AHMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “What?”

  “Somebody ran your plate before I did. Someone in California. Anytime a plate is run it leaves a computer trail. Bill is ex-LAPD.”

  “So?”

  Myers shrugged. “So I figured he was the one checking you out. Finding out where you lived. I decided to drop by and observe things.” He pointed to my garage. “By the way, you should get that hanging cord to the manual opener secured. Didn't you see that how-to-break-in video on the Internet?”

  “You were using me as bait? And you just sat there and watched them breaking into my house?”

  He shrugged again. “I work homicide, not burglary.”

  “I'm still having trouble knowing that a police officer watched two crooks breaking into my house and come this close to abducting me. I was almost killed."

  "Almost doesn't count except in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “What made you suspect Bill in the first place?”

  “I didn't.” His head perked up at the sound of an approaching siren. “I suspected Roy. Seems when he dropped the Rosenettes's Benz off for an oil change, they gave him a loaner car. Want to guess what kind?”

  I thought for a moment then snapped my fingers. “A green Crown Vic.”

  “Give the lady a door prize.”

  The ambulance pulled up and two paramedics got out. A marked squad car jerked to a halt right behind them. I hoped it wasn't the idiot Dillups, and luckily it wasn't. I'd expect an apology from that jerk the next time I saw him, but never would be too soon.

  The two uniformed guys picked Bill up. Myers told them to hold it and extracted my gun out of Bill's pants pocket. “This is yours, right?”

  “It is. They were going to do something to it. Switch something.”

  Myers nodded. “Switch the barrel so the ballistics would come back to your gun.”

  “Rosenette was shot with a three-eighty?”

  He put my gun in a large envelope. “I'll get this back to you after the trial.”

  “And what am I supposed to do for protection in the meantime?”

  Myers flashed a big grin. “Call the police.”

  “Yeah, right, so Dillups can come by and break my other sunglasses?”

  “I'll see what I can do about getting you a new pair.”

  “Just make sure they're Louis Vuitton,” I said.

  Myers picked up one of the cards that had fallen from my purse. “Stacey Deshay, fashion stylist. You can really make a living buying stuff for other people?”

  I looked at his outfit, navy polo shirt and Walmart Dockers. “Any time you want some advice in that department let me know. You can keep the card.”

  “Now is that any way to talk to the guy who just saved you from being fashioned for murder?” His crooked grin spread across his face.

  I had to admit that was a pretty good one. I smiled back at him. “You know, Myers, for a fashion-challenged cop, you're not such a bad guy after all.”

  Copyright © 2012 Shauna Washington

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  * * *

  Fiction: MR. CROCKETT AND THE BEAR

  by Evan Lewis

  * * * *

  Art by Tim Foley

  * * * *

  A famous ancestor is a great thing to have, provided he stays dead. When he doesn't, he can be an almighty pain in the ass. I know. My name is David Crockett, and I'm a direct descendant of old you-know-who, popularly known as The King of the Wild Frontier.

  Don't prevaricate, boy. You're proud as a dog with two tails.

  You see my problem. All I want is to live my own life and think my own thoughts, without him making pithy comments inside my head.

  In which case, there'd be nothin’ here but horsefeathers.

  “Mr. Crockett, are you listening?”

  “I'm always listening, Mr. Garrett. I've been listening nonstop since I was thirteen and I'd grant the devil my soul if I could quit.”

  The pinch-faced old gentleman behind the desk pursed his lips and squinted, as if unsure whether to be sympathetic or offended. He finally shrugged and said, “What do you propose we do about the bear?”

  The pinch-faced man was Charles Garrett, Director of the Leo Carruthers Memorial Zoo, one of Memphis's second-tier tourist attractions. For a person of such importance, his office was surprisingly Spartan. The walls were bare but for a pair of motel-quality Smoky Mountain landscapes, and the only things on his desk were a telephone and a framed photo of a buxom brunette in a cheerleader's uniform.

  I assumed what I hoped was a wise expression. My law partner Oscar had told me most of the story back at the office. A Carruthers zookeeper had been mauled by an American black bear. Fortunately, the man's wounds were confined to his left arm, but he was now threatening a very public lawsuit unless immediately compensated to the tune of one million dollars.

