Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear

by Sharon Dunn

  Suzanne bumped Ginger’s shoulder. “Come on, you love garage sales, and this is the world’s largest. It’ll get your mind off of things, and then before you know it, that detective will call you back.”

  Ginger nodded, taking note that maybe God would open up an opportunity to talk more to Arleta about heaven while they were shopping. “Okay, let’s go bargain hunting.”

  “Mr. Salinski, I thought you said you were bringing your wife with you.” Fiona Truman, Shopping Channel sweetheart, wore no makeup. The dark circles under her eyes and the sagginess of her skin were no longer hidden. Even the bright pink of her workout suit didn’t hide her fatigue as they stood outside the door that led to the Wind-Up’s spa and gym.

  Earl hung his head. “She doesn’t want to come … yet. If you’ll just give me another chance to audition, I promise I will have better stage presence this time.” His chances were slipping away. He had to make this happen.

  “Stage presence isn’t something you acquire like life insurance. It’s something you either have or don’t have. You said your wife, what was her name, Ginger, would be here.”

  Why was Fiona constantly reminding him of his failure to get Ginger to rally for him? I’m such a loser. “Why does it have to be my wife?” He grabbed her arm and squeezed it. “I can do this.” He pounded out each word.

  Fiona pulled away and stepped back. “Mr. Salinski, please don’t pull on my arm like that.” She massaged the spot on her bicep where he had pressed.

  The shock on Fiona’s face mortified him. He hadn’t meant to be so forceful. He just wanted her to see how badly he wanted this. “I’m … I’m so sorry.” He reached toward her and then let his arms fall at his side when she jerked away. “I have two daughters your age. I would never hurt a woman.” He shook his hands. There was no excuse for what he had just done.

  “I was trying to help you.” She opened the spa door and stepped behind it so it functioned as a shield between her and Earl.

  “At least take one of the Pepper Lights. Maybe you can show it to your producers and they’ll have some marketing ideas.” His need to push for the success of the Pepper Light was almost involuntary. He couldn’t stop. I don’t like myself right now.

  She took the Pepper Light, unzipped her gym bag, and dropped it in. “Sure, okay.”

  Her hand shook when she unzipped her bag. He’d really scared her. He had never felt so ashamed in his life.

  “Maybe I can still talk Ginger into it.” He didn’t want to believe that his wife had lost faith in him. What was the point in going on if that were true? Then again, look at what his need to make the dream happen had done. He had lost his wife and scared a stranger.

  Fiona spoke rapidly, slipping behind the door even more. She was trying to be polite, but she didn’t want to talk to him. “I have to leave for the airport on Sunday around five. I would really love to meet your wife, see how she is on camera.” Fiona pushed the spa door open wider. A cacophony of banging weight machines and groans spilled into the hallway. “But no promises.” She stepped inside, door easing shut behind her.

  Earl wandered out of the hotel to the boardwalk by the lake. He gazed out at the rippling water. Boats buzzed and sputtered in the distance. Chatter and laughter spilled out from the Little Italy terrace. A crew blew up an inflatable pool on the dock. According to the sign, Binky would be water-skiing in less than an hour.

  Everything, everyone seemed distant. At the periphery of his understanding, a faint prayer formed. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.

  Ginger’s words came back to him. This dream was consuming him. He had been so focused on getting the next thing done for the invention, he hadn’t been able to hear what she said to him. He slumped down onto the bench. If I ever stop listening to my wife, I am doomed. She’s the smart one.

  He placed his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to hurt his wife and her friends, sure hadn’t meant to scare Fiona like that. All this time, he had thought he was working so hard, striving toward excellence, thinking God would smile on that. Really, he was just being selfish.

  On the other side of the hotel, the noisy buzz of traffic and garage salers carried to the lake side of the hotel. He’d never cared much for garage sales. That was Ginger’s thing. Maybe, though, he could just wander around and think things through … be with people again and see them, really see them.

