The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Ash was about to answer when we were interrupted by a sound that’s absolutely guaranteed to command your undivided attention: the metallic rick-rack of a cartridge being chambered into a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun.

  Chapter 10

  “Get your hands up!” shouted a woman from somewhere in the corn.

  My cane fell to the ground as Ash and I instantly obeyed. Turning my head slightly, I yelled, “I’m sorry about—”

  “Shut up!”

  I’ve found it’s always the wisest course not to argue with someone employing a shotgun as a rhetorical tool, so instead, I whispered from the side of my mouth, “Honey, on the count of three, I’m going to fall down and I want you to bail.”

  Ash squinted at me and her jaw dropped. The truth is, she looked so affronted that you’d have thought I’d asked her to leave so that I could flirt with the woman in the cornfield. At last she said, “Brad, if you believe I’m going to run away while you stay here, you need your head examined.”

  “I said, shut up!” came the voice from the corn.

  “Sorry!” I replied.

  “Well, you should be for even thinking that.” Ash glowered at me.

  “Actually, I was apologizing to the lady with the riot gun.”

  “So you aren’t sorry?”

  “I’m very sorry for getting you caught in an ambush. I’m not sorry for trying to get you out of it.”

  “And what would you do if the situation was reversed? Would you run?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Because I couldn’t conceive of life without you.”

  Her eyes softened. “I love you, Brad.”

  “WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP?”

  “Sorry!” I waved in what I hoped was a placating manner in the direction of the voice. “I think we have everything settled here.”

  There was a second or two of tense waiting, and then two women stepped from behind the screen of cornstalks. Like veteran soldiers on a reconnaissance patrol, they approached slowly and cautiously. Both were armed and both wore belligerent expressions, which is never a good combination.

  The younger of the two was pointing the shotgun at us, and the comfortable way she held the weapon snug against her right shoulder told me she was experienced in its use. I estimated her age as being about twenty-eight years and under ordinary circumstances, I’d have considered her pretty. She had curly neck-length brunette hair, rosy skin, and a pleasantly sculpted face faintly dotted with freckles across high cheekbones. Her clothing was guerilla-war chic—a lilac-colored ribbed tee-shirt with a picot collar, baggy desert-camouflaged fatigue pants of taupe, sand, and bits of chocolate brown, and scuffed black military jump boots. Oh, and if you’re a little troubled by the fact that a street-savvy former homicide inspector knows what a picot-trimmed collar is, imagine how I feel.

  The young woman’s weapon was noteworthy too. With its slate gray matte finish, brutal and utilitarian lines and folding shoulder stock, it looked like something you’d expect Arnold Schwarzenegger to have used in one of the Terminator films—which, in fact, he did. It was a Franchi SPAS-12, the kind of high-tech shotgun used by many police SWAT teams.

  I also recognized the gun the older woman held in a professional two-handed combat grip. It was a dated but exquisitely maintained Smith and Wesson .357-magnum revolver with a four-inch barrel and nearly identical to the gun issued to me in the police academy back in 1978. One thing was clear: These women weren’t into home DIY projects, but they did take fine care of their firearms.

  There wasn’t much of a facial resemblance, but the women’s physiques were so similar, in that they carried their weight in the belly region—not that I have any room to talk—that I assumed they were mother and daughter. The mother was about sixty years old and looked as tough as beef jerky—but I expect that being both a moonshiner and Liz Ewell’s neighbor had a way of aging you. Her skin was leathery from too much sun, there were deep frown lines around her mouth, and her wiry hair was warship gray with a yellowish cast. Mom preferred the retro Hollywood Western look: faded straight-legged blue jeans tucked into mid-calf brown boots, a threadbare blue-and-green-plaid woolen shirt, black leather vest worn unbuttoned, and a tan basket-weave gun belt with a cross-draw holster. I was tempted to ask if she was going to be meeting the Earps at the OK Corral later this afternoon but, for once, I managed to hold my tongue.

