The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “But that didn’t make any sense to you, did it?”

  “No, especially since when Robert left he mentioned that he didn’t know which motel to go to.” She looked at me and I saw her eyes were now rimmed with red. She continued in an acidic voice, “The last thing Pastor Marc told me was that I shouldn’t worry, Robert was fine. But if what you say is true, he must have already known Robert was dead.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would a minister of the gospel lie like that?”

  “For the same reason everyone else lies. He was afraid of being caught for doing something wrong.”

  “Did Pastor Marc kill my nephew?” The old woman wore an expression that was as hard and cold as the rock face of Half Dome at Yosemite in January. I realized that I’d just caught a glimpse of the real Miss Elizabeth Ewell.

  “I think he’s up to no good about something—he may even know who killed Robert—but at this moment I don’t believe Poole did it.”

  “Why?”

  “This is going to answer your earlier question about why I’m investigating this murder and not the Sheriff ’s Department. A deputy came to our house right about the same time the rescue squad was pulling Robert’s body from the river. I saw evidence that told me Robert had been strangled and I showed it to the deputy.”

  “What sort of evidence?” Meredith asked.

  “How descriptive do you want me to get?” I directed the question at Ewell.

  “It’s enough that you’re certain he was strangled and you are, correct?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever.”

  “Please continue.”

  “The deputy was ready to initiate a homicide inquiry, but was immediately stopped by Sheriff Holcombe. Without even looking at the body, he determined that Robert had drowned accidentally. Then he tried to feed me an unconvincing story that someone had seen your nephew jump or fall from the Island Ford Bridge.”

  “That’s patently ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I thought too, but when I told the sheriff that, he promised to toss me into jail if I did anything to undercut his authority.”

  “Yet you proceeded with your own inquiry. Why?”

  “I’ll admit part of it was ego. I don’t like being bullied and I really don’t like anyone threatening my wife. Mostly, though, it was because it was just the right thing to do. Call me old-fashioned, but cops aren’t supposed to cover up murders.”

  “Do you know why he was trying to conceal the true cause of Robert’s death?”

  “I have a hypothesis, but before I share it, I need to ask some questions and some of them are going to be disturbing.”

  Chapter 16

  Miss Ewell peered out the window. “I think it’s late enough in the day for a drink, and even if it wasn’t, I need one. Inspector Lyon, you look like a Scotch-drinking man.”

  I knew Ewell wasn’t scatterbrained, so this was the second time she’d deliberately tried to butter me up by using my old SFPD title. That, along with the unexpected offer of booze from a supposed belligerent teetotaler made me wonder why she was so interested in securing my goodwill. My guess was that—like a shark smelling blood in the water—she detected the opportunity to file a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against the Sheriff ’s Department and realized she’d need my assistance.

  Deciding to match flattery for flattery, I replied, “You’re an excellent judge of a man’s drinking habits.”

  “Can I interest you in a wee dram of Lagavulin?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  A teetotaler with excellent taste in booze, I thought. Lagavulin was a premier single-malt Scotch whiskey and a bottle of the stuff was priced at over eighty bucks, which placed it well beyond our budget.

  “Meredith, go into the library and bring the decanter and two glasses. Oh, and get yourself a soda.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I don’t need anything to drink. I’m not thirsty.” Meredith slipped from the room like a wraith.

  “Suit yourself, dear. I’m not thirsty either, I just want a drink.”

  I did my best to chuckle appreciatively at the feeble wisecrack. Also, I noticed that, for the moment at least, Miss Ewell seemed to have fully recovered from the shock and anguish caused by the loss of her nephew. Then, as if she’d read my mind, she clouded up like an approaching summer thunderstorm, plucked several more tissues from the box, and moaned, “Oh, Lord, poor Robert. You said you have questions. Go ahead.”

  “I take it from your earlier allusion to Robert’s—let’s call it checkered—history, that you knew he was a professional burglar.”

  “Of course. I blame my youngest sister for that. She never provided him with any rules. I did what I could to straighten him out.”

  And took advantage of his connections in the local criminal community when you wanted to hire some muscle to destroy the Henshaws’ still, I wanted to add, but resisted the impulse. Instead, I nodded empathetically and asked, “And did you have any idea that Pastor Poole was Robert’s fence?”

  “Fence?”

  “A dealer in stolen property. The good reverend was probably paying your nephew a dime on the dollar for the hot merchandise being funneled through the church’s monthly flea market.”

  Ewell’s eyes narrowed. “And do you know what the topic of that hypocrite’s sermon was this morning?”

  “No, what?”

  “The whited sepulcher from the Book of Matthew.”

  “Full of dead men’s bones and of all uncleanness,” I quoted what I could remember of the biblical text I’d learned as a child. “It kind of makes you wonder whether that’s evidence of a guilty conscience on Poole’s part or a sick sense of humor.”

  Meredith came back into the parlor carrying a cut-glass decanter half-full of Scotch and two small glasses on a silver tray. She put it on the coffee table and looked expectantly at Ewell for further orders.

  The old woman said, “Inspector, will you do the honors?”

  I poured two fingers’ worth into both glasses and handed her one. We chinked glasses and I said, “Cheers.”

