by John J. Lamb
“Online auctions and contacts through some of the collector bulletin board sites.”
“And you began selling the counterfeits. How much did you get per bear?”
“Usually around three-thousand. Sometimes a little less.”
“Sweet. Factoring the split with Gage, the pittance you gave to Holly, and the cost of materials, that left you with what? Twelve-hundred for each bear sold?”
“At first, but then the prices began to go down.”
“Because you got greedy and created a glut in the market.”
Poole nodded glumly.
Suddenly, another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. “Is that one of the reasons you burglarized our house? To steal the Farnell Alpha bear?”
“I didn’t break—”
“Whoa there! Before you finish that lie, remember the crime lab is going to match the bullets in that revolver of yours to the slug recovered from our house.”
Poole snapped his teeth together in frustration. “All right, I broke into your house. We needed a new collectible and I remembered Ashleigh showing me that bear not long after you’d moved here from San Francisco.”
“And she undoubtedly told you it was an anniversary gift from me. That must have made the notion of stealing it that much more delicious, right?”
Knowing it could never be perceived on an audiotape, he gave me a malicious smile. “I didn’t know anything about that.”
Keeping my voice benign, I said, “That isn’t a very clever lie. Your motive wasn’t simple theft; otherwise you wouldn’t have destroyed those other bears. That was nothing but a little payback.”
Poole’s eyes lit up with anger. “So, you lost a couple of your precious teddy bears. You wrecked my entire life!”
“You’d already done that, long before we ever arrived on the scene. In fact, you’re still evolving as a criminal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In less than a year, you’ve moved from being a fence for stolen property to a home intrusion robber and maybe even a murderer. Were you hoping to kill me when you fired that shot?”
“That was just a warning shot.” Poole leaned across the table and waggled a finger at me. “You’d have been dead if I’d really meant to kill you.”
“Kind of like what happened to Merrit?”
“I don’t have anything to do with his murder.”
I noticed the statement was phrased in the present tense, which told me he wasn’t talking about his past actions, but rather how he felt at this very moment. Technically, it was a truthful answer, yet Poole had deflected the question. I said, “Which brings us to Saturday morning. Now, we know you were at the museum, because we have an independent witness that saw your Mountaineer. But where were you before that, when Merrit called Gage?”
Poole sat back in his chair. “I was at Gage’s house. I made the money drops on Saturday mornings.”
“So, what happened?”
“Merrit was screaming about Japanese gangsters coming to the museum and it was obvious he’d figured out that we’d replaced the original antique bears with fakes. He was going to call the law, but Gage managed to convince him to wait until he could come over to the museum and explain.”
“How’d he do that?”
“A variation on the museum gift shop story. He told Merrit that he’d thought of a way to save the museum, but wanted to make sure it would really work before sharing the plan.”
“And Merrit obviously bought it, because he didn’t call the sheriff. That being the case, why did you go there too?”
“Gage was scared,” Poole said scornfully. “And we both knew that the gift shop story was only a stopgap measure. Merrit would figure that out soon enough.”
“So, did you go there to kill him or try to buy him off?”
“To offer him a full cut in the operation. There was still plenty of money to be made.”
“What happened when you got to the museum?”
“I followed Gage over to the museum and we tried to talk to Merrit, but he got mad because Gage had sold the real bears. He started yelling about it being wrong to sell local historical artifacts.”
“Imagine someone being concerned about that. So, Merrit was flamed. What did you do?”
Poole put two fingers against the side of his nose and in doing so, partially covered his mouth. “He said he was going to call the sheriff immediately, so I got out of there.”
“Where’d this conversation take place?”
“In that little office of his behind the admission desk.”
“Did you ever go anyplace else in the museum?”
“No.”
“Did you see Gage kill Merrit?”
“No, of course not! Look, I may have made some big mistakes in my life, but I wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to happen.”
I nodded in agreement. “So, if you didn’t see the crime, why do you think he did it?”
“He was still there at the museum when I left. They were arguing and Gage was yelling about how he wasn’t going to go to jail.” Poole locked eyes with me, hoping to convince me that he was telling the truth. “He must have killed Merrit sometime after that.”
“But you weren’t there to see it?”
“I told you that once already.”
“So you did.” I pretended to mull that over and said, “Do you know how Merrit was killed?”
“No.”
“His skull was smashed in with a big freaking hammer. Do you know what happened after that?”
“No. What?”
“The suspect dumped a huge wooden china cupboard on Merrit. There was broken glass everywhere. It was in the old dining room, so you probably never saw it.”
Poole folded his arms across his chest. “No, I told you I wasn’t there when Merrit was killed.”