  “Stand still,” the old woman snapped.

  I assumed she was talking to me because my left leg was hurting so much I was trying to hop on my right foot without attracting her potentially lethal attention. “I’m having trouble standing. I need my cane.”

  “Too bad. What are you doing on my property?”

  “We came up from the river and just wanted to see where the road went.” The answer was technically the truth. I didn’t think that mentioning we were investigating a murder was going to improve our situation.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Search ’em, Claire.”

  Ash’s eyes widened. “Claire—”

  “Quiet! And don’t make me tell you again.” Mom pointed the big revolver at Ash’s nose to emphasize the point.

  Claire slipped up behind me and kept the business end of the shotgun flush against the back of my skull while she frisked me for weapons with her left hand. I discovered she had a melodious voice when she said, “You try anything stupid and they’ll be picking up pieces of your skull in Grottoes.”

  “That’s about ten miles from here, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a visual I didn’t need.”

  As the woman patted me down, I was trying to decide whether I’d been wrong in suspecting Sheriff Holcombe, his son, or Poole of the murder. Maybe these women were the killers—they certainly showed the potential for homicide. Yet I discarded the notion almost immediately and for a couple of reasons. First, why go to the effort of strangling a man when you’ve got a gun? Manual strangulation requires physical strength and tenacity, even with a garrote. And then there was the truck. It was difficult to believe that if the women had murdered Thayer that they’d leave the truck in plain sight on their property, particularly since the victim was Ewell’s nephew. Even if they knew that Holcombe had no intention of investigating the death, the truck would have caused unpleasant questions sooner or later.

  When Claire finished the pat down, she yanked the knapsack from my shoulders and tossed it to the ground. Then she reached into my pocket, pulled out the badge case, and flipped it open. The seven-pointed star gleamed in the morning sun and although it was a warm day, I could feel a distinct drop in the conversational temperature. Claire held up the badge so that her mom could see it. “Momma, they’re feds. SFPD and it says he’s an inspector.”

  “Likely Special Federal Police . . . for . . . Distilleries.”

  “Right church; wrong pew. The letters stand for San Francisco Police Department.”

  Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Mister, what kind of fools do you take us for? San Francisco is three thousand miles from here.”

  “And about a hundred years in the future if you folks still shoot revenuers.” I know that challenging her sounds as if I’d suddenly gone suicidal, but there was actually a method to my madness . . . at least, I hoped there was. One of the detectives I used to work with was also a hostage negotiator and he once gave me some advice: If you’re ever taken prisoner by a run-of-the-mill crook, talk to your captor and work swiftly to show yourself as another human being—even if that means a little debate, because what’s more intrinsically human than arguing? Unlike terrorists, the vast majority of criminals aren’t wanton killers and the longer they talk to you, the less likely it is that they’ll pull the trigger. I was about to test his theory.

  At the same time, I don’t want to give the impression that I was calm or thought I had the situation in hand. Much as I wanted to pretend that the sweat beading up on my forehead was from the heat, it wasn’t. I was terrified for Ash and me—th
e sort of fear that makes your breath shallow, narrows your field of vision, and turns your knees into a mush of overcooked linguine.

  “I thought you said you weren’t feds,” said Mom.

  “We’re not, but what would you do if we were? Blast us like varmints?”

  “Don’t you be looking down your nose at us, you Yankee. We just might.”

  “Will everyone keep quiet for ONE DAMN SECOND?” Ash exploded and then looked a little stunned when we all went silent and stared at her. “Claire! Mrs. Henshaw! Don’t you recognize me?”

  “How do you know our names?” asked Claire.

  “Because I used to babysit you, Claire. I’m Ashleigh Remmelkemp. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me after all those hours I pushed you on that tire swing in your front yard.”

  Claire slowly began to lower the street howitzer. “Ashleigh?”

  “It’s me. Can I put my hands down?”