  He walked on the path that separated the Wind-Up from Little Italy and out into the revelry of the garage salers. From a distance, he thought he saw Ginger’s distinctive hair.

  “I know you think it’s silly.” Martha Hillstrong stood on the edge of the crowd watching the new Binky be pulled by his little remote-control boat. An inflatable pool with a depth of two or three feet had been set up on the dock.

  Mallory crossed her arms. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. She could feel her skin turning red and crispy as she spoke. “Think what is silly?”

  Martha Hillstrong pushed her plastic-frame glasses up on her face. “Squirrel lovers, getting together, having a convention.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to pass judgment on people.” It hadn’t been a planned interview. She didn’t think Hillstrong had anything to hide with the fingerprints. She had run out of people to talk to in an official capacity when the roar of the crowd had lured her out to the lake.

  “They’re special creatures. I can be having a bad day at the lab and go to the park for lunch with a bag of peanuts. Just feeding them makes me feel better.”

  “I don’t have anything against squirrels or squirrel lovers, Miss Hillstrong.”

  “It’s Mrs. I am married, and I have two kids.” Martha tucked a strand of stringy hair behind her ear. “You just assumed that I was some recluse weirdo.”

  “That’s not at all what I meant.” She had to give Hillstrong credit. The woman was pretty good at reading people. Mallory had mastered the art of hiding her feelings as part of her police training, but Martha had picked up on some subtle clue and determined her prejudice. “I spoke without thinking.” If Martha ever quit her job at the lab, she had a bright future in police work.

  The crowd erupted in applause as the new Binky made another round in the pool.

  “There are some people who can’t even handle the responsibility of a pet, but they can go to the park and hang out with the squirrels.”

  Mallory shaded her eyes from the sun. “Mrs. Hillstrong, I am not here to indict your love for squirrels.”

  “Then why did you track me down?”

  Hillstrong didn’t need to know that after two days, she was the strongest lead they had and that the interview was accidental. “We found the ball Binky was in when he was abducted.”

  Hillstrong shifted her weight, tugged on a strand of hair, and crossed her arms. “How do you know it was Binky’s ball? This place has tons of squirrels and tons of balls.”

  The flash of guilt in Hillstrong’s eyes, that furtive glance, surprised Mallory. Maybe she was onto something. “This one had Binky’s name on it. Mr. Simpson identified it.”

  “So what does that have to do with me?”

  “Your prints were on it.”

  “Mr. Simpson and I know each other.” Martha stared out at the water. “I can’t remember when, but it is entirely possible that I touched that ball. I was fond of Binky. He was a smart squirrel.”

  Mallory would have taken Hillstrong at her word except for the signals she was sending up like bottle rockets: nervous gestures, no eye contact, precise enunciation. No doubt about it, she was lying.

  “Why don’t you tell me why your prints are really on that ball?” Mallory infused her voice with sympathy. Where interviews were concerned, overt hostility only worked in detective movies.

  Hillstrong breathed Lamaze style, exhaling audibly. Mallory feared the woman would hyperventilate. “I just feel … so guilty.”

  Mallory closed the distance between her and Hillstrong. “And why is that?” she asked gently, barely letting her voice get above
a whisper.

  Hillstrong rubbed her forehead with the heels of her hands. “I think I am responsible for Binky’s death.”

  Mallory didn’t say anything. She waited. A confession comes easiest in silence. No pressure here, Martha; just tell me what you know.

  “I wanted to help him, Binky. To get him free from the life Mr. Simpson had set up for him.”

  “You mean … the water-skiing.”

  “No, Binky loved to water-ski. His show was good PR for all squirrels.” Hillstrong wet her lips. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Simpson was stealing jewelry and he was using Binky to help him.”

  Ginger bent down to study a hand-woven welcome mat that looked like new. When she stood up, she’d lost sight of Arleta and Suzanne. Those two! The lure of a good sale made them lose track of where they were. They couldn’t have gotten far. People milled around her.

