The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  With her cornsilk hair in a ponytail and smooth peaches-and-cream complexion, it was hard to believe that Sherri Driggs was forty-six years old. She was slightly taller than average, and she obviously worked out at a gym more times in a week than I will in a year . . . or let’s be honest, in my life. However, there was nothing youthful or uncertain about her demeanor. The intensity of her gaze and the set of her jaw vaguely reminded me of Margaret Thatcher in her prime.

  I replied, “No, we’re still looking for it.”

  “If your department had done its job properly last night, you wouldn’t have to be looking for it now.”

  “Maybe. It’s also possible it would have been destroyed in a head-on crash.”

  “Hmmph.” Sherri gave me a once-over and took note of my cane. “And who did you say you are?”

  “Brad Lyon. I’m a civilian investigator for the sheriff’s office.”

  “Where’s the sheriff? I thought I made it clear to that cop that I wanted to talk to her.”

  “Sheriff Barron is tied up on a more important case. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me for now.”

  Sherri looked affronted. “A more important case? What? Did somebody steal a hay bale or something?”

  Jesse grinned, but it looked forced.

  I replied, “No, ma’am, we had a murder last night.”

  “Oh. I see.” She sat down at the table. “How can I help you?”

  “Look, I don’t mean to interrupt your lunch. I can come back later.”

  “Nonsense. We can talk and eat. Jesse, sit down and eat your lunch,” said Sherri, and I knew it wasn’t an oversight that I hadn’t been invited to sit also.

  “But what about the San Pellegrino?” Jesse sounded appalled at the idea of taking a meal without imported sparkling water.

  “Later, Jesse.”

  “Yes, Ms. Driggs.” The young man carefully lowered himself into the chair while holding the short robe closed. I appreciated his modesty.

  Sweat was beginning to trickle down my back, and I said, “It’s awfully warm in here. Would you mind if I took off my jacket?”

  The woman took a bite from a strawberry and nodded. I shrugged the coat off and draped it over the arm of the sofa. Sherri glanced at my shoulder holster and then speared a plump blueberry with her fork.

  I said, “I just have a few questions. You told Deputy Bressler that you returned to the hotel around six P.M. Where had you been before that?”

  “Why do you need to know?” Sherri frowned at a disk of kiwifruit. “Jesse, open that bottle of white zinfandel in the refrigerator.”

  “Yes, Ms. Driggs.” Jesse cautiously slid from the chair and went to the small refrigerator.

  I kept my gaze averted from the young man as he bent over to get the bottle of wine, and I replied, “Whoever took your car was probably a pro, and we don’t have anybody like that around here. This isn’t exactly San Francisco. I’m wondering if someone saw you in the car yesterday, decided they were going to boost it, and followed you back to the hotel.”

  “San Francisco?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was a homicide inspector with the San Francisco Police Department until this happened.” I lifted the cane slightly.

  Sherri gave me a reassessing look. “Interesting. And stop calling me ma’am. It makes me feel ancient.” She took one of the glasses from Jesse as he returned to the table.

  “You look anything but ancient,” I replied, knowing she’d expect to be flattered. “So, where did you go yesterday?”

  Sherri took a sip of the pink wine and said, “Sightseeing. I wanted to see the autumn foliage up on the Blue Ridge.”

  “It must have been pretty, but you missed the real show. You should have been here last week.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me. Anyway, we went up into Shenandoah National Park and drove down Skyline Drive. Then we went into . . .” Sherri looked pointedly at Jesse to provide the name that was eluding her.

  “Charlottesville,” said Jesse.

  “That’s right. Charlottesville. We had a late lunch and then drove back over the Blue Ridge to—”

  “Staunton,” Jesse interrupted her. He pronounced the city’s name as “Stawn-ton,” which, though phonetically correct, was nonetheless wrong. Locals refer to the town as “Stan-ton.”

  She gave him a chilly look of reproof. “Yes, Jesse, I knew that.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Driggs. I was just trying to help.”

