The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “And that’s the same farm where he lives now?”

  Ash nodded. “The Tice family has owned that land since before the American Revolution.”

  “Even if Wade isn’t good for the murder, he might be the last Tice to live there. The place had foreclosure written all over it.”

  “Did you get the chance to tell Tina all this?”

  “She didn’t have much time to talk.” I picked up my plate and hobbled over to put it in the dishwasher. “The moment she got back from Roanoke, the commonwealth’s attorney called her in for a closed-door meeting. She said she’d meet us at the Brick Pit around six to debrief.”

  “Which will leave us plenty of time to make a final inspection of that property for the teddy bear museum and decide on an offer price. It’s a big place and I think the location is perfect, but the asking price is way too much.” Ash joined me by the sink.

  “Especially considering the amount of refurbishing we’re going to have to do, and that’s just based on the stuff we know about. I say we offer two-thirds, take it or leave it.”

  “That low? Roger is going to balk,” said Ash, referring to Roger Prufrock, the real estate agent listing the house.

  “Only because it’s a smaller commission for him. But it’s time he and the seller got real. It’s a buyer’s market. That house has been for sale since we moved here over two years ago.”

  “That’s true. And speaking of that, why do you suppose Roger won’t tell us who the seller is? He acts as if it’s top secret.”

  “Beats me. But if you’re really interested, we can swing by the county offices and look at the tax assessor’s files,” I replied.

  “I’m not that interested, but whoever it is should be ashamed of letting that house go to seed.”

  “That just gives us more bargaining leverage, my love.”

  Ash took my hand. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  “Same here. Our own teddy bear shop and museum; it’s an awfully big step.”

  “Does that scare you?”

  “Not much.” I leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. “You see, I’m married to this lovely woman who has a talent for making good dreams come true.”

  Ash glanced at the microwave clock. “Pastor Terry left a message on the answering machine that we could pick up the key to the church community center this afternoon.”

  I asked, “When are you going set up our display?”

  “If I have the key, I can go back later tonight,” said Ash.

  “We can go over together later. I like watching you set up the bears.”

  She gave me a shrewd look. “You just like watching me bend over in tight jeans.”

  “That too.”

  “Can we stop there before we meet Roger?”

  “Of course. I’ll get the key from Terry, while you concentrate on your actual reason for wanting to go over now.”

  “And what’s that, Mr. Smarty Pants?”

  “You want a sneak peek at the teddies to see if you want to add any to our collection. That’s okay. So would I.”

  Kitch galloped to the door, ready to resume his duties as an unofficial police canine, and was obviously disappointed when I put him in his crate. We got into the Xterra and drove into town, where Ash parked behind the church community center near the open back doors. There were about a dozen other cars in the parking lot, several of which had out-of-state plates. Our attending bear artists were getting an early start on setting up their furry wares.

  The jubilee was set to commence at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, which wouldn’t leave much time for prep work tomorrow. As a bear exhibitor, you must have your display finished before the show begins. The attendees who wait in line for the doors to open are always the most avid collectors, and you want to be ready for them.

  As we crossed the parking lot, we bumped into our friend Ginger Brame, a popular teddy crafter who specialized in making palm-sized bears. I stood in awe of her talent. Now that I was a bear artist myself, I understood that creating a three-inch-tall and fully jointed teddy was exponentially more difficult than making a large one. Merely thinking about the precise hand stitching necessary to make one of those tiny bears made my fingers hurt. Ginger had just driven up from North Carolina and expressed excitement over the upcoming show.

  Then we paused in the doorway of the community center, delightfully taken aback by the scene. The L-shaped room ordinarily looked ruthlessly utilitarian, but the combination of teddy bears and the decorating job done by the women’s church auxiliary had transformed the church hall into a fall-themed furryland. Just as important, there was that joyous energy in the atmosphere that teddy bears usually seem to generate.

  As always, I was humbled when we walked down the main exhibitor aisle. I call myself a teddy bear artist, but the unvarnished truth is that I’m perhaps a competent craftsman. Ash and the people who made these astonishing bears were genuine artists.

  As we walked hand in hand, old friends greeted us. We paused to examine the array of sweet bears on MaryAnn Wills’s table and then crossed to the other side of the aisle to admire Pat Berkowitch’s collection of mohair treasures. Then we came to a dead stop in front of Martha Burch’s display and stared at the centerpiece.

  “As if I weren’t already suffering from an inferiority complex,” I said. “That bear is freaking amazing.”

  “God, he’s gorgeous,” Ash murmured.

  The cinnamon-colored teddy was about twenty inches tall and attired in a robe, a voluminous cloak, and a wizard’s peaked hat. Martha had used an opulent yet subtle brown-and-gold variegated fabric for the garments and hat and then lavishly decorated them all with artificial autumnal foliage. And if that weren’t enough, the bear held a long wooden staff that had a quartz crystal attached to the top, and he also had an accompanying small and winged fall fairy bear sitting on his shoulder. The bear was such a masterpiece I found it intimidating.

  Martha appeared from behind the table. “Hi, you guys! He’s the Forest Wizard. Do you like him?”