“And good thing for you that you weren’t, or you’d have trace evidence on your boots. Why don’t you go ahead and take them off now.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to send them to the crime lab along with all of Gage’s shoes. You see, whoever killed Merrit is going to have microscopic fragments of broken antique glass and ceramics embedded in the soles of their shoes.” I sat back, gave him a placid smile, and decided to spring the trap. “So, go ahead and kick your boots off.”
Poole’s face began to go pale. “You son of a bitch.”
“I don’t know what you’re so upset about. You told me you didn’t kill Merrit, and if you have a clean sole—get it?—that’ll prove you’re telling the truth. Unless…”
“All right, I’m sorry for lying! I was scared, because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Believe what?”
“I-I was defending myself.”
“Right. From a man six inches shorter than you, who had his back turned when he was walloped on the head with a hammer. And then had six hundred pounds of furniture dumped on him! Oh dear, poor Pastor Poole is a victim again. I imagine the jury is going to snicker at that story just like I am right now. Take off your boots.”
“You think you’re so frigging smart.”
“Fooling you doesn’t qualify as smart. Take off your boots.”
“Hell, as long as I’m going to prison, why don’t you come over here and get them?” Poole started to rise from his chair.
“Oh, I’ve been sitting here hoping you’d say that.”
I’d been waiting nine months for what happened next. He managed to clip me on the side of the head with a decent right hook as I waded inside and began punching. By the time Bressler got into the interview room, Poole was on the floor and unconscious.
Massaging my sore knuckles, I glanced at my watch and then spoke into the tape recorder, “Time is fourteen-twenty-three hours. Suspect Poole declined to surrender homicide evidence and was physically subdued. End of interview.”
Bressler said, “What do we do with him?”
“Handcuff him, takes his boots off, and book him for the murd
er of Franklin Merrit.”
Twenty-six
Later that evening at home, Ash and I cuddled on the couch and decompressed with the assistance of some weapons-grade margaritas.
Resting her head on my left shoulder, Ash studied the knuckles on my right hand. “They’re all bruised.”
“That’s what happens when you’re stupid and punch someone in the head with your fist.” I swallowed a big dose of Aztec anesthesia.
“You must have done something right. Tina said you knocked Poole out.” She kissed my knuckles one at a time. “I wish I could have seen that.”
“You’ll have more fun watching him sentenced to prison.”
“You don’t think he’ll get the death penalty?”
“No. We just can’t prove any premeditation. Still, when you add up all the other felony charges he’s got pending, not to mention the outstanding crimes from last year, Poole is looking at decades behind bars before he’s even eligible for parole.”
“And all because of the great job you did.”
“The great job we did.” I stroked her hair. “If it weren’t for you noticing that the bears were fake and then identifying who’d made them, we’d never have broken this case. You’re one heck of an investigator.”
“Thank you.”
“So, when did you talk to Tina?”
“She called for a second while you were outside with Kitch.” Ash took a sip from her drink and then gave me a smile of self-satisfaction. “Do you know what’s happening at her house right now?”
“While the kids are still awake? Whoa. You go, Sergei.”
“No, and you have got a dirty mind.”
“It’s one of the things you like best about me.”
“That’s true.”
I leaned over to kiss her. “So, what is happening at Tina’s right now?”
“Sergei is making dinner for Tina and her kids. It’s sweet. In fact, he said that he’d take care of all the meals until Tina gets the soft casts off. And you know what else?”
“What’s that?”
“He actually asked her to go out on a date.”
“The daredevil. I guess that means I’d better finish up on that bear he wants to give her.”
Ash studied her empty glass and smacked her lips delicately. “Is there any more of this in the blender?”
“Yeah, let me get it.”
I disentangled myself from her and carried both of our glasses into the kitchen. As I poured us fresh drinks, I noticed an ominous-looking envelope in the stack of mail. It’s almost never good news when it’s correspondence from an attorney’s firm. I brought the letter back over to the sofa with the margaritas.
“What’s that?” Ash asked, taking her drink.
“I don’t know. It came in the mail today.” I put my glass down on the coffee table and opened the letter. After a while, I said, “Well, you’ll never guess where we’re going in September.”
“The Blue Ridge Craft Show?”
“Nope. San Francisco. The parents of the guy who shot me have filed a police brutality and wrongful death lawsuit against Gregg and SFPD.” I flipped the letter onto the coffee table and picked up my drink. “I’m being called back there to testify in a deposition.”
“But that man shot you, so how can they sue Gregg?”
“You don’t need facts to file a lawsuit. Just a money-hungry attorney hoping for a pretrial settlement.”
“Do we have to pay for the trip?”
“Nope. The plaintiffs have to foot the bill.”
“Huh. Does it say when in September?”
“I have the choice of a couple of dates. Why?”
“Well, there’s a teddy bear show in Sonoma in September. That’s just up the road from the city.” Ash gave me a shrewd smile.
