The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “When we took the kids on that trip to Disneyland in . . .”

  “Nineteen-eighty-eight? Sweetheart, that was sixteen years ago and the river in Frontierland is not real.”

  “I know that, but I can’t think of any other way.”

  “Well, I can. Why don’t I call Daddy and ask to borrow his aluminum boat and outboard motor?”

  “That’d be great.”

  “When do we want it?”

  I gave her my best example of imploring puppy dog eyes.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  “The clock is ticking. The longer we wait the more likely we’ll lose any evidence that might be out there.”

  “But, we’ve got Lorraine Cleland coming at three.”

  “If we leave first thing in the morning, we’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  “And what happens if Sheriff Holcombe or Trent sees us and puts us in jail?”

  I flicked my hand dismissively. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. They can’t take the risk of enraging your family—too many prospective voters and it’s too close to the election—so they’d only arrest me. You’d be free to make the appointment.”

  “Honey, have you completely lost your mind?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as reality-challenged. How about I take care of the dishes while you go in and call your dad?”

  Ash stood up and kissed me on the forehead. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this.”

  “Sweetheart, who do you think you’re kidding? I’ve never once ‘talked’ you into anything that you didn’t want to do.”

  She paused and gave me a wry smile. “That’s true. I’ll call Daddy and then I think I’ll give Scotty a call and fill him in on the possibility of this teddy bear contract. I’d like to get some input from him before we talk to Lorraine tomorrow.”

  “Good idea.”

  I grabbed the plates and followed Ash into the house. While she telephoned her parents’ house I went back outside to finish clearing the table. Then Kitch began to bark and I heard the approaching crackle of vehicle tires on gravel. An older model bronze colored Dodge minivan appeared and came to a stop in front of our house a few seconds later. Deputy Barron got out and knelt to pet Kitch, who’d ambled over to greet her. She was dressed in black denim pants and a white pinstriped jersey bearing the stylized purple and turquoise capital “A” of the Arizona Diamondbacks.

  “Hi, Deputy Barron. Aren’t you taking a real big chance being seen here?”

  “Hi, Mr. Lyon and, yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Please, call me Brad.”

  “If you’ll call me Tina?”

  “Deal. And before I say anything else, I owe you an apology. The fact is that I shot my mouth off this morning without having all the facts and I’m truly sorry.”

  Tina looked at the ground. “That really isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. Now that I’m beginning to understand how things operate in Massanutten County, I realize what you’re up against.”

  “Well, I accept your apology.”

  “Thank you. So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Two things. I wanted to talk to you about that dead man this morning and I also came to congratulate Mrs. Lyon—”

  “Ashleigh.”

  “Okay, Ashleigh—for winning that prize for her teddy bear earlier today. I saw it on the news.”

  “Yeah, we were just celebrating.” I held up the empty champagne bottle.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “Not at all.” I motioned toward the picnic table. “Let’s sit down. So, has the dead man been identified yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. The autopsy isn’t till tomorrow and then someone will have to take his fingerprints to the state crime lab in Roanoke.” Tina sat down, arched her back, and emitted a tiny groan. “Sorry, eight hours of wearing that ballistic vest really kinks up my back. Anyway, it could be several days before we get a response from the fingerprint examiners.”

  “Nobody’s been reported missing?”

  “Not since I ended my shift at four-thirty. Why do you ask?”

  “Because a little earlier today I got some information that could mean the guy was a local.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I’m not prepared to divulge the name yet.”

  Tina’s lips tightened. “Oh. I suppose I can’t blame you for not trusting me.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the question is: How deeply are you willing to get involved?”

  “In what?”

  “My unauthorized and probably illegal homicide investigation. Tina, I’m going to investigate that man’s murder and if Holcombe or that goon son of his learns you’re even aware of what I’m doing, I think the very least of your concerns will be losing your job.”

  “And you want to know if I’m willing to help?”

  “Exactly.”

  Tina looked down at the tabletop. “Mr. Lyon—Brad, when you got angry at me this morning, it caused me to do a lot of thinking about the compromises I’ve been forced to make to keep my job as a deputy. Meanwhile, I’m trying to teach my kids that they should always do the right thing, no matter what, and I wonder how they’d feel about their mom if they knew I was a fraud.”

  “A fraud doesn’t try to get herself elected sheriff to clean things up.”

  “Maybe.” Her eyes met mine. “Anyway, I realized that I couldn’t play the game anymore—not when they’re trying to cover up a murder—and so I came over here to ask if you’d help me by looking into the homicide. I’m a good solid patrol deputy, but I’ve never investigated a murder.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought—I’m sure.”

  “It has the real potential to turn ugly.”

  “I know.”

  Although it had been a long day and I was tired, I could feel myself growing excited. “Okay then, let’s discuss the mechanics of the investigation. For starters, if I come up with a suspect and probable cause to arrest, you’re going to have to be the one to present the evidence to the Commonwealth’s Attorney. I have no peace-officer authority in Virginia . . . or anywhere else anymore, come to think of it.”

  “I understand.”