  No matter, she had plenty of good deals to look at. If she worked her way down the long, somewhat crooked line of sales, she’d run into them sooner or later. The girls had been right. Staring at the phone wouldn’t make the detective get back to her any sooner. The peace she had felt when she was with Ida Mae returned. There was very little she could control. She’d done her part. Things would happen when they needed to happen.

  “You,” a voice croaked out.

  Ginger’s looked up. Binky’s owner—she couldn’t remember his name—stared at her, shaking his head. The expression on his face confused her. His eyebrows were all knit together, like this was his personal garage sale and she shouldn’t be here.

  Maybe a sympathetic word would get rid of the scowl. “You’re the owner of that squirrel who died. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  The man nodded. Even in the hot sun his face paled. Was he coming down with the flu?

  “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Simpson. Alex Simpson.”

  People pushed past Ginger. Mr. Simpson continued to stand close to her, to stare. Might as well try to make conversation. “Are you finding any good deals out here?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “At the garage sales.” Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up the dead squirrel. His grief was coming out in hostility. “Have you found any treasures?”

  “I … no.”

  “I’m really not here to shop either.” She picked up a bronze statue and turned it over in her hand. “Just killing some time.”

  Without breaking eye contact, he brushed his hand up and down his thin, freckled arm. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t say, but it’s Ginger.” She stepped free of the force field of his gaze. Maybe he was just broken up about his squirrel, but Mr. Simpson was acting peculiar.

  His arm shot up, clamping onto her forearm. “Do you know anything about antiques? Because I saw some pottery.” He pointed with his free hand several garage sales over. “It had a signature on the bottom. Does that mean it’s worth something?”

  “I know a little about pottery, and a signature is an indication that it might be valuable.”

  He leaned toward her. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  “I’m kind of looking for my friends—” She turned slightly, and his grip tightened.

  “It’s just a few tables over. I could use your expertise.”

  His eyes held a desperate, pleading quality. She did like helping people get a good deal. “I suppose I can keep an eye out for my friends while we walk.”

  The crowd on the boardwalk and pier had dispersed. A lady in a leotard gathered up the new Binky and turned a half circle while the audience applauded. His trainer gave the audience a final wave.

  Mallory moved closer to an awning to get out of the sun. Hillstrong trailed behind her. “Why didn’t you tell the police of your suspicions?”

  “I wasn’t sure. Mr. Simpson and I do a lot of shows and conventions together. At a different convention, I saw him working with Binky, teaching him to retrieve a piece of plastic the size of a card key. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Then at the start-up of this convention, I was in his room going over an itinerary. I spilled one of his buckets of ice while he was in the bathroom. There was a diamond tennis bracelet in it.”

  In the little patio that separated the two hotels, Mallory spotted a va can’t table with an umbrella. She spoke over her shoulder as she made her way to the table. “Why didn’t you speak up when my partner and I were talking to Mr. Simpson?” Once the confession spilled out, Mallory had no doubt that Hillstrong would be an easy interview. The need to tell someone in authority must have been building for some time.

  Hillstrong plunked down in the chair opposite Mallory. “Mr. Simpson scares me. He has a temper. I don’t know if he could be violent, but”—she pulled her glasses off—“I just wanted to get Binky to a safe place, a good home and away from his life of crime.” She opened and closed the stems on her glasses. “I was thinking of the squirrel. Nobody thinks about the squirrels.”

  “Something must have gone wrong. Binky ended up out on the pier … dead.”

  “There was a large cat in the hallway. Who expects to see that? I dropped the ball; it broke open. Binky ran away with the cat after him.” She closed her glistening eyes. “I tried to find him; I did.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Simpson is now?”

  Ginger didn’t like the way Mr. Simpson’s fingers dug into her arm. “I thought you said it was just a few tables over?” She stepped around two four-foot stacks of encyclopedias. The crowd was thinner on this side of the parking lot.

  “I must have been mistaken. I’ve looked at so many things today.” He dragged her toward the edge of the lot. “If you would just please come and help me.”