  We both took sips and I savored the smooth peaty taste. Then Ewell glanced at Meredith, who was still standing by the coffee table and said, “Sit down, dear.”

  Meredith sat and I wondered what she’d do if the old lady told her to heel or rollover.

  “So, back to my original question: Did you have any idea that Pastor Poole was selling Robert’s stolen property?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, it would follow that you also don’t know that Poole is paying the sheriff protection money. He has to if he wants to stay in business.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “I can prove Holcombe collects protection money from local folks. As far as Poole is concerned specifically, I haven’t talked to him yet to determine the extent of his rendering unto the local third-rate Caesar.”

  “My God, that’s awful,” she said, but it wasn’t her most convincing moment. Maybe I was imagining things, but I detected the faintest element of predatory glee in her voice and I wondered why. “You said you found Robert’s truck. Is that important?”

  “Yes, but it’s also confusing. This morning my wife and I took a ride upriver in a boat to look for clues. We found the pickup abandoned by the river a few miles south of here.” I deliberately blurred the location because there was nothing to be gained by pulling the Henshaws into the story.

  “But how did you know it was Robert’s truck?”

  “We had some preexisting information about the vehicle, and once we learned it was registered to Robert Thayer, we connected the name to the auction.”

  “You said there were bullet holes in the windshield,” said Meredith.

  “Yeah. Somebody took two shots at the windshield but the rounds didn’t go through and it was obvious they weren’t fired where the truck was abandoned. That didn’t make any sense until we cruised up to the Island Ford Bridge where we found some more evidence.” I paus
ed to take a sip of Scotch.

  “And how does it make sense?” Ewell studied me over the rim of her glass.

  “While we were there we—actually Ash—found two expended nine-millimeter pistol cartridges. It’s the same ammunition used by the Massanutten Sheriff ’s Department. Not long after we left, we saw Sheriff Holcombe stop at that precise spot and look for the cartridges.”

  “Speak plainly. What are you suggesting?”

  “I believe that on Friday evening, shortly after he left your house, Robert was stopped at the Island Ford Bridge by a member of the Sheriff’s Department. More than likely it was Sergeant Trent Holcombe, because he was on duty that night and has much greater ‘loose cannon’ potential than his dad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s stupid, addicted to steroids, and a bully by nature . . . other than that, he’s a wonderful fellow. But to continue, shots were fired, Robert was strangled—in what order, I can’t say—and then his body was thrown into the river in the hope of concealing the murder.”

  “And the Mourning Bear was stolen.”

  “True. Which could make this a murder in the commission of a robbery. I’m not completely plugged into Virginia law, but I believe that makes this a potential capital murder case.”

  “And that means?”

  “Potentially the death penalty for whoever committed the murder.”

  “And by that you mean Trent.”

  “He’s our best suspect right now and it would explain why his dad tried to cover the murder up as a suicide. However, there isn’t anything close to what cops call ‘probable cause’ to make an arrest. That’s why I’m here. Maybe if you can tell me a little more about Robert, I’ll know which direction to go next.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  I was growing to admire the old lady’s superb ability to parse words. One of the most important things a homicide detective learns is to take note of what people say, how they say it, and what they don’t say, which is often the most important of the three. In this instance, Miss Ewell didn’t agree to tell me all she knew; only what she could.

  I stretched my leg out and said, “So, even though he was a thief, you allowed him to take the Mourning Bear to Harrisonburg. I don’t mean to be rude, but talk about assigning the fox to guard the henhouse.”

  “Robert had never stolen from me.”

  “And I’ll bet that was because he was scared of crossing you.”

  “That’s probably true.” She gave me a tight smile as if modestly acknowledging a compliment. “But regarding the bear—had Robert stolen it, he wouldn’t have known where to sell it.”

  “I see what you mean. The average person wouldn’t pay one-hundred-and-seventy grand for a teddy bear, so Robert would have needed to know a collector with the financial wherewithal to buy.”

  Miss Ewell gave me a reassessing gaze. “Quite correct. I wouldn’t have guessed you to be an aficionado of collectible teddy bears. How do you know so much about the Mourning Bear?”

  “My wife makes bears and I’ve gotten very interested in them myself. The fact is, I enjoy them.”

  “That’s very sweet.” Ewell made no effort to conceal the contempt in her voice. Her underlying message was clear: There was something intrinsically flawed about a grown man interested in stuffed animals as anything other than valuable and rare collectibles.

  Like the cleaning of an old oil portrait, the interview was slowly but surely revealing large patches of the real Ewell, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. Furthermore, I knew that we’d reached a crucial point in our conversation. There comes a moment in every investigative interview with a hostile witness that decides who will be the dominant party afterwards. Ewell had just thrown a gauntlet down. I could submissively ignore the jibe—which is probably what she expected I’d do—or drop the hammer on her. The trick was in asserting myself without enraging her to the point where she’d terminate the interview. Anger wouldn’t play well since it connotes a certain loss of control and Ewell was an archetypal control freak. Instead, I opted for pity mingled with ironic humor.

