The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “I have mine here.” The woman produced a copy of a teddy bear magazine, flipped through the pages and then handed it to Ash, while pointing to a color photograph of the woman who’d just been at our table. “Read this.”

  I looked over Ash’s shoulder. The article was a one-page question-and-answer profile on Lorraine Cleland, who’d established the Boston Bear Company back in 1993. Although the business was only eleven years old, the BBC, as it was called, was already number seven on the list of top ten American teddy bear manufacturers and preparing to make a move into the top ranks. Moreover, following the lead of bear-making giants, Gund and Boyds, the BBC was about to launch it’s own premium line of artisan bears, which would be called the Beacon Hill Platinum Collection.

  Ash glanced up at me. “You don’t actually think she might be interested in our bears for the new artisan line, do you?”

  “Why not? She sure didn’t stop to chat.”

  “But, that’s crazy. This place is filled with great designers.”

  “And even though this is your first show, you’re one of them.”

  “Do you think she’ll be back if we win?”

  “If you win and we’ll know in about ninety minutes, my love.”

  We had a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches from the snack bar and Ash talked to more collectors, but we didn’t sell any more bears. She began to fidget as one-thirty approached. Finally, a woman’s voice echoed from the public address system requesting that all finalists go to the judging area. We spread a sheet over the teddy bears and our neighbors said they’d keep an eye on the table while we were away. Then, holding hands we followed the crowd into the tent. I guess it was a slow news day in the Shenandoah Valley, because the Channel 3 news camera crew was still there.

  There was a two-foot-tall wooden platform beside the judging tables and on it stood a plump middle-aged woman who wore more make-up than a Kabuki dancer. Speaking too loudly into the microphone, she launched into a long tale of how much time and effort it took to organize the annual Teddy Bear Extravaganza, which just seemed to be a clumsy way of patting herself on the back.

  I whispered, “Wake me when she actually starts handing out awards.”

  Ash gently elbowed me. “Be nice. She worked hard.”

  At last, the woman finished her speech and began to read off the winners. There were six categories and Large Dressed was the very last to be awarded, so we had to wait for about another five minutes as each of the winners from the five other groups were photographed receiving their trophies. Then it was our turn and I noticed my breath had become rapid and shallow.

  The woman opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. She cleared her throat and read, “And finally, the first-place award for Large Dressed goes to Susannah S. Seraphim, created by Ashleigh Lyon.”

  All right, I’ll admit it: I was shocked and not because I didn’t objectively think that Ash deserved the award. She did—hands down. But in a skewed universe where Paris Hilton is a cultural icon, and a software company can turn a profit on a computer video game of the JFK assassination where the player is Lee Harvey Oswald, I always figure it’s wise to expect that the right thing will never ever happen.

  Ash looked stunned and I had to nudge her toward the platform. There was only a smattering of applause because we were new to the hobby and largely unknown to the other artisans, but I made up for it by clapping until my hands ached. Then I slipped through the crowd and took a picture of her receiving the trophy—a handsome plaque made from frosted glass cut in the silhouette of a teddy bear and mounted on a round oak base. Ash was beaming and I was so happy for her that my cheeks were sore from smiling.

  Once the final speechmaking was finished and the group photos were taken, Ash stepped from the platform to join me. She had Susannah under one arm and the trophy under the other and she wore a look of dazed joy. I was giving her a huge hug when Lorraine Cleland appeared from the milling crowd.

  “Congratulations, Ashleigh!”

  “This is an excellent sign. You have a name now,” I whispered and released Ash so she could talk with the teddy bear mogul.

  “Thank you, Ms. Cleland. I’m very sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

  “Yeah, we weren’t expecting someone looking so young to be the head of a major company,” I said, injecting just the right amounts of earnestness and mild surprise. Like most veteran homicide cops, I’m a very accomplished liar when the situation demands.

  Cleland blushed. “Please, call me Lorraine.”

  “This is my husband, Brad. He helped make Susannah.”

  “Hi, I’m the unskilled labor. Ashleigh is the brains of the operation.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you both and I’d like to set some time aside tomorrow so that we can meet and talk.”

  “About what?”

  “As you may know, I’m preparing to produce a select line of limited-edition bears and I’m still in the process of identifying those I’m interested in reproducing. However, I like Susannah a great deal.”

  “Oh my God! That’s wonderful!”

  Cleland held up her hand to signal a halt. “Please understand, I’m not making any sort of formal offer right now, but I would like to at least discuss the basic elements of our licensing agreement. Are you interested?”

  “Very much.” Ash shot me a look that said: I can’t believe this is happening.

  “Excellent. I understand you live near here. That’s convenient.”

  I perked up at that. Since Ash’s business card just listed our home telephone number, the only way Cleland could know where we lived was if she’d already contacted the show organizers and obtained our address from the registration form. That meant she’d either checked a local map or asked someone about our obscure hometown because there are folks that have lived their entire life in the Shenandoah Valley and are vague as to the location of our Remmelkemp Mill. It also signified that Cleland was more than just a little interested in Susannah.

