by John J. Lamb
I began to load some of the bears we intended to sell at tomorrow’s jubilee into plastic crates and slowly took one of them downstairs to the truck. Then I grabbed a braided rope dog toy and had a fine time playing tug-of-war with Kitch until he almost pulled me off my feet. I regretted that we were about to leave him alone again, but felt some consolation knowing that he’d spend all of the following day with Tina’s children. By the time I returned upstairs, not only had Ash completed work on Belinda, but Bear-atio was now wearing the trousers I’d left half-completed the previous evening.
She held up the furry detective and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I finished his pants.”
“Not at all. Thank you.”
“Bear-atio needs sunglasses.”
“And acting lessons.”
I reached into a plastic fishing tackle box I’d converted into a bear accessory chest and removed a small pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses that I’d purchased from a doll maker’s supply shop. Ash handed me Bear-atio and I slid the shades over the teddy’s mohair snout. I adjusted his arms so that they were on his hips, tilted his head over to one side, and was satisfied. Bear-atio looked ready to deliver one of Caruso’s eye roll-producing corny one-liners.
“He’s perfect,” said Ash.
“He’ll do,” I replied. “But no matter how technically proficient I’ve become with the sewing and assembly, my bears still look kind of blah next to yours.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Ash, my love, you’re sweet but a lousy liar. I’m wondering if I need to try something a little more out of the ordinary.”
“Lord, I hope you aren’t thinking of making some of those creepy-looking bears with the bug eyes,” said Ash, referring to a current and incomprehensibly popular trend among a few artists toward making teddies with oversized heads and distorted facial features.
“Chernobyl bears? I think not. Actually, I’ve been giving some thought to creating a new collection. But what I have in mind is even less commercially attractive than my cop bears.”
“Brad, honey, you can’t let your designs be influenced by whether you think people will buy the bears. They’ve got to come from your heart.”
“I agree, in theory,” I said, putting Bear-atio on the table. “But with the price of mohair and all the other materials going through the roof, I don’t want to waste money on some vanity project.”
Ash reached out to rub my arm. “Tell me your idea.”
“Well, you know how Gary Nett makes his bears dressed as soldiers from the American Civil War? I’d like to do something like that, but different.”
“Go on.”
“What I have in mind is making a series of one-of-a-kind teddies to commemorate individuals who’ve won the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
“That’s the highest award a soldier can get, right?”
“Yeah, and a lot of times the medal is given posthumously. My bears would wear historically accurate uniforms, and I’d include a small information card with each one telling the soldier’s name and giving a brief account of what he did to win the award.” Suddenly diffident, I added, “These bears won’t be cute and cuddly, but I’d like to honor some forgotten heroes.”
Ash stood up to wrap her arms around my shoulders. “You’re right, the bears probably won’t turn a profit, but I love the idea. You need to make them and they’ll have a special display case at our shop.”
We hugged for a while, and I would have been happy to do so for the rest of the evening, except I noticed that it was nearly six o’clock and we had to go meet Tina at the Brick Pit. I put Bear-atio into a plastic crate and carried another load of bears down to the SUV while Ash ran a brush through her hair and fed Kitch his dinner.
When we arrived at the Brick Pit, the restaurant parking lot was misty with smoke and I paused to savor the rich and delicious smell. Unlike many supposed genuine barbecue eateries, Sergei’s hadn’t made the transition to using a gas oven. He still cooked his meat the old-fashioned way over hardwood charcoal. His customers appreciated the effort, as evidenced by the fact the restaurant parking lot was already two-thirds full.
A moment later, Tina’s patrol car rolled into the lot and parked beside our Xterra. The sheriff looked glum as she climbed out of her car to greet us.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ash.
Tina glanced across the street in the direction of the county courthouse and shook her head wearily. “Ever since I got back from Roanoke, I’ve been lectured by the commonwealth’s attorney and then three members of the county board of supervisors about how unhappy they are with our lack of progress in finding Mr. Rawlins’s killer.”
“But we’ve been investigating less than twenty-four hours,” Ash protested.
“And we’ve made some headway,” I said.
“I know, but as far as they’re concerned, that isn’t good enough,” Tina replied. “They want someone arrested by Monday, and the prosecutor is strongly leaning toward charging Chet Lincoln with murder.”
“That’s crazy. Aside from the fact that we haven’t yet proved that Rawlins was even murdered, there isn’t enough probable cause to arrest Chet.”
“I agree, but the CA doesn’t. He says that Chet had motive, means, and opportunity, and that the fact he ran from you at the lodge shows consciousness of guilt.”
“Talk about a rush to judgment. Did you tell the prosecutor that we’re looking at several other persons of interest?”
“Yes, but he’s convinced that Mr. Lincoln is the killer.”
“The CA isn’t stupid. More likely, he sees Chet as being fairly easy to convict. Our favorite poacher is indigent, already wanted for other crimes, and disliked by the community. He’s custom-made to take the fall.”
Tina wore a sour expression. “That’s what I think, too, but the CA will never admit it.”
“What did you say to the prosecutor?” asked Ash.
