The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “I can’t think of any reason for you to stay. Thanks for pulling him out of the water,” said Barron. “Oh, and will you make a copy of your rescue report and drop it by the Sheriff’s Department?”

  “I’ll get it done this afternoon.” Poole stepped out of the waders and turned to us. “And I just want to tell you Ashleigh, that I thank our loving Savior you married this fine man and brought him home because if he hadn’t been here today, a great evil would have gone unnoticed.”

  “Why, thank you, Pastor Marc.” She gave me a beseeching look that said I should acknowledge Poole’s olive branch.

  “Thanks for the compliment.” I offered my hand to Poole and he gripped it tightly.

  Ash gave an almost imperceptible sigh of relief and said, “And maybe if we get the chance we’ll try to stop for a few minutes at the flea market before we head into Harrisonburg.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine there’s anything there you’d find the least bit interesting. Truth is, it’s mostly junk, but it’s all for a good cause,” Poole said in a self-effacing noble voice. Then he threw his arm around the other firefighter’s shoulder. “Hey, Brother Tony, it’s quitting time. Let’s head for the barn.”

  Barron watched the pastor climb into the rescue truck and muttered something I don’t think she intended us to hear: “Junk, my butt.” Then she pulled the portable radio from her gun belt and told the dispatcher that she needed Sheriff Holcombe to respond to the scene. I wondered what that comment meant.

  Once the fire truck was gone, I checked my watch. “We have to be at the fairgrounds at ten, love?”

  “Are we running out of time?”

  “Well, it’s seven-fifteen now and we’ll have to leave here by nine-thirty at the latest. Why don’t you go in and shower? I’ll hang loose out here until the sheriff arrives.”

  “Okay, but I want you to sit down. Your leg is beginning to ache, isn’t it?” Ash had noticed I was leaning heavily on my cane.

  “A little.”

  “You sit down on the bench and I’ll bring you some fresh coffee. Deputy Barron, can I get you some coffee too?”

  Barron’s radio squawked. She listened to the message, acknowledged the transmission, and gritted her teeth. “No thanks. I’ve been ordered to get back on patrol. Sheriff Holcombe will be here in about ten minutes.”

  “Whoa! What about our soggy friend here? Who’s going to secure the crime scene?”

  “You’ll have to ask the sheriff that. He told me to clear out.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that?”

  “You don’t keep up on local news, do you?”

  “Been too busy putting the house together.”

  “I’m in the doghouse because I’m running against him in the upcoming election. He can’t stand the sight of me. And I took a big risk by telling you that, because if he found out, he’d claim I was campaigning on duty and suspend me without pay.” Barron snapped the portable radio back into the metal holder on her gun belt with a little more force than necessary. I could see that she was furious, but too professional to articulate her anger.

  Ash had been married to me long enough to know the sheriff ’s instructions made no sense. “But you can’t just go away and leave a homicide victim unattended.”

  “Homicide victim?” Barron made no effort to conceal the disdain in her voice. “Sheriff Holcombe has already closed the case as either a suicide or an accidental drowning. Apparently he forgot to tell me about a call the department got last night reporting that a man was seen jumping from the Island Ford Bridge into the river.”

  “And he hung himself at some point during the two seconds it took to hit the water?” I struggled to control my growing agitation. “This guy didn’t drown—he was strangled.”

  “I believe you.”

  “So, did you tell the sheriff about the trauma on the body?”

  “Of course, and he told me that the victim must have gotten caught on debris in the river and that’s what caused the marks.”

  “That’s amazing. Without coming to the scene or looking at the body, he can tell precisely how this poor son-of-a-bitch died. How long has your sheriff possessed clairvoyant powers?”

  Barron grimaced. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “And you’re going to just go along with this charade?”

  Ash touched my shoulder. “I don’t think she has any choice, sweetheart.”