  “And I need access to the law enforcement computer database, so I’ll call you when I need to run a vehicle or a person for wants and warrants. When we go inside, we’ll exchange wireless phone numbers. Then, as far as paper is concerned, I’ll write investigative follow-ups that you can incorporate directly into your crime report. I’m assuming you have a computer with Internet access at home?”

  “Yes, but with three kids I don’t get much of a chance to use it.”

  “Any problems with your kids opening your email and reading the report? The last thing we need is for them to talk about what we’re doing. It’ll get back to Holcombe in no time.”

  “I don’t see that as a problem.”

  “Good. The reports will be in the standard Microsoft Word 2003 document format and I’ll e-mail you copies as I finish them. That way you can keep up with the investigation without us being seen together. Oh, and I’ll also e-mail copies of the files to my old partner back at SFPD just in case . . .”

  “Anything happens to our computers?”

  “Or us. Still in?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks, Brad; I’d forgotten how good it feels to be a cop.”

  “My pleasure. Let’s go in the house and you can say hi to Ash.”

  It being late in the day, my shin was stiff and achy as I limped toward the front door. I held the door open for Tina and Kitch and, not seeing Ash in the living room or kitchen, called out, “Sweetheart, we have company.”

  Ash appeared at the top of the stairs with the portable phone in her hand. “I just got off the phone with Daddy and—oh, I thought I heard someone drive up. Hi, Deputy—”

  Tina held up a hand in greeting. “Hi, just call me Tina.
”

  “She came by to congratulate you on your victory today.”

  “And to ask your husband to help me investigate that man’s murder.”

  “So, did we get the boat?” I asked.

  “He’ll bring it by first thing tomorrow morning.” Ash came downstairs and put the phone back in its base station.

  “The boat?” said Tina.

  “It’s a long shot, but we’re going to take a little cruise upriver to see if we can locate where the victim was thrown into the river.”

  But Tina’s attention was now riveted on the multitude of teddy bears that stood behind glass-faced cabinets and oaken shelves that lined the far wall of the living room. “Oh my God, look at all the bears.”

  “And that’s only part of the collection,” I said.

  Tina turned to Ash. “They’re amazing. Did you make them all?”

  “I wish. A couple of them are mine, but the rest are either one-of-a-kind artisan bears or limited-edition collectibles from manufacturers like Boyds or Hermann. Do you want to look at them?”

  “I’d love to. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at making a teddy bear, but between work and being a single mom there isn’t much time for crafts.”

  They walked over to the shelves and Ash picked up an ivory-colored bear with puffy paw pads. Handing the bear to Tina, she said, “Now, this is an interesting one. Susan Arnot makes these out of recycled fur coats and this little girl is made from mink. I got her when we went to the big teddy bear show in San Diego back in . . . honey, do you remember what year that was?”

  “August, two-thousand-and-one.”

  “But, I thought you guys lived in San Francisco.”

  “We did, but Brad had to go down to San Diego to testify on a case where he’d helped SDPD. It just so happened that the teddy bear show was that weekend, so I went there with him and we spent all day Saturday and some of Sunday at the show.”

  “You like going to teddy bear shows?” Tina gaped at me and made no effort to conceal the incredulity in her voice.

  “Yeah, is that so strange?”

  “Around here, it is. Most men don’t do that sort of thing.”

  “Well, I think teddy bear shows are wonderful. Not to mention the fact that they’re great places to meet women,” I said with all the earnestness I could muster.

  “Excuse me?” Ash gave me a faux withering look while Tina giggled.

  “And on that note, I’ll bid you ladies adieu for the evening. I have to go and start on my report.”

  “Bradley Aaron Lyon, you are a total brat.”

  “Yup. And your point?”

  I clumped upstairs and went into the guestroom where the computer stood on a small wooden desk. From downstairs I could hear muted cheerful conversation and an occasional laugh from Ash and Tina—the warm and unmistakable sounds of a new friendship being born. I was glad because between moving into the new house and preparing for the teddy bear show, there’d been little time for Ash to make any friends.

  Turning on a CD of an old Wes Montgomery album, I sat down to write as the funky and dolorous strains of “Willow Weep for Me” played by the greatest jazz guitarist of all time filled the room. It had been over a year since I’d written an investigative narrative and at first the going was maddeningly slow because technical writing, as with any other acquired skill, suffers if you don’t stay in practice. Yet despite the frustrations, on a deeper level I was enjoying myself. Most cops loathe paperwork and therefore don’t invest any real effort in mastering it, which is just plain stupid because ninety percent of detective work is writing. However, I’d always prided myself on the quality of my reports and—this is going to sound arrogant—they were some of the best ever produced by SFPD. One of the finest compliments I ever received during my law-enforcement career was from a defense attorney who once told me that when he saw my name on the police report, he knew it was time to plea-bargain his client’s case.

  The guestroom door opened and Ash came in. I suddenly realized the house was quiet and asked, “Did Tina go home already?”

  “Sweetie, it’s nearly eleven. She told me to tell you good night.”