  Mrs. Henshaw peered down the blue-steel barrel of the revolver at Ash for a moment and inhaled sharply. “Lolly’s girl? Praise the Lord, it is her! When did you get back, girl?”

  “A few months ago. We’ve just been too busy to come by and say hello.”

  “Ashleigh’s come back from California!” Mrs. Henshaw delivered the statement with such a mixture of joyful relief and uncomprehending awe you’d have thought Ash hadn’t merely returned from the Golden State, but also from the grave.

  Claire leaned the shotgun against the barn and Mrs. Henshaw holstered her gun with a casual spinning flourish that would have made Wild Bill Hickok envious and then all three women began to hug each other. It appeared safe for me to put my hands down, so I did and bent to get my cane. Then, as the tearful homecoming celebration continued, I limped over to the flat stump of a walnut tree cut long ago and sat down to rest my throbbing leg. The women channel surfed through a series of conversational topics: Our marriage, our kids, teddy bears, the death of Mr. Henshaw in a tractor accident back in 1992, Claire’s marriage, Claire’s nine-year-old son, Claire’s divorce, Claire’s no-good ex-husband failing to pay child support, and did we ever meet Kevin Costner while we were living in California?

  At last, Ash detached herself from the other women and said, “I want you to meet my husband, Bradley. Up until last year, he worked for the San Francisco Police as a homicide inspector. That’s why he has the badge.”

  Claire was the first to approach. She extended her hand and dimpled. “Pleased to meet you and sorry for that part about blowing your head off.”

  “To Grottoes.”

  “No offense intended.”

  “None taken. Besides, it’s good for an old guy like me to occasionally get frightened like that. It takes the place of a cardiovascular workout.”

  “And I’m Abigail Henshaw and I want to apologize too.” She handed me back my badge case. “We just wanted to scare you.”

  “You succeeded. What did we do to merit being terrorized?”

  “We thought you were here to wreck the still—that Miss-Holier-Than-Thou Liz Ewell sent you here.” Abigail’s eyes got icy. “She’s tried to do it before.”

  Ash said, “See, honey? It isn’t just the Remmelkemps. Everybody around here hates her.”

  “What’s her problem with the still?”

  Abigail sniffed disdainfully. “She don’t hold with intoxicating beverages and says that she won’t have her land devalued because her neighbors are a bunch of hillbilly moonshiners. So, over the years she’s tried to shut our family operation down. First it was the feds, but they didn’t find anything.”

  “Don’t tell me. You managed to hide everything because you were warned by the sheriff that the ATF was in town?”

  “Of course. I expect something for my protection payments to Hokie.”

  “Sheriff Holcombe? Just to satisfy my curiosity, how much are you paying him?”

  Abigail heard the disapproval in my voice. “Three hundred bucks a month. Don’t it work that way in San Francisco?”

  “I guess it does with some cops. But I never played it that way and not once had a moment’s worth of heartache reporting them to Internal Affairs.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from the man Ashleigh married.” Abigail patted Ash on the shoulder. “Anyway, after that, Ewell sent two boys over to smash the still—the nerve of that old busybody. Do you know how long Jack Daniel’s has been making liquor?”

  “No.”

  “Since eighteen-sixty-three and they act as if that’s a long time ago. Well, Ephraim Henshaw began distilling corn liquor on this farm in seventeen-sixty-seven—before there was even a United States—and our family has made it ever since. That’s over two-hundred-and-thirty years of family tradition and I’ll be darned if that blue-nosed harpy is going to shut us down.” Abigail slapped the wooden handle of the revolver for emphasis.

  “You mentioned some guys coming over intending to smash the still. When did that happen?”

  “Back the end of January.”

  “Right after the big snowstorm,” Claire added with an ominous giggle.

  “You work outside in the snow?”

  “Come winter we move the rig into the barn. There’s another firebox in there.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “These two fellas came creeping through the woods from the direction of Ewell’s place. I could tell that from the tracks in the snow. We got nine inches that day.”