  I asked, “Did you do anything in Staunton?”

  Sherri looked back at me. “We did some window shopping downtown, but then it began to rain. That’s when we decided to head back here.”

  “At any point during the day did you notice anyone who might have been paying an inordinate amount of attention to your car?”

  She thought for a second and shrugged. “No.”

  “How about you, Jesse? Did you notice anyone?”

  “No.” The sulking young man didn’t look up from his fruit salad.

  “How about here at the hotel? Have you noticed anyone you’d consider suspicious? Anyone eyeballing the car?” I asked.

  “Here?” Sherri sounded scornfully amused at the suggestion that riffraff would be guests at a luxury resort, which told me she had an overly narrow definition of just what constituted a criminal.

  “You’d be surprised. There are thieves who work nothing but five-star hotels.”

  “That’s fascinating, but as far as I know, nobody at this hotel ever gave my car so much as a second look.”

  “Even the valet?”

  “I don’t pay strangers to park my car.”

  I leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off my now-aching shin. “Okay. You drove back from Staunton. When did you arrive?”

  “Around six. Like I told the deputy, I can’t be precise as to the time. But it was dark.”

  “And you came in through the main lobby?”

  “Of course. Then we went up to our rooms.”

  A minor, yet sudden incongruity occurred to me. I asked, “Can we back up just a little bit? The north lot is a fairly long walk from the main entrance, and it was raining pretty steadily by six o’clock. Why did you park so far away?”

  “What are you trying to say?” Sherri’s eyes narrowed. “That I’m partly to blame for my car being stolen, because the lot was full and I had to park in an isolated spot?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” I replied, while noting that she’d provided a nonresponsive answer to my original question.

  The woman tossed her fork onto the fruit platter. “Look, you seem to be a lot more interested in tracing my movements than finding my car. What’s going on here?”

  “Well, you already know that a deputy chased your Saab last night—”

  “And let it get away.”

  I nodded patiently. “But what you weren’t told was that your car was seen fleeing from the scene of that murder I mentioned a few minutes ago.”

  “What?” Sherri gaped at me. “Are you trying to tell me that a killer might be driving around in my car?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Oh my God. Maybe someone was stalking us to steal the car.” She turned to Jesse. “We’re lucky to be alive.”

  When the boy toy finally looked up from his fruit salad, he no longer appeared sullen. “Excuse me, Detective, but can you tell us who was murdered?”

  The victim’s name had probably already been on the lunchtime local television news, so I decided that there was no point in continuing to keep it a secret. I said, “He was a local by the name of Everett Rawlins. Why do you ask?”

  “Just morbid curiosity, sorry.” Jesse reached over to place his palm over Sherri’s hand. “It’s terribly disturbing to think we were that close to a killer.”

  Suddenly, Sherri Driggs looked her age and maybe a little extra. She nodded and then pressed her free hand against her left eye.

  “Is that headache coming back?” Jesse asked solicitously.
>
  “Yes. It’s the railroad spike through the eye,” she murmured, and then looked at me with her blinking right eye. “I hope that’s all you need, because I have to go lie down.”

  I didn’t need to be an air traffic controller to know that something was up. In less than five seconds, the entire interpersonal dynamic between Sherri and Jesse had utterly changed. The problem was, I had no idea why. For all I knew, such mercurial swings in temperament were business as usual in their relationship. On the other hand, the timing was damn fishy. Sherri had been in control and perfectly fine right up until I’d mentioned Everett Rawlins’s name. There didn’t seem any logical connection between the executive and the dead farmer. Still, her reaction suggested one final and obvious question.

  “I’m sorry about your headache and I can let myself out. Thanks for your time.” I picked up my coat and made as if to head toward the door. Then I stopped and looked back. “Oh, and Ms. Driggs?”

  “What?” she said as Jesse guided her from the chair.

  “You didn’t know Everett Rawlins, did you?”

  “No,” she half snapped while massaging her eye.