“That I wasn’t going to arrest anyone until I was absolutely certain Mr. Rawlins was actually murdered and that we’d identified the right suspect.”
“Good for you.”
“Thanks,” Tina sighed. “But I couldn’t very well tell him that and then spend tomorrow running a booth at the teddy jubilee, so it means I’m going to miss the show.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, “but as Ash and I know well, that’s the way it is when you’re in the middle of a case.”
“Can I ask you a huge favor? We were supposed to have adjoining tables at the show, so if I set my bears up tonight, could you guys . . . ?”
“Sell them for you? Of course, we’d be happy to,” said Ash.
“Thanks.” Tina paused to watch another car pull into the restaurant parking lot. “Maybe we’d better go inside while there are still some tables left.”
I held the door open for the women and followed them inside. The Brick Pit was housed in a nineteenth-century cabin with hand-hewn log walls and a flagstone floor; its interior felt like a step back in time to the pioneer era . . . if you could overlook the electric lighting, smoke detectors, modern kitchen equipment, and air-conditioning ducts. Another contemporary touch was Sergei’s sound system, which was playing jazz saxophone legend Gerry Mulligan’s version of “Waltzing Mathilda.” Like me, Sergei was a fan of classic West Coast jazz from the 1950s and 1960s.
We joined the short queue of customers waiting to order food from a young woman behind the counter. Sergei had run the place all by himself up until a couple of months ago, but that wasn’t workable any longer. The growing success of his restaurant and his relationship with Tina (which necessitated some free time, after all) had led Sergei to finally hire an apprentice barbecue “pit boss” and a part-time staff.
Tina said, “Okay, you listened to my sad story. What’s yours?”
“It’s short and sour. We can’t buy the Victorian house for our shop,” Ash replied.
“Why? Wouldn’t they negotiate on the price?”
“We didn’t even get that far. It
turns out that Liz Ewell owns the place. She took it off the market the moment she found out we were interested in buying it.”
“And so it’ll just continue to sit there empty and falling apart. Talk about acting like a dog in the manger,” Tina grumbled. “What are you guys going to do?”
However, before Ash could answer, something else claimed her attention. On the wall to our left was a bulletin board that usually displayed business cards and yard sale fliers. However, tonight there was an eight-by-ten color photograph thumbtacked to the board, and it showed me facing the rear of the Aztek with my hands outspread on the hatch window while Trooper Fuller frisked me for weapons. Underneath the image was a caption that read, THE LYON TAMER. Both Ash and Tina gaped at the picture, and they had a pretty good reason for being shocked. I hadn’t told either of them about the embarrassing episode.
Ash turned to me. “When did that happen?”
“This morning. I guess I forgot to mention it.” I tried to look innocent.
“You forgot to mention you were arrested?”
“Not arrested. Just stopped and removed from the vehicle at gunpoint.”
Ash looked heavenward. “That makes me feel so much better.”
“How did it happen?” Tina asked.
“I can explain in three words: The Cannabis Comet.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. I got pulled over for speeding, and the trooper didn’t believe me when I said there wasn’t any marijuana in the car,” I said while reaching over to remove the photo from the bulletin board. “Not that I blame her.”
“But how did Sergei get a picture of the traffic stop?”
“Your compassionate boyfriend was driving by and thought he’d have some fun before telling the trooper who I was.”
By now, we’d arrived at the order counter and could see Sergei hard at work back in the kitchen. He glanced up from the cutting board where he was slicing some baby back ribs and gave me a rascally grin when I held up the picture. I smiled back while trying to figure out some way to sabotage his sound system so that the only thing it would play was “It’s a Small World (After All).” As far as I was concerned, my promise not to mercilessly rag Sergei over the impending vacation at the Mouse Empire was now null and void.
We ordered our dinners, filled our plastic tumblers with sweet tea from a pitcher on the counter, and sat down at a picnic table near the back of the restaurant. Keeping an ear cocked for the young woman to call our order number, we began our debriefing. Tina started by telling us about the autopsy.
“Dr. Grice was right.” Tina leaned forward and spoke in a low tone so that the nearby diners wouldn’t overhear. “The arrow tore out the bottom of Mr. Rawlins’s heart and then lodged in his spine. You were also right. The arrow entered his chest at a downward angle. Then we noticed some potentially weird things.”
“Oh goody. I was worried that we didn’t have enough confusing elements to this investigation,” I said with a humorless chuckle.
“Tell me.” Tina took a sip of sweet tea and then continued, “Odd item number one: The shaft of the arrow is slightly bent, about five inches above the arrowhead.”
“I don’t know that much about archery, but it seems to me that would make the arrow unstable in flight.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“Maybe Ev tried to pull the arrow out before he died and that’s what bent it,” Ash suggested.
Tina nodded. “Dr. Grice said that was a strong possibility. She even allowed that it might have happened at some point when they transported the body to Roanoke. Apparently the arrow did bump against the roof of the van as they were pulling the gurney out.”
“So maybe the bent shaft isn’t important,” I said.