  Claire eagerly cut in, “We were working in the barn, but they didn’t know it. They figured we were up in the house.”

  Abigail gave her daughter a stern look. “Honey, who’s telling this story?”

  “You are, Momma.”

  “Then let me tell it.”

  “Sorry, Momma.”

  “So, we’re working in the barn when these two guys come in. One’s got a big sledgehammer and the other has a pry bar—I guess they figured they might have to jimmy the door. Well, Claire gets the drop on them with the twelve-gauge.”

  “Scared them to death.” Claire mimed racking a round into the shotgun, complete with realistic sound effects.

  “I can imagine. What did they do?”

  “Begged for their lives and I told them, ‘Down on your knees, like a rat eating cheese!’ Oh, Claire, honey, do you remember the way that one boy almost fainted?” Abigail and her daughter began to howl with laughter. This was obviously a well-beloved family anecdote.

  I pretended to join in the gaiety and shot a beseeching look at Ash that silently asked: Are you absolutely sure that when these women finish this story they aren’t going to kill us and cook us on a rotisserie for supper? Her return glance said that everything was all right.

  Abigail caught her breath and wiped a tear from her right eye. “So, then I questioned them and found out that Ewell sent them over here. You know what we did then?”

  “I’m almost frightened to ask.”

  “Momma made them—”

  “Claire!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I made them take their boots off and strip buck naked and walk back to the Ewell place. Of course, I didn’t let Claire watch.”

  Confident her mother couldn’t see her, Claire gave Ash a sly smile that said otherwise and said, “It was twenty-nine degrees and real windy. Can you imagine the things that might have gotten frostbitten?”

  A sudden and unpleasant thought—other than what might have been frostbitten—occurred to me. Perhaps I’d been too quick to dismiss the women as suspects in Thayer’s murder. Trying to sound casual, I asked, “Was one of the men a small guy in his thirties with a shaved head and a moustache and goatee?”

  “You mean Bobby Thayer? Of course not.”

  “You know him?” I relaxed slightly.

  “Sure. In fact, he’s the only one from that family we’re friends with.”

  “He’s a regular customer,” added Claire.

  “Why are you interested in Bobby?”

  “Because we’re investigating his murder.”

  �
�What?” The shock in Abigail’s voice sounded genuine.

  Claire’s face went blank for a moment as she tried to process the news. “Bobby’s dead? When?”

  “We found his body yesterday morning in the river in front of our house.”

  “Sheriff Holcombe says he drowned, but he was actually strangled,” Ash said disgustedly.

  “But I saw Bobby’s truck two nights ago,” said Claire.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know . . . around 1 a.m., I guess.”

  “You were here at the barn? Why so late?”

  “Virginia Tech football,” Abigail explained. “We go through our stock pretty quickly this time of year. We started a batch late that day and she volunteered to keep an eye on the still.”

  “And you saw his truck?”

  “He drove down the road to the river.”

  “Are you sure it was him driving?”

  “Well, no. I mean, I saw the truck from the barn and assumed he was driving. I couldn’t actually see who all was in the truck.”

  “Could there have been more than one person in the cab?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you think it was odd that he came here at that hour?”

  “No,” said Abigail. “He used to go down to the river sometimes with friends.”

  “Lady friends?”

  “I don’t know about them being ladies.”

  “They were skanks.” Claire tried to sound scandalized; however, I could hear a faint but unmistakable trace of jealousy in her voice.

  “So, why isn’t Hokie investigating this?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Henshaw, I think you’ve already figured that out. Bobby Thayer was involved in things that would make Sheriff Holcombe and some other important people around here look bad—maybe even send them to state prison.”

  Abigail nodded. She knew exactly what I was talking about. Then her face grew pensive. “So, why are you digging into it?”

  I shrugged. “Somebody has to do it. A man’s been murdered.”

  “And if we don’t do anything we’re just as bad as the people trying to cover up the killing,” Ash somberly observed.