“And you’d like the ambulance-chasing lawyer to pay for us to attend?” I took a swallow of margarita. “I love it. Find out the date and I’ll contact them.”
“I will.”
“And that might just give me enough time to design and finish my newest cop bear. We could unveil him in California.”
“You’ve already got an idea for another bear?” Ash gave me an amused and adoring look. “Tell me about him.”
“Deputy Bearny Fife. But God only knows how I’m going to create those bug-eyes.”
“And you’re going to have to learn to needle-sculpt his lips.”
“Needle-sculpting? I’ve never done that before.”
“You’ll learn.”
I chuckled uneasily, because needle-sculpting required far more skill than I thought I possessed. “Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into here?”
Ash leaned over to kiss me. “As always, nothing you and I can’t handle together, my love.”
A TEDDY BEAR ARTISAN PROFILE
Barbara Burke
My wife, Joyce, and I have learned an important rule for attending teddy bear shows: If you want a bear made by award-winning artist Barbara Burke, you’d better be at the event before the doors open and be willing to race the other collectors to her table. Her mohair bears usually sell out quickly and with good reason: They are among the sweetest stuffed animals ever created. Sometimes they don’t even make it to the show—recently, while in transit from her home in Massachusetts to a teddy bear show in Florida, she sold several of her furry creations to enchanted fellow travelers.
The curious thing is that up until ten years ago, Barbara Burke didn’t have the slightest interest in making teddy bears, nor was she a collector. She had a degree in fashion retailing and design and devoted most of her time to creating wedding dresses and children’s clothing. But in October 1996, she attended a teddy bear show in Vermont and that changed everything.
“I just suddenly knew that this was what I’d wanted to do all my life,” said Barbara. “I was suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists at the time and immediately scheduled two operations to correct the problem. I knew that once I started working on the bears, I just wouldn’t be able to stop.”
By May 1997, Barbara had made enough bears to attend her first show as an exhibitor. Unknown and new to the bear community, she only sold one bear, but was ecstatic. Things have changed quite a bit since then. Barbara is now one of the premier bear artists in the United States and has won a multitude of artist awards, including two Teddy Bear of the Year (TOBY) Industry Choice awards, and one Golden Teddy. However, she maintains a down-to-earth attitude regarding such honors. “I’m pleased and humbled by the awards, but they’re not nearly as important as the pleasure I get from watching someone fall in love with one of my bears,” she said. “That’s the real payoff.”
Barbara’s bear designs come to her in a most intriguing fashion. Typically, she dreams about them and so she keeps a sketchpad and pencil next to her bed to immediately capture the images upon waking. The bears have also come to her in another form of unconsciousness. Earlier this year, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to undergo a surgical procedure. As she emerged from the anesthesia, Barbara told the nurse that she wanted a pencil and paper to sketch some bears she met in dreamland. They’ve turned into her newest teddy project.
A self-described “perfectionist,” Barbara dedicates hours to creating each individual stuffed animal and doesn’t consider it finished until the bear has “talked” to her. This happens when she holds the bear as she would an infant and gazes into its face. “The eyes speak to you and it’s almost as if it has a soul,” she explained. As the owner of several of her bears, I understand exactly what she means.
Not surprisingly to the people who know her, Barbara’s breast cancer diagnosis hasn’t slowed her much at all. She still attends shows all over the country and is famous throughout the bear community for the long hours she spends working on her bears in her hotel room on the night before an event. Barbara attributes her success in fighting the illness to her work with teddy bears and interacting with bear artists and collectors. She told me, “You’ve got to have a joyful attitude
to make a teddy bear and the hobby attracts some of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. Above all, I’ve been blessed.”
The only thing I’d add to that is that my wife and I are blessed to call Barbara our friend.
Barbara attends teddy bear shows all over the country. If you’d like to learn more about her schedule, she can be contacted via email at [email protected]. And if you decide to go to one of those events, remember: Arrive early and be prepared to race me to her table.
Afterword
Don’t look for Remmelkemp Mill, Massanutten County, or Shefford Gap on a map of Virginia. They exist only in my imagination. However, the other Virginia locations mentioned, such as Port Republic, Barboursville, and Elkton, are real places. The two teddy bear emporiums mentioned in the book are also genuine. Boyds Bear Country is in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and My Friends and Me is in Leesburg, Virginia.
The Michtom, Bruin Manufacturing, and Farnell bears described in the tale are authentic, as are their monetary values given in the story. In addition, the account of how the teddy bear received its name back in 1901 is accurate. Finally, Serieta Harrell, Joanne Mitchell, Masako Yoshijima, and Gary Nett are all real teddy bear artisans. I thank them for making our world a better place.