  If the bear done it, Davy said, he likely had a mighty good reason.

  And before I could stop myself, I said, “What does the bear have to say about it?”

  “This is no time for nonsense!” Garrett slapped a hand flat on the desk, making the cheerleader dance. “Mr. Smalley and his attorney are due to arrive at any moment. It is not merely my position at stake here, but the survival of the Carruthers Zoo.”

  Appears to me, Davy said, that bear picked the wrong feller to maul.

  I sighed. I'd been a normal kid until the summer of my thirteenth year, when I happened to tell my father a slight untruth, and old Davy suddenly popped into my head. I needed a conscience, he said, and he's been playing that role ever since. After nagging me through high school, he insisted I get a law degree and retrace his footsteps to the Tennessee State Legislature. And that's what I did. I now hold a seat representing roughly the same district he represented back in 1834.

  I'm not entirely ungrateful. Odds are I would never have done it without him. But the thing is, I never had a chance to find out. For all I know, I could have been a rodeo champ, a country singer, or even a movie star.

  Or a mule skinner, Davy said. Or a horse thief.

  Being Davy, of course, he's never satisfied. He's already making noises about me trying to reclaim his seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

  A light rap sounded on the office. At Garrett's call, a blonde-haired, short-skirted vision in white sashayed in and extended a slim hand. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Crockett. I'm Linda Carruthers.”

  Feeling all knees and elbows, I lurched from the chair and took the small hand gently. Her perfume hit me like a shot of peach brandy. “Carruthers, eh? You must be the owner of this animal farm.”

  Her laughter tickled my earlobes. “Owner? Hardly. My great-grandfather deeded it to a foundation before he died. I'm merely riding on his coattails.”

  Hell's bells, Davy said. Who's that remind you of?

  Garrett cleared his throat. “Linda is too modest. Her position as Assistant Director is due entirely to her own merit.”

  She graced him with a glowing smile. “We've heard from Tom Smalley's attorney. They're running late, but should be here within half an hour.”

  “In that case,” I said, offering her my arm, “perhaps you'd do me the honor of showing me the scene of the crime.”

  “Charmed.” She wrapped both hands around my bicep and gave me a smile I could feel down to my socks.

  One toothy grin, Davy growled, and you're already bumfuzzled.

  Tsk, tsk, I replied. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

  * * * *

  We stared at the bear through a thick wall of glass. Until his fate could be determined—which meant until his execution order was handed down—the big fellow had been confined to his indoor quarters and spared the temptation of zookeepers’ limbs.

  He sat on a huge slab of artificial rock, his front paws and long snout draped over the limb of an artificial tree. A more forlorn looking creature I have rarely seen. His eyes flashed briefly at me, then passed dully over Linda and on to Garrett, who'd insisted on tagg
ing along. But in a classic double take, his head snapped back to stare directly at me. His eyes locked onto mine and held as he slid sideways off the rock and shambled toward us on four legs. A yard away, he reared up onto his hind legs and leaned forward, thumping his huge front paws on the glass.

  Linda gasped, Garrett swore, and both jumped back. I held my ground. The bear and I stood nose to nose, mere inches away, with only the glass between us. Oddly, I felt no fear. The experience was strangely familiar, almost pleasant, as if I'd suddenly encountered an old friend.

  Just to be saying something, I asked it, “Did you really attack that keeper?”

  The bear's gaze seemed to bypass my eyes and brain and probe deep into my soul. After a moment, I thought I saw a slight shake of his head.

  “You were framed, eh?”

  And I saw the merest hint of a nod.

  “Mr. Crockett! This is hardly helpful.”

  Garrett was right. Feeling foolish, I tried to step back from the glass, but my limbs refused to respond. It was as if the bear held me in some sort of trance.

  Grin, Davy said.

  What?

  Grin at him. It'll soothe his spirit.

  Forget that. Linda will think I'm an idiot.

  I'm afraid that horse has already left the barn.