  “That’s right. Over in Remmelkemp Mill, across the valley,” Ash said.

  “And I’m staying at the Massanutten Crest Lodge.”

  “Why, that’s just a few miles from where we live.”

  I wasn’t surprised with Cleland’s choice of lodgings. The Massanutten Crest Lodge is without a doubt the finest and most luxurious hotel in the central Shenandoah Valley. It stands on the southeast side of the mountain and I’ve been told it’s supposed to be modeled after King Ludwig II of Bavaria’s famous fairytale Neuschwanstein Castle. However, I think it actually resembles Cinderella’s Castle from Disneyland—so much so, that the one time Ash and I went up there for Sunday brunch, I half expected the concierge to be dressed in a Mickey Mouse costume. Rooms routinely go for 700 dollars a night, and while I’m told you get a free breakfast for those seven bills, that still seems a little exorbitant to me.

  When I tuned back into the conversation, Cleland was saying, “I’ll be tied up the rest of this afternoon and evening. Could we meet sometime tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Certainly. When and where?” Ash asked.

  “How does three o’clock work for you?”

  “Three o’clock is fine. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Since you live nearby, how about your home? I’d like to see where you work and it’ll give me the chance to look at some more of your bears without you having to pack them up again and bring them to the hotel.”

  “Thanks. We appreciate that.”

  “Look, I’d love to chat, but I want to get a seat before they’re all gone.” Cleland pointed in the direction of the auction enclosure. “Could you write your address down for me?”

  “Absolutely.” I took one of her business cards. “So, you’re here for the Mourning Bear auction too?”

  “Actually, it’s the main reason I came down here. Finding your wife’s work was an unexpected bonus.”

  “Thanks and good luck.”

  I finished writing down our address and handed the card back to C
leland. A moment later, she was slicing her way through the crowd toward the auction enclosure, which was rapidly filling with people. However, I noticed that although the scheduled start of bidding was only a few minutes away, there was still no sign of the Mourning Bear.

  I turned to Ash and stroked her golden hair. “Mrs. Lyon, I’m damned proud of you.”

  “I can’t believe it. Brad, I won first prize! This kind of thing only happens on sappy Hallmark Channel shows.” Ash was glowing with happiness.

  “I’m not surprised one bit. And I’ll tell you something else: She’ll make an offer on the licensing rights for Susannah tomorrow afternoon. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be coming out to our house.”

  “If you’d told me that an hour ago, I’d have said, ‘Brad, honey, you’ve completely lost your marbles,’ but I think you’re probably right.” Ash paused to exchange pleasantries with a woman who’d stopped to congratulate her. Once the lady moved on, Ash said, “From what some of the other designers have told me, we shouldn’t expect her to offer much money.”

  “Which is no problem because you don’t look at the teddy bears as a business.”

  “But God, wouldn’t it be amazing to walk in and see Susannah in a gift shop?”

  “Yeah, but it still might not be a bad idea to give Scotty a call when we get home, just to run it past him.” Scott Shueford was a former neighbor from San Francisco and a very skilled corporate attorney.

  “That’s a good idea. Well, I guess Susannah and I’d better get back to the table.”

  “Yeah, what with the award, we’ve probably got some customers.” I held up the camera. “I’ll be with you in a minute, but I want to go out in front and get a picture of the tent and the teddy bear show sign for the photo album.”

  Ash leaned over to give me a warm kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for having faith in me, Brad.”

  “My pleasure, honey.”

  As I went outside, I saw the young man from the auction company who’d given me the brochure. He was getting out of an Acura sedan and wore a preoccupied expression. I said, “Hi, there. It doesn’t look like your day’s improved.”

  He blinked, recognized me, and replied, “Not by a long shot.”

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t the bear ever arrive?”

  “No, so my boss sent me to Miss Ewell’s house over there by the mountains.” He pointed vaguely to the east.

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually get to talk to her. She has this live-in nurse or something and she said that Miss Ewell was asleep and couldn’t be disturbed. But the nurse told me that Miss Ewell’s nephew picked up the bear last night around nine-thirty and was supposed to deliver it to our motel here in Harrisonburg.”

  “And that’s the last anyone saw of him?”

  “Basically.”

  “Didn’t the nurse think that was strange?”

  “Oh yeah. She was getting all frantic and wanted me to go and wake up the old lady and tell her that her nephew ripped her off.” The young man laughed nervously. “So, I’m like: ‘No way. You break the bad news to her. I’m outta here.’ ”

  “But you do have to break the bad news to your boss. That won’t be pretty.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Hey, just to satisfy my curiosity, what is the nephew’s name?”

  “I think she said it was Robert Thayer.”

  “Thanks, man, and best of luck dealing with your boss.”

  I took a couple of photos of the sign that would forever commemorate the location of Ash’s first teddy bear competition victory and then heard an announcement over the public address system that due to unforeseen circumstances, the Mourning Bear auction was being postponed. The speaker added that everyone would be notified by mail when a new auction date was set.

  And don’t hold your breath waiting for that letter, I thought, because I was suddenly and irrationally certain that the Mourning Bear was long gone.