  “How about you, Jesse? Did you know him?”

  The boy toy gave me an irate squint. “If I did, don’t you think I’d have said something when you told me his name? And it occurs to me that instead of cross-examining us, you should go out and find Ms. Driggs’s car.”

  It wasn’t the time or place to point out that Jesse hadn’t actually answered my question. I had no legal leverage to continue the interview and still didn’t know enough to ask the right questions. So, rather than blunder forward, I make a tactical withdrawal . . . for now.

  Slightly dipping the head of my cane toward him in mock salute, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Hauck. That’s excellent advice.”

  A few minutes later, I was back in the security department in the basement. Linny was seated in his office, shoveling chocolate-flavored rice cakes into his mouth and watching a video monitor.

  He paused the digital playback and looked up from the screen. “So, how did it go?”

  “Okay, I guess. Ms. Driggs is still upset, but not with you or your security guys,” I replied. “Did you come up with anything?”

  “Not yet.” Linny sighed and rubbed his eyelids with his fingers.

  “Well, watch just a little at a time. I know you’re a busy man, and I don’t want you burning your eyes out on my account.”

  Linny nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Brad, and I’ll call you if I find this Lincoln guy.”

  Even though I was about dying for lunch, I wanted to check out one other thing before I left. However, I didn’t need the blundering security manager mucking things up in his eagerness to help. I returned to the hotel lobby and went over to an illuminated map of the ground floor. Based on the diagram, the doorway through which Chet Lincoln had left the building was located near the lodge’s Rathskeller restaurant. I began limping in that direction, while reflecting that the restaurant was misnamed. By definition, the Rathskeller should be in the cellar, next to the security department.

  Ash and I had been to the Sunday brunch at the hotel’s other restaurant, but we’d never dined at the Rathskeller, even though it was the premier chichi eatery in the Shenandoah Valley and had earned a Michelin star. Maybe it’s a matter of financial perspective or that I’m married to a wonderful cook, but the idea of paying more than a hundred and fifty bucks for dinner and drinks seems plain crazy. Call me both frugal and ungodly, but I wouldn’t pay that much to attend a repeat seating of the Last Supper.

  I arrived in front of the restaurant to find its massive oaken doors closed. A hand-carved wooden sign on one of the doors said the restaurant would reopen at five P.M. for dinner, so I turned my attention to a young woman who stood behind a nearby podium. Considering how overboard the hotel had gone with the bogus medieval trimmings, I was faintly surprised to see that she wasn’t dressed as a serving wench.

  I showed the woman my ID card and asked her if the restaurant manager was available. She made a brief phone call and afterward told me that Thalia Grady would be out in a moment. Mildly interested in just what sort of food earned a Michelin star, I asked if it was possible for me to look at a menu while I waited. The woman handed me a big leather-bound book.

  The old expression “If you have to ask how much something costs, you can’t afford it” applied to the Rathskeller. There were no prices listed in the menu. I leafed through the appetizer and salad pages, then noticed a long listing of exotic entrées. However, before I could examine it, I heard the restaurant door creak open. I looked up to see a slightly chubby woman attired in a stylish long-sleeved black dress and calf-length boots emerging from the eatery.

  She said, “I’m Thalia Grady, the manager. Are you the one who asked to speak with me?”

  Closing the menu, I said, “Yes, ma’am, I’m from the sheriff’s office, and if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  She wore a hint of a frown. “Does hotel security know you’re here?”

  “They know I’m in the hotel. In fact, I just finished talking to Linny—Mr. Owen—down in his office.” All of which was technically accurate, if not the truth. As far as Linny knew, I was already on my way back to Remmelkemp Mill.

  “Well, I suppose it’s all right then.” The woman seemed to relax.

  “Ms. Grady, earlier today I saw a man named Chet Lincoln come out the back door of your kitchen area. Do you know him?”

  “No. Why?” She looked puzzled.