  I strained my muscles to the utmost, but couldn't budge an inch.

  C'mon, boy. Grin.

  What the hell. I tried a small one. Maybe I imagined it, but the bear seemed to return it. I stretched my lips and grinned for all I was worth. The animal's power over me began to fade. After a moment, he shook himself from head to toe and pushed back from the glass, landing on all fours. As he returned to his artificial rock, I stepped back, loosening my tie and sucking in several gallons of air.

  Linda was back on my arm. “My god, David. What was that?”

  Garrett's face was white. “Mr. Crockett, I demand that you summon your partner immediately. These negotiations are too important to trust to a . . . a . . . a bear whisperer.”

  I got my breathing under control. “A loony-toon, you mean? Sorry, but Oscar's on the golf course, with his phone turned off. I'm all you've got.”

  Lucky for him, Davy said, that ain't exactly true.

  * * * *

  Out in the morning air, the experience with the bear seemed unreal. Insane, even. But my conscience was a man who'd been dead a hundred and eighty years, so who was I to judge? The day was warm and bright, and it was still an hour before opening time, so we had the zoo to ourselves.

  The outside portion of the bear habitat was a wide, semicircular enclosure, with a great many genuine rocks, two real trees, and an overhanging roof, providing the resident a shadowy cave. Ten feet from the fence, the ground sloped down twenty feet to a dry moat, providing an extra buffer between the star and his public.

  While Linda pointed out the amenities, Garrett proceeded down a service sidewalk to a locked box, where he pushed a button to summon the acting keeper.

  A large plaque on the fence informed me that the American black bear had once roamed free over most of Tennessee, but now generally preferred the wilds of the northwestern United States and Canada, due in no small part to the eagle eye of our state's number-one hero, Colonel David Crockett. Opposite the photo of a bear was a popular painting of old Davy in buckskins, with a long rifle and three hunting hounds. According to legend, the plaque said, Davy once claimed to have killed a hundred and five bears in a six-month period.

  A bald-faced lie, Davy said. It was a hundred and fifty, or I'm a chipmunk.

  I rolled my eyes. I had learned not to tangle with his ego.

  One of ‘em was the great-great-several-times-great-grandpappy of the bear we met inside. That's how he knew me.

  Knew you? That's impossible.

  Not hardly. One of the old fellow's cubs seen me shoot him, and the memory was handed down. It ain't every bear can claim an ancestor shot by Davy Crockett.

  I was too flabbergasted to respond.

  Well, most of ‘em, maybe. But not all.

  “Your ancestor,” Linda said, “must have been quite a man.” She looked up at me appraisingly. “And you're almost the spitting image of him.” I was nodding modestly, as I always do on such occasions, when she added, “But considerably more handsome.”

  I heard a strangled sound within my head, followed by a string of words I'll not repeat.

  “Taller, too,” I said, just to get Davy's goat. “You know, when this is over . . .”

  It ain't over yet, Davy groused. And you've done precious little to help it along.

  I sighed. “Guess I'm getting ahead of myself. Could you sort of give me the play-by-play of what happened here?”

  Her lips twisted into a mock pout as she turned and pointed back down the service sidewalk. “Tom—Mr. Smalley—entered the cage there by a side gate. Assuming the bear to be inside with the door locked, he proceeded to fill the food trough with the bear's dinner. Tom had barely turned his back when, to hear him tell it, six hundred pounds of hair and hell landed on his back. He somehow managed to squirm aside and escape through the outer gate, slamming it behind him. He must have fainted then, because twenty minutes later the assistant keeper Ben Daniels found him lying unconscious on the walk.”

  “How badly was he hurt?”

  “By some miracle, his wounds were confined to his left arm, which had been severely gashed. The doctors said he was lucky not to lose it.”

  I recalled what my partner Oscar had told me of the evidence. Smalley's blood had been found on the bear's right forepaw, with flecks about his mouth. Black hair belonging to the bear was found on the back of Smalley's shirt, and clinging to his own blood around the wounds.