  A moment later, Cleland blasted out of the tent like a Minuteman ICBM being launched from its missile silo and headed for what obviously was the VIP parking area. She didn’t see me, but I watched her get into a tobacco brown Jaguar XJ-8 that bore red, white, and blue Massachusetts license plates. The engine roared to life and she flew from the lot, sending loose gravel flying.

  I watched the departing vehicle and thought: In a day already chock full of riddles, here’s another real puzzler. Unless she was in the market for a hot DVD player—which seemed real unlikely—what possible reason could there be for Lorraine Cleland to have been at Pastor Poole’s flea market earlier this morning?

  Chapter 6

  Two hours later, we loaded up the truck and headed home. Exhausted from being up all night tinkering with the bears and the long emotionally fulfilling yet draining day, Ash reclined the Xterra’s passenger seat. However, she couldn’t relax because she was still trying to make some sense of the news that I’d seen Cleland’s Jaguar at the Remmelkemp Mill Apostolic Assembly that morning. “You’re absolutely sure it was the same car?”

  “Not a doubt in my mind. And even though I didn’t see her behind the wheel at the church, I still know it was her in the Jag.”

  “How?”

  “Because she’s got a lead foot—accelerates like she’s at a drag strip.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  Ash snorted and I did my best to look surprised and offended. We were driving eastward on Pleasant Valley Road headed home and I want to make it absolutely clear that I wasn’t speeding. However, I will admit that the only reason for this was because we were behind a slow farm tractor pulling a large trailer loaded with hay bales and there was no safe place to pass.

  “Maybe it was just a coincidence. She could have been doing some sightseeing, got lost, and turned around in the church parking lot. Think of how many times we had lost tourists come down our driveway this past summer,” Ash said.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. You’re probably right,” I said, wanting to accept Ash’s very plausible explanation. Aside from the fact that it really wasn’t any of my business why Cleland was at the church, I’m trying to break this awful habit of always expecting deceit from everyone but my wife and a few close and proven friends.

  “But you aren’t buying that.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you were thinking it.”

  Remember what I said a little earlier about being an accomplished liar? That’s true except when it comes to Ash. She unfailingly knows when I’m withholding the truth. I said, “Do you have any idea of how spooky it is to be married to a mind-reader? Okay, I don’t think she was sightseeing.”

  “I can think of lots of times when you’ve positively enjoyed the fact I could read your mind.” Ash gave me a coquettish smile. “So, why would she be at the church?”

  “To pick up background information on you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There was a picture of Susannah on the Teddy Bear Extravaganza web site along with the other finalists, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we can assume Cleland saw that picture. What if she knew before coming down from Boston that she was interested in buying licensing rights?”

  “That doesn’t explain why she went to the church.”

  “It does if she wanted to collect some background information on you before the show. That’s what I did before interviewing a possible suspect—I talked to his friends and neighbors.”

  “What kind of background information?”

  “Something as simple as our income. If we were poor, she could drive a harder bargain because we would need the money.”

  “But I can’t imagine Pastor Marc telling her anything and I’m certain he’d have called us.”

  I thought for a second and recognized that—despite my dislike for Poole—Ash was correct. Poole would have told us, if only to score points with Ash. “You’re right, which shoots my cunnin
g theory down in flames. Okay, she was sightseeing and I promise that tomorrow I’ll be a little less paranoid.”

  We turned left onto Cross Keys Road, finally losing the lumbering tractor, but I didn’t speed up because there was a spot just ahead where the Rockingham County Sheriff ’s deputies ran radar. A few minutes later we turned onto Highway 33 and headed eastward.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Starved.”

  “How about we celebrate your victory by picking up some ribs and chicken from Pinckney’s Brick Pit?”

  “Ooh, and some cole slaw too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As we approached the intersection with Coggins Spring Road, I was startled to see bright blue lights and wigwagging headlights flashing in my rearview mirror. We were being pulled over by a Massanutten County Sheriff ’s cruiser. Now, I swear to God, I wasn’t speeding—traffic was too heavy and I was slowing down to make the right-hand turn onto Coggins Spring Road.

  “We’re being pulled over?”

  “Yeah, and I can’t think of why.”

  Not wanting to stop in the intersection, I completed the right turn, pulled over to the side of the road, and shut the engine off. Watching in the side mirror, I saw a large deputy get out of the patrol car and make a slow, swaggering approach to my window. The cop was built like Hercules, with the sort of massive chiseled muscles that can only be created by diligent daily work with free weights and the occasional injection of anabolic steroids. If I had any doubts about that they vanished when I got a closer look at the deputy’s face. Although he appeared to be only in his late twenties, he was suffering from acne and was also beginning to lose his hair—classic symptoms of long-term steroid use. With all the fanatical bodybuilders in San Francisco, I saw this sort of thing all the time.

  “I want your driver’s license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance.” The cop leaned over to look in the window

  “Certainly, Deputy,” I said, trying not to inhale. His breath was bad enough to asphyxiate trash barge seagulls. Severe halitosis is one of the other wonderful side effects of steroids.