  I leaned back in the chair and grinned. “You know, there is something so utterly pathetic about you sneering at me over my interest in teddy bears that it’s almost heartbreaking. Here you sit in Castle Dracula, hated by everyone for fifty square miles, you’ve spent a lifetime as a brigand and a tyrant, and you’re so screwed up in the head that you’re looking down your nose at me. If it weren’t so sad, I’d laugh.”

  Meredith gasped and Ewell glared at me. “Nobody speaks to me that way.”

  “And yet you’ll notice the earth still spins on its axis. Miss Ewell, I’m not stupid. I realize the only reason you’re talking to me is because you think you might be able to use my investigation later on to sue Massanutten County in a wrongful death action. And you know what? You have a good case. But that means you need me a lot more than I need you, so what are you going to do? Throw me out for being rude?”

  Ewell took a noisy sip of Scotch and turned to Meredith. “His glass is empty. Pour him some more.”

  I held out the glass as Meredith poured the liquor. Her hand was shaking and the bottle tinkled against the rim of the glass. I thanked Meredith and looked back at Ewell. “So, back to business. Why did you decide to donate the Mourning Bear to charity?”

  “Don’t I impress you as a charitable person?” Ewell’s tone was wry.

  “Truthfully? No.”

  “My accountant suggested it as a tax deduction. I’ve made too much money.”

  I wanted to add: Yeah, I always hate it when that happens, but kept quiet. There was no point in unnecessarily goading her. I said, “Getting back to the Mourning Bear, how was it packaged when Robert left here on Friday night?”

  “It was inside a hinged wooden box.”

  “And what time did he leave the house?”

  Ewell looked at Meredith, who said, “Sometime around nine-forty.”

  “And who, other than you, Meredith, and Robert would have known that he was making the delivery that night?”

  “The auctioneers, my lawyer over in Charlottesville, and Pastor Marc,” said Ewell.

  “Who couldn’t identify Robert’s body the following morning. What a remarkable coincidence.”

  “Do you think Pastor Marc told Trent about the delivery?” Meredith asked.

  “If he did, that makes him just as culpable for the murder as the person that strangled your nephew, but right now there’s no proof of that.” I said to Miss Ewell, “Can you tell me a little more about Robert? Did he live here with you?”

  “Mostly during the week. On weekends he stayed at his apartment in Warrenton.”

  “Was he employed?”

  “He worked for me.” She held out an empty whisky glass and Meredith poured her some more.

  “Doing what?”

  “Whatever I needed him for.” Ewell gave me a chilly smile.

  It was obvious I wasn’t going to receive any specific information on Robert’s undoubtedly unlawful duties, so I tried another tack. “Did you ever have any conversations with the sheriff about how Robert would be dealt with by local law enforcement?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Knowing Robert’s relationship with the local law might help.”

  Ewell was silent for a moment and then nodded. “I told Sheriff Holcombe that I wanted Robert treated properly and that my nephew would be on his best behavior.”

  “Which is a sanitized way of saying Robert wasn’t to be stopped or arrested for that felony warrant in NCIC and, in return, he wouldn’t embarrass the sheriff by committing burglaries in Massanutten County.”

  “I never used those words.”

  “No, I understand that,” I said in a placating tone. “Did Sheriff Holcombe receive anything in return for this agreement on how Robert would be treated? A reelection campaign contribution? A donation to the sheriff ’s widow and orphan’s fund? Not that I actually think there are any widows or orphans.”


  “Are you suggesting I bribed the sheriff?” Ewell sounded immensely amused.

  “I’d have a hard time believing he agreed to what you asked out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “I don’t ask for things from people like Sheriff Holcombe.”

  “I see.” In her own way, this woman was more frightening than Trent. I shifted the axis of questioning again, “Did Robert have any girlfriends?”

  “None currently.”

  “I assume he had a room here in the house?”

  “He stayed in the guesthouse. It’s behind the main house.”

  “When we finish here, could I take a quick look in there?”

  “Would it help find Robert’s killer?”

  “It might. I can’t promise anything.”

  “Meredith will show you out there when we’re done. Inspector, may I ask you a question?”

  “By all means.” I sat back and took a sip of Scotch.

  “You said that you believe Trent Holcombe murdered my nephew. Do you have any proof?”

  “Nothing that would result in an indictment. We’ve got some circumstantial evidence to show that his dad covered up a murder and was trying to clean up the crime scene, but I’ll admit that we still don’t have a firm nexus between Robert and Trent. We can’t even really show that they knew each other.”

  “But they did,” blurted Meredith.

  We both turned to stare at the young woman.

  “Explain,” said Ewell.

  “A couple of weeks ago, Robert was in the kitchen and he mentioned having a run-in with Trent over near Power Dam Road. He said Trent pulled him over and waved his gun around and threatened to . . .”

  “To what?” Ewell demanded.

  “To shoot his,” her voice descended to a whisper, “private parts off unless he was paid some money.”

  “Sounds like Trent—except he wouldn’t have used the expression ‘private parts,’ ” I said.

  “Nor would Robert. What else did he say about what happened, Meredith?”

  “Only that he wasn’t scared, but I could tell he was.”

  “Why didn’t you say something about this earlier?”