  “You’re right, Mrs. Lyon, there isn’t anything I can do. Maybe if I’m elected next month . . .” She looked away from us and toward the river. She sighed and continued, “Look, I’m truly sorry, but if I rock the boat . . . well, I’m a single mom with three kids at home and I need the pay-check.”

  “What if we rock the boat?” I asked.

  “Then I’d offer you a little advice: Be very careful. Welcome to Massanutten County.” Shoulders drooping, Barron returned to her patrol car. A few moments later she was gone.

  I sagged onto the bench. “Honey, what do you know about Holcombe?”

  “Not much. He was a couple of grades behind me in high school and I think I remember hearing Daddy say that he’d been a cop down in Elkton before coming back home and being elected sheriff.”

  “How would you like to do me a favor? Go give your folks a call. If we’re going to lock horns with this guy, I’d like a little intel.”

  “Still want a fresh cup of coffee?”

  “Please.”

  After refilling my mug, Ash returned to the house to telephone her parents. I sipped my coffee and waited for the sheriff. The sun began to burn the fog off and the sky gradually began to turn blue. To the east, Hanse Mountain started to emerge from the dense mist and the outline of the Blue Ridge was visible beyond. Other than the fact that I had a murdered man lying on my front lawn and was about to bump heads with the sheriff, it was shaping up to be a lovely day.

  Ash came out again a few minutes later carrying an old lavender-colored blanket that she spread over the corpse. Sitting down beside me, she said, “It just isn’t right to leave him laying there like that.”

  “Sorry, that never occurred to me. What did your dad say?”

  “He was surprised when I told him what happened. He said that Holcombe was elected back in eighty-eight and—all in all—he’s done a pretty good job. As a matter of fact, he was going to vote for him next month.”

  “If that’s the case, why is he trying to pull a stunt like this?”

  “Daddy didn’t know, but he told me a couple of other things. About a year ago, Holcombe promoted his son, Trent, to sergeant. Trent was apparently promoted over a bunch of more senior deputies and that made everybody unhappy. Then one of the cops complained and Holcombe fired the guy for insubordination.”

  “So, our honest lawman isn’t above nepotism and persecuting any employee bold enough to say that what he’s doing is unethical. Guess some things are the same no matter which coast and what size the department.”

  “It also means Deputy Barron had an excellent reason for being concerned for her job.” Ash’s tone was gently chiding and I realized she felt I’d been excessively harsh on the deputy, which, in light of the new information, I had to admit I was.

  “You’re right. Guess I owe her an apology. Did your dad say anything else?”

  “Only that Holcombe’s wife, Pauline, is very sick with some sort of cancer. He has to take her over to the UVA Medical Center in Charlottesville every few weeks for treatment.”

  “Okay, Holcombe just won some major sympathy points from me because that is my worst nightmare.”

  Ash touched my cheek. “Mine too.”

  I checked my watch. “Honey, we’re cutting it pretty close for time. Why don’t you go up and get ready? I’ll deal with the sheriff.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you won’t try to goad him? We’ll miss most of the teddy bear show if I have to bail you out of jail,” Ash said with a half-hearted chuckle that to
ld me she wasn’t entirely joking.

  I raised my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Besides, maybe once he sees the body, he’ll understand.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She kissed me on the forehead and went into the house. After about five minutes, I heard the crackle of a motor vehicle rolling along gravel and then a sheriff ’s patrol car appeared down the lane. The car stopped and Sheriff Eugene Holcombe got out. He wasn’t what I expected. Like most urbanites I had a bigoted view of Southern rural cops—they were all fat rednecks who wore Ray-Ban mirrored aviator sunglasses, smoked cheap cigars or perhaps chewed on a toothpick, and drawled cornpone expressions such as “y’all in heap ’o trouble, boy.”