“Maybe. But then we have odd item number two: tiny bits of unidentified debris stuck to the four blades of the broadhead.”
“Wow. Great obs.”
“I can’t claim credit for it,” said Tina. “Dr. Grice noticed the stuff on the arrowhead when she removed it from Rawlins’s spine.”
“Could they have been clothing fibers?” Ash asked. “The arrow went through at least one shirt.”
“We found that kind of fiber, but it was the other stuff that caught our eye. It was a mixture of minute and irregularly shaped white and brown particles.”
I said, “Interesting. I’m assuming you sent it to the crime lab. How long will it be before they get back to you with an answer?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Did you sell your soul to the devil? Crime lab technicians don’t work on Saturday.”
Tina seemed pleased to have surprised me. “I know the criminalist handling the case. We went to the academy together. She was going into the lab to catch up on some paperwork and said she’d bump my evidence to the top of her stack.”
Suddenly, we heard the young woman call out our order number. Tina and Ash went to get our dinners. When they returned, the sheriff set a plate with a big wedge of peanut butter pie on it next to my basket of ribs and fries.
I said, “I didn’t order this.”
“I know,” said Tina. “But Sergei insisted.”
“He didn’t like the look of your smile and said it’s a peace offering,” Ash added.
“A peace offering? What for? That picture was a funny prank, and I love funny pranks. I just hope Sergei enjoys them as much as I do,” I said, while the women exchanged worried looks.
Then Tina peered down at her dinner as if seeing it for the first time and said, “My God, I can’t believe this. I spent the better part of the morning inside some guy’s chest at an autopsy, and now I’m getting ready to eat barbecued ribs.”
“Want some ketchup?” I pushed the plastic bottle toward the sheriff.
“Brad!” Ash gave me a scathing look.
“Sorry, Tina. Homicide inspector humor. So, is there an odd item number three?” I asked.
“Yes: you,” grumbled Tina as she pushed the basket of food away.
“That’s a given. How about odd item number four?”
Tina took a big swallow of tea and then said, “The other strange thing was that we found some tiny bits of what looks like a different kind of brown material stuck to the arrow shaft itself.”
“Inside or outside the body?” Ash asked.
“Outside and back toward the feathers or fletching or whatever it’s called.”
“Maybe it was chili,” I offered, and then took a bite of dry-rub-style pork rib.
“Brad, now stop trying to make poor Tina sick.”
I chewed and swallowed. “I’m not making a gruesome joke. We know that Rawlins was eating chili just before he was murdered. Maybe he had some on his hands—”
“And it was transferred to the shaft when he tried to pull the arrow out?” Ash finished the thought for me.
“Well, whatever the debris is, I sent it to the lab, too,” said Tina as she reached over to snag a French fry from her basket. “Okay, Brad, now it’s your turn.”
After briefly summarizing the small amount of useful information I’d obtained from my meetings with Wade and Marilyn Tice, I said, “The bottom line is that they both hated the victim’s guts and act as if he had it coming, which makes me wonder . . .”
“If Mr. Rawlins wasn’t the nice guy we thought he was?” Tina took another fry.
I pushed Tina’s basket of ribs back in front of her. “You’re hungry. Eat your dinner. I promise there’ll be no more sick humor.”
“I can’t believe that,” said Ash.
“What, that I can’t behave?”
“Well, yes, that. But mostly I was talking about the idea of Ev having been some sort of secret scoundrel.”
“He might not have been,” I said. “But if the Tices felt that way about him, then other folks might have, too, and we need to know why.”
Tina took a bite of her dinner. Dabbing her lips with a paper napkin, she said, “So we need to investigate Mr. Rawlins’s background. We can start with the paper
work we collected from his house.”
“In the meantime,” said Ash. “Is there any way we can get a closer look at Wade’s quad-runner?”
“I don’t see how,” I replied. “You can take it to the bank that he and Marilyn won’t cooperate, and we don’t have enough for a search warrant.”
“So as long as the quad-runner remains parked on his property, we can’t compare its tires against the plaster casting of the tracks.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said, and then resumed my narrative, covering the mortifying escape of Chet Lincoln and how I’d interrupted the daytime slumber party in Sherri Driggs’s hotel room.
Tina’s eyebrows arched. “Boffing the employees? That isn’t very professional.”
“I disagree. Management always screws the hired help. Jesse just gets a more personalized and nicer version of it,” I said. “But the most interesting thing about our intimate little visit together was how they both reacted when I mentioned Everett Rawlins’s name.”
Already knowing what had happened, Ash took up the story. “Sherri suddenly and conveniently developed a bad headache, and Jesse gave some double-talk answer about not knowing who Everett Rawlins was.”
“But you think he does?” Tina asked me.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence that Sherri’s Saab showed up at the Rawlins farm. And maybe Sherri really did have a headache. And maybe Jesse just thought he was putting me in my place by answering my question with a rhetorical one of his own.”
“But you aren’t buying it,” said Ash.
“Nope.”
“Neither am I,” said Tina. “That’s an awful lot of maybes.”
“But why would they have been at Rawlins’s farm?” asked Ash.