  He hadn’t overtly said or done anything to make her suspicious. It was just that the urgency in his voice caused a prickling, tingling sensation at the back of her neck and his fingers pressed hard into her flesh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Simpson, but I have to go.” She pulled herself from his grip. Best to be as polite as possible. Her instincts could be wrong.

  He grabbed her again and squeezed, igniting the nerve endings in her arm muscles. “Please, I really need your help.”

  Ginger’s fear calibrator moved up the scale. “We’ll talk pottery some other time.” She wrenched away from him.

  He stood, hands at his sides. She waited for him to lurch toward her. He didn’t move. Okay, so he wasn’t dangerous. She’d let her imagination go into overdrive again.

  “You have a good day, Mr. Simpson.” She turned to leave, her back to him. She’d taken two steps when a tug on the shoulder of her shirt stopped her. Fabric ripped. He twisted her around to face him.

  She clamped a hand on the torn shoulder seam. “Why are you doing this?”

  He latched on to her shirt collar with both hands and pulled her face very close to his. “You haven’t gone to the police yet, have you?”

  Though she tilted her head back, she could feel his breath on her face. What was he talking about? It took only a second of staring into his wide eyes for her to process what he was saying. “It was you. You hit me on the head.” No wonder he was surprised when he saw her. He thought he had gotten rid of her.

  Like a searchlight moving across a landscape, a flicker in Mr. Simpson’s expression, a momentary illumination, told Ginger she was right. She opened her mouth to protest.

  He grabbed her by both arms, spun her around, and pushed her toward the open door of a trailer.

  Kindra stared at the stack of papers Gloria Clydell had pulled out of her dead ex-husbands desk drawer. The task before her suddenly seemed daunting. “Maybe this isn’t the best way to go about things.”

  “You said yourself figuring out who is chasing Xabier would be the fastest way to make it safe for him to come out into the open.” Gloria patted Kindra’s back. “Come on, Tiffany has been nice enough to let us in here. We’ll work on this together, and then I can see my son again.”

  “He would have gone straight to you, Glor
ia. He was afraid the men might hurt you if they found out you were at the hotel.”

  The older woman divided the stack of papers. “Here, you take half, and I’ll take half. You said he thought it had the word eternal or infinite on it?”

  Kindra nodded. She flipped through the first six pieces of paper, all repair bills for the hotel. This seemed like a lot of work that the police could be doing. “What’s his problem with the police, anyway?”

  The stack of papers Gloria held fell to floor. She kneeled to pick them up. Kindra situated herself on the carpet. “Let me help you.”

  Gloria gathered a stack of papers into her hands, then let them slip to the floor again. She touched Kindra’s knee and studied her for a moment. “Sorry, mothers guilt is getting the best of me.” She sat cross-legged on the carpet. “I got sick shortly after Dustin left us. The scleroderma had spread to my lungs. I had to go to the emergency room. Xabier had gone to a park to play.” Gloria shook her head. “It was a new town. He didn’t know his way around, couldn’t remember our phone number. He found a policeman like I had taught him. The policeman told him to wait on the bench and that he would be back with help. He never came back. The next morning when I got out of the hospital, I found my little boy sitting at our kitchen table. He’d had to find his own way home.” She put her hand over her mouth. “He looked so vulnerable. He had on this little red jacket he always wore, and his hands were folded in his lap.”

  “He must have been afraid when he got home and you weren’t there.”

  “Xabier tried so hard to be a good boy. I don’t know why the policeman didn’t come back. Maybe he got caught up in some crime, maybe he sent someone and they never went. I’ll never know.”

  “I guess I understand why he doesn’t trust the police … but that was so long ago.”

  “He was only nine years old. Everyone he trusted abandoned him. I tried, but I was so sick and so torn up about the divorce.” Her voice trembled. “I abandoned him too.” She shuffled through the stack of papers, moving them from one pile to the next so quickly that she couldn’t be reading them.