  Instead, he was roughly the same height as me, but much thinner, with a marathon runner’s carriage and elastic gait. His tan uniform trousers and brown shirt bore sharp creases that you could have cut your fingers on, and his gun belt was made of gleaming patent leather. Holcombe’s silver-flecked brown hair was cut short, but not severely so, he was clean-shaven and there was a certain gauntness to an otherwise cheerful face that hinted at prolonged fatigue.

  “I expect you’re Mr. Lyon. Good morning, I’m Sheriff Holcombe.” The sheriff’s voice bore just a musical trace of a Virginia mountain accent.

  I pushed myself to my feet and we shook hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “So, you’re Ashleigh Remmelkemp’s husband. You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thanks. I know.”

  “I hear you were a homicide detective in San Francisco.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Man, you must have seen some awful things.”

  “Yeah, sometimes it was pretty bad.”

  “And I also heard about what happened to your leg.” Holcombe’s gaze flicked toward my cane. “That’s a darn shame.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit about me.”

  Holcombe chuckled, but I thought the laugh sounded forced. “There aren’t too many real secrets out here in the country. People get to know each other in a small town and the main source of entertainment for folks is talking about their neighbors.”

  “If that’s so, I guess we’ll know what everyone will be talking about for the next week.”

  “Yep, this dad-blasted fool.” He turned toward the body.

  He actually said “dad-blasted,” I thought in amazement.

  Holcombe continued: “We got a report about this fella last night around eleven—anonymous call, unfortunately. They said they saw him take a header off the Island Ford Bridge. You know where that is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, a few miles upstream.” I pointed to the south.

  “So this could be either an accidental drowning or a suicide. We may never know which it was.”

  And there was the Gospel according to St. Holcombe—I wondered how he was going to react to my display of heresy. “Sheriff, pardon me if this looks as if I’m trying to interfere with your business, but that man did not drown. He was strangled.”

  “You’re absolutely sure of that?” Holcombe didn’t sound offended and I relaxed a little.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen this before—it’s textbook strangulation trauma. He’s got petechial hemorrhaging in both eyes and an obvious ligature mark across the front of his throat . . . but your deputy already told you that.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “So, why did you tell her that it was an accidental drowning?”

  Holcombe’s soft smile remained fixed but his tone began to grow a little frosty. “Mr. Lyon, I don’t have any doubt that you were a first-class homicide detective, but you don’t really have any experience with what a river like the Shenandoah can do to a man.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “White people have been living beside this river for over two hundred years and during that time all sorts of junk and rubbish has ended up in the riverbed.” He pointed to the opposite shore. “You see that wire fence over there?’

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the third fence Donnie Tate’s had to put up since I began working as a deputy back in nineteen-eighty—the other two were washed away by floods. There’s all sorts of stuff in the river that can choke a man—fencing wire, old rope, metal cables, even honey-suckle vines are strong enough to do the job.”

  “And your point is?”

  “The point is, knowing those facts, let me ask you a question: Isn’t it possible this man fell or jumped into the river and while still alive caught his neck on something that choked him?”

  “I’ll allow it’s possible, but not the least bit probable.”

  “In your opinion, which means absolutely nothing. Mr. Lyon, I take no pleasure in this, but I must tell you exactly how I feel about your well-intentioned meddling.” Holcombe sounded sad but resolute.

  “My what?”

  “Please, don’t interrupt. I’m very sorry you were . . . handicapped and can no longer be a police officer.” Now there was a pitying tone in his voice that enraged me. “Sometimes former cops feel as if the entire purpose of their life is gone and that just eats at their insides. And maybe they do things to show that they’re still . . . men. Who knows? I might feel that way in your place. But that does not entitle you to willfully insert yourself into a sheriff ’s investigation or to mislead my personnel so that you can demonstrate your personal worth.”

  I was gripping my cane so tightly my knuckles were white. “Finished?”

  Holcombe shifted his hands so that they rested on his gun belt. “No. I want to remind you of two very important facts. First, you aren’t a peace officer in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Therefore you have no legal authority whatsoever to participate in an investigation into anyone’s death. Second, if you persist in interfering in my official duties I will be forced to take you into custody. Do I make myself clear?