  “He’s a fugitive,” I intoned, which was more dramatic than saying that Chet had a low-grade warrant out for his arrest.

  “No. No, I didn’t see him. At least, I don’t think so. What did he look like?”

  As I gave her the description, she began to shake her head with increasing vigor. I asked, “So, you’ve never seen this guy around your kitchen?”

  “No, and I’d certainly remember someone like him.”

  “Maybe some of your employees saw him. Would you mind if I talked to them? It would just take a minute or two.”

  She glanced back toward the restaurant doors. “Actually, now isn’t a good time. We’re starting prep for dinner.”

  “And it’s Friday, so you’re going to be packed tonight. I understand. Could I come back tomorrow, maybe?”

  “Weekends are problematic. How about Monday? Oh . . . but then some of the people who were working today will be off.” Thalia gave me a bright smile. “Maybe it would be best if you came back next Friday.”

  Thalia was obviously a student of Miss Manners. She’d just very nicely told me to go to hell. It was clear that she didn’t want me talking to her kitchen staff, and I knew that come next Friday, she’d have some other reason why I couldn’t interview them. Naturally, that made me suspicious, which is exactly what I didn’t need: another mental ball to juggle when my brain was already as busy as O’Hare Airport the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I thanked Thalia for her time, and she slipped back into the Rathskeller.

  Before I left, I reopened the menu and flipped back to the page that had the list of exotic entrées. It could be that I just have plebeian tastes, but it seemed to me that you’d order most of those unusual dishes to brag about them afterward, not because they sounded tasty. There was spicy alligator with tabbouleh, kangaroo strips in a chili and black bean sauce, and grilled rattlesnake Dijon. Then a couple of more regional entrées caught my eye. The Rathskeller also offered fresh venison filet mignon—AKA Bambi—and something called savory bear meatballs with mashed Yukon gold potatoes.

  Suddenly, I was no longer hungry for lunch.

  Twelve

  “Bear meatballs?” Ash demanded.

  “The game warden told me there isn’t any law against serving it, so long as the meat is obtained legally,” I replied.

  “Which we know it isn’t.”

  “We suspect it isn’t. We can’t show that Thalia even knows Chet, much less that she’s buyin
g poached game from him. And it isn’t our job to prove that anyway. We’ve got a murder to solve.”

  “I know, but . . . bear meatballs. There’s just something wrong about that.”

  “Look, I share your disgust, but we’re also being a little hypocritical. We don’t object to eating other kinds of meat.” I held up my turkey sandwich to illustrate the point. “What’s more, I’ll bet when your ancestors first settled in the valley, they probably ate bear.”

  “Because it was either that or go hungry.” Ash crunched hard on a tortilla chip. “That’s a whole lot different than some rich tourist at a snooty restaurant eating it for no other reason than it’s expensive and he’s never had it before.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, honey.”

  It was almost three-thirty and we sat in our kitchen eating a light and overdue lunch. Ash had picked up Martha Burch from the airport and managed to escape the D.C. metro region before the onset of the early Friday afternoon commuter gridlock. She’d dropped Martha off at the church community center so that the artist could set up her bears for the following day’s show. Other out-of-town teddy artists had already arrived at the church, and Martha had thoughtfully arranged to catch a ride to the motel with one of them so that Ash didn’t need to make another trip.

  As we ate, I’d brought Ash up to speed on everything I’d learned. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make any more sense of the divergent bits of information than I could.

  She asked, “So you talked to Randy. Is he going to keep an eye on that restaurant at the lodge?”

  “Yeah, but I have a feeling Chet isn’t going to be going back there anytime soon. Thalia will tell him that his presence is problematic. Please slap me if I ever begin to talk that way.”

  “I promise.”

  “So, getting back to Wade Tice. Did you know him back when you were growing up?”

  “Not really. He was a kind of a loner and got into lots of fights.”

  “Whoa. There’s a big shock.”

  “And if I remember correctly, he dropped out of school after ninth grade to work on his dad’s farm.”