  “Eleven? I guess I lost track of the time,” I said, also noting that at some point over the past hour the CD had ended, yet I’d been so focused on report writing that I hadn’t noticed it.

  “She’s nice. I like her.”

  “Yeah, and she’s got some cojones—so to speak.”

  “And after she left, I called Scotty.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Congratulations, he misses us, and that I shouldn’t sign anything until we’ve faxed the paperwork to him. He’ll be home all day tomorrow.” Ash rested her head on my shoulder and looked at the screen. “So, how’s it coming?”

  “Slow at first, better now.”

  “Well, it’s late and I think you need to come to bed.” She kissed me on the earlobe.

  I groaned. “And I think I need my head examined for telling you that I have to call Sergei before I can do that.”

  “Oh. I suppose if you’d rather talk to Sergei than—”

  “Five minutes. I promise.” I dug the wireless phone and Sergei’s message from my pants’ pocket and started pressing the number.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Bradley?”

  “Evening, Sergei. I hope you had a good laugh.” Then trying to mimic his cultured English accent, I added, “Nothing I’d care to become involved in, my friend. You fraud.”

  “You should have seen your face. It was priceless.”

  “And how would you know whether I’d be a bloody awful spy? Is that your professional opinion as a former spook?”

  Sergei chuckled. “Oh, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean by that, Brad.”

  “And I’m certain you do, but I’d prefer to save that discussion for some evening when I can get enough eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich into you.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” I heard a match strike in the background, and Sergei began making smacking sounds, and I knew he was firing up a Cuban cigar.

  “So, what about that guy I described? You know him, right?”

  “Not by name, and I only saw him once. It was Wednesday morning, shortly after six a.m. I’d come in early to repair the exhaust duct behind the restaurant and I was up on a ladder, which gave me an unobstructed view of Reverend Poole’s house.”

  As Sergei spoke, I grabbed a pen and began taking notes. There was a pause and I said, “And?”

  “I saw this fellow with the shaved head and goatee that you described. He was unloading all sorts of appliances and electronic equipment from his truck and taking them inside the house.”

  “Can you remember what kind of truck?”

  “A metallic red Chevrolet S-10 with an extended cab. It looked brand new.”

  I jotted down the description. “Was Poole there?”

  “Absolutely, in fact he was helping the man carry the things into the house.” Sergei took a long pull from the cigar and added. “And here’s something else you might want to know: When the bald-headed fellow got ready to drive away, Poole became quite angry and yelled at him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That if he tried to double-cross him again, he’d be sorry.”

  Chapter 8

  I turned off the phone and went into the bedroom, wondering how I was going to break the news to Ash. Actually—and I know this is going to sound insensitive, but I’m sorry, that’s just the way guys are hard-wired—my big question was when to tell her, since there are few topics of discussion that will dampen a warm romantic atmosphere more quickly than telling your wife that her childhood friend was now “a person of interest” in a homicide investigation. Look at it from my point of view: Why should I lose out on an evening of bliss with Ash simply because Poole threatened his stolen goods supplier a mere three days before the crook turned up dead? And the most aggravating part was that I only had myself to blame. If I hadn’t been so damne
d diligent and insisted on calling Sergei this wouldn’t be a problem . . . and it was a problem, because I couldn’t lie to her.

  Ash was in bed, her head propped up on a couple of pillows, reading a mystery novel about an amateur sleuth and her talking Pomeranian dog. My wife is a big fan of mysteries, but I’ve never cared for them. In fact, they drive me nuts, because the cops are almost always portrayed as endowed with the brainpower of gravel—and not high-grade gravel—the killer is invariably brilliant and erudite, and the perfect murder is solved by a canny layperson with the assistance of psychic intuition, magic, or an anthropomorphic house pet, for God’s sake.

  Ash lowered the book and said, “So, what was the cloak-and-dagger message that Sergei wanted to convey?”

  I put the wireless phone on the dresser and started to undress. “He told me that he saw someone matching the victim’s description at Marc Poole’s house early Wednesday morning. I guess Poole was absent the day they covered the eighth commandment at Bible college because they were both unloading stolen goods from the guy’s pickup truck and taking them inside the house.”

  Ash sat up in bed. “What?”

  “Wait, it gets better. Poole was also flamed at the guy and told him he’d be sorry if he double-crossed him again.”

  “But this morning he acted like he didn’t know that man.”

  “Yeah, the heartfelt prayer asking the Lord to help Tina identify the poor sinner was a masterful touch.” I tossed my clothes into the laundry hamper and pulled my nightshirt over my head.

  “So, how was Pastor Marc double-crossed?”

  “Sergei didn’t hear that, but it probably had something to do with how they were dividing up the profits from the flea market. Maybe our victim was holding some of the property back or wanted a bigger cut. Whatever it was, Poole was mad.”

  There was an interval of uncomfortable silence. Then Ash said, “Brad, are you seriously suggesting that Pastor Marc had something to do with that man’s murder?”

  I shrugged wearily and said, “Honey, I know you like him, but we can’t ignore the facts. Poole knew the victim and lied about it, which you’ll have to admit doesn’t look very good.”