  “Utterly.”

  “For your benefit, I hope so. Now, I would appreciate it very much if you would go back into your house and wait there until the ambulance arrives and removes the body.”

  Chapter 3

  I hobbled into the house and withstood the almost overwhelming urge to hurl my cane against the wall. Kitchener ran to the door and began to bark, so I looked out the living room window. A white ambulance van had just arrived and two young women climbed out of the vehicle. One was wearing dark blue trousers and a uniform shirt while the other wore a calf-length black dress, a blue Windbreaker with fire department patches on the shoulders, and a small white gauzy cap on her head that marked her as a member of the Mennonite faith. Sheriff Holcombe pulled the blanket aside and stood by as the women deftly shoved the dead man into a zippered vinyl body bag. They loaded the corpse onto a gurney and soon the ambulance was rolling back down the driveway, presumably en route to the Massanutten County Morgue. The entire body pick-up procedure had lasted less than five minutes.

  Holcombe watched the ambulance depart and tossed the blanket onto the bench. He looked at the river for a few moments and then turned toward our house and noticed me watching from the window. The sheriff grimaced, gave me a curt nod, and climbed into his patrol car.

  As the cruiser rolled down the driveway and out of sight my anger was slowly replaced by a nebulous feeling of puzzled disquiet. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was something about Holcombe’s behavior during the collection of the body that was all wrong. Playing the scene over again in my head, it suddenly hit me—he hadn’t so much as glanced at the dead man’s face. As a veteran lawman, it wasn’t likely Holcombe was squeamish, so why had he studiously avoided looking at the corpse—particularly when the man was thus far unidentified?

  Kitchener shoved his head beneath my hand and I scratched his muzzle. “It doesn’t make any sense, Kitch. But, you know what? Solving murders isn’t my job any more. Remind me of that the next time I want to play Sherlock Holmes.”

  I went upstairs and found Ash in the bathroom, wrapped in a blue cotton bath sheet and staring into the mirror as she blow
-dried her damp hair. As I told the story, she clenched her jaw and her eyes narrowed.

  “He said what?”

  “You heard right. I’m intruding because I have a desperate need to prove my manhood.”

  “That little creep. What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. I was too mad and I could tell he wasn’t bluffing about arresting me. Besides, what if he’s right?”

  “You don’t actually believe him?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe I was trying to impress everyone.” I looked at the floor. “I was a cop most of my adult life and what am I now?”

  “You’re my partner in our new business and the man I love more than life. And I have absolutely no questions about your manhood.” She lifted my chin and leaned close to give me a long, slow kiss.

  When I caught my breath, I said, “I don’t know if I’m entirely convinced. Maybe there’s something else we could do to bolster my fragile male ego.”

  Ash chuckled and stroked my cheek with the back of her hand. “I’d love to, but we’re running out of time, honey. Tonight?”

  “Okay, but in the meantime I’m going to need a cold shower.”

  Later, as I was shaving and Ash was getting dressed, she said, “You know, I thought of a new name for our teddy bear business last night.”

  “I thought you liked Ashleigh’s Menagerie.”

  “It’s okay, but I told you, I don’t want it to be just my name.”

  “Sweetheart, you are the gifted teddy bear artist and I’m the happy and somewhat dimwitted sidekick. It should be just your name.”

  “How about, Lyon’s Tigers and Bears?”

  “Oh, my,” I added and looked from the mirror to Ash. “Hey, that’s inspired. In fact, it’s so good . . .”

  “That some other teddy bear artisan must already have it as a business name?” Ash began tucking a cream-colored turtleneck pullover into her russet-colored slacks. “That’s what I thought too, so I searched on the Internet last night. It doesn’t look as if anyone else is using it.”

  “I like it a lot. It’s cute, clever, and easy to remember.”