although he maintained an office in Asheville, thanks to email and the Internet, most of his accounting practice was being handled from his house. I expected to find him there, but I wanted to catch him alone. As dusk deepened, the prospect grew that Sheriff Ewbanks might arrive at Walt Miller’s sooner than I would.
    I turned onto his drive and relaxed. The snow was unblemished.
    “Barry? What are you doing out in this weather?” He met me at his front door with a quizzical expression that immediately changed to panic. “Susan? Is Susan okay?”
    “Yes, Walt. She’s fine. Sorry to drop in unannounced. I was driving around doing some thinking and I realized you were nearby. I stopped in