  I now realized why Oscar had begged me to take this case. It was hopeless. Oscar, you see, knows about Davy. Why I was foolish enough to tell him I don't know, but a normal person would have figured I was joking, or just plain nuts. Not Oscar. He chose to believe me, and is now convinced old Davy is some sort of genius, on the order of Benjamin Franklin, King Solomon, or Sherlock Holmes.

  A wondrously perceptive feller, that Oscar.

  So every time the legislature is out of session and I'm back in the offices of Crockett & Kelly, Oscar takes on cases he normally wouldn't touch. What he fails to realize is that any miracles I happen to perform are accomplished not because of old Davy, but in spite of him.

  Humph.

  Hearing voices, we turned to see a young couple in white slacks and red polo shirts strolling up the walk. They were close enough to share the same toothpick, and if they saw us at all they gave no sign. As they came nearer I saw the Carruthers Zoo logo embroidered on their shirts.

  “Ben Daniels,” Linda said. “Our keeper-apparent.”

  Garrett marched past us, purple-faced and leaking steam, to intercept Daniels and the girl. He gave Daniels curt orders to unlock the cage door and turned his heated gaze on the girl.

  “And that, I presume, is Garrett's daughter.”

  Linda looked at me as if I'd done something magical. “How—?” She paused and bit her lip. “Ah, the photo on his desk. You're not as . . . You're really very good.”

  I tried to appear modest. “What's her position here?”

  “Summer help. She starts college in the fall.”

  Garrett's voice echoed off the nearby elephant house. “First that damned Smalley, and now Daniels. I won't have it. How can I trust you away at school if you can't behave under my own nose?”

  The girl's answer was a flounce of auburn hair and a stiff-necked strut past us toward the exit. I had the feeling she was done for the day.

  I heard a sob, and turned to find Linda with head bent, one hand covering her eyes.

  I waited, feeling useless. I have never found it fruitful to ask a woman why she cried.

  After a moment she brushed her eyes with her knuckles and glanced up. She seemed embarrassed to find me looking at her. “That poor, poor bear,” she said. “He's sure to be put down for
this.”

  “Not if I can prove him innocent.”

  “Innocent? How could you possibly do that?”

  I winked at her, wishing I knew. If the bear had really been trying to communicate with me, and really believed he was framed, admittedly one enormous “if” on top of another, I appeared to have two decent suspects. The person who stood most to gain from Smalley's misfortune was his assistant, Ben Daniels. Not only would he step into Smalley's work shoes, but possibly into the arms of Garrett's daughter

  Then there was Garrett himself, clearly protective of her. If he felt Smalley had dishonored her, or intended to, he had motive to stage an attack and blame the bear.

  Trouble was, I could see no way such an attack could be staged, especially given the blood evidence. It appeared Mr. Bear was slated for extinction, and Mr. Smalley slated to become a millionaire.

  “They're here.” Linda flicked her head toward the zoo entrance, and I turned to see two men striding purposefully toward us. The one with his left arm in a sling was obviously Mr. Smalley, but he was anything but small. He had at least three inches on me, the shoulders of a linebacker, and the chiseled features of a young John Wayne. I hated him immediately. The other man, a bald, bespectacled butterball, was apparently his mouthpiece.

  Smalley marched directly toward us, threw a sneer at Linda, and thrust his manly chin at me. “Who's this bozo?”

  Reviving the grin I'd used on the bear, I extended a hand. “David Crockett, representing the zoo. Sorry to hear about your injury.”

  “Davy Crockett? ‘Killed him a b'ar when he was only three?’ You trying to kid me?”

  I set my teeth and kept on grinning, and he eventually leaned in and shook the hand. “Whatever,” he said. “When do I get my money?”

  Let's take a gander at his wound.

  “Maybe never,” I said, following Davy's drift. “How do we know you're really injured?”

  Linda touched my arm. “But David, I saw it. We all did.”

  “I haven't. How about taking that bandage off?”

  Smalley puffed up, clearly preparing some choice remarks, but his lawyer butted in. “That won't be necessary. I have the police photos.” And from his briefcase he extracted three gory eight-by-tens, showing the gouges from different angles.