  Ash reached out to lovingly stroke the wizard’s cloak. “How do you come up with these ideas? He’s just exquisite.”

  “Yeah, and a reminder that I have no business exhibiting my teddies in the same room where this sort of work is on display,” I added.

  “Oh, BS, Brad,” said Martha. “I like your bears. Ash was telling me about Gil Grizzly, so I don’t want to hear any questions about where I get my ideas.”

  Martha was referring to my bear inspired by the character of Gil Grissom, the ironic and introverted crime scene investigator played by actor William Petersen in the original CSI TV show. Gil Grizzly was made from silvery-gray mohair, most of which I’d shaved from the bear’s upper face with electric clippers to recreate the short beard and moustache that Peterson had sported throughout part of the series. I’d dressed the bear in slacks, a white short-sleeved sport shirt, and a replica of the black Las Vegas PD vest Grissom customarily wore at crime scenes. However, Grizzly’s legs were the most authentic and hard-to-achieve element of the entire project. The bear was as bow-legged as the actor.

  “Maybe so, but just once I’d like to have an idea like that.” I inclined my head toward the Forest Wizard. Then, noticing that Ash was still staring in rapture at the bear, I said, “And I’ve seen this look often enough to know that you might as well go ahead and put a SOLD sign on it right now.”

  “But, honey—” Ash began a halfhearted protest.

  I cut her off. “Sweetheart, you love that bear and I don’t want to put you on suicide watch if we come back tomorrow and it has already been bought by someone else.”

  “But where will we put him? We’re running out of room.”

  She had a point, but I also knew how much she wanted the bear. For that matter, so did I. Thinking quickly, I said, “He can go into the museum portion of the shop.”

  Suddenly convinced, Ash kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you, honey.”

  Then Martha and Ash
exchanged hugs and we moved on to the back of the room, where the community center’s kitchen was located in a large alcove. Pastor Terry Richert was there and undergoing a Get-thee-behind-me-Satan moment as a church auxiliary lady tempted him with a piece of apple pie. It was a small sample from the array of goodies assembled for the church bake sale, which would run concurrent with the event.

  Although Ash had organized the Teddy Jubilee, Richert’s Apostolic Assembly was the official sponsor of the event. The women’s church auxiliary would run the show, and any profits would be used to help fund the community food bank. Pastor Terry gave Ash the key to the community center and told us that everything was ready. It was clear that he was enthused about the jubilee, too. As we returned to the truck, I reminded myself that I had to find some time tonight to finish Bear-atio’s pants.

  We drove eastward and over the South Fork of the Shenandoah River. The house we were interested in was located just out of town, near where Remmelkemp Mill’s main street ended at a T intersection with the Stonewall Jackson Highway. With the national park to the east and Massanutten Mountain to the west, it was an ideal location for a business intended to serve both local residents and tourists. We arrived before the real estate agent did, which gave us a final opportunity to walk the grounds and examine the exterior of the building.

  The sales literature that Roger Prufrock had given us said that the house reflected the Victorian “Second Empire” style, but considering the shape the place was in, I wondered if the author had been referring to the Holy Roman Empire. The gray three-story house was boxy with a wide front porch, a slate mansard roof, and almost no gingerbread. Even with the fresh light blue paint that Ash envisioned and bright flower baskets hanging from the porch roof, it would never be a cute Victorian home.

  However, the property did have some pluses. The electrical wiring was, surprisingly enough, up to code; the oil furnace was in good shape; and the hardwood floors wouldn’t require too much restoration work. Another advantage was that the second floor would become the new home of the local teddy bear guild, which met monthly and had nearly outgrown our living room. Furthermore, the yard was big enough to convert a portion of it into customer parking.

  Although the cane makes it hard for me to walk while holding Ash’s hand, I did so as we took a slow stroll on the brick path that circumscribed the house. The backyard provided a panoramic view to the southeast of the Blue Ridge Mountains and Kobler Hollow. It seemed strange for us to be making plans for a springtime teddy bear garden party when we were only a few minutes away from the site of a murder. However, I didn’t say anything to Ash. She was having a wonderful time envisioning our teddy bear shop, and I didn’t want to spoil her pleasure with talk of Rawlins’s killing.

  As we returned to the front yard, I heard the crackle of tires on gravel and saw the real estate agent’s BMW pull up beside our SUV. I braced myself. Roger wasn’t a bad guy, but with his exaggerated Southern accent, brash folksy persona, and penchant for lame jokes, he reminded me of Foghorn Leghorn, the big rooster from the old Warner Bros. cartoons. He got out of the car, paused to admire his reflection in the car window and smooth the coppery-gray hair on his right temple, and then came through the gate to meet us.

  “Bradley, good to see you, old buddy.” He vigorously pumped my hand and then turned to my wife. “And Miss Ashleigh, as always you’re as pretty as a picture.”

  I said, “Thanks for coming out, Roger. We’re on the verge of making a formal offer for the house, but we’d like to take one more look inside.”

  “Oh. Well, I have some bad news.” Roger’s smile became rigid. “The owner has decided to take the house off the market.”

  “What?” Ash and I asked simultaneously.

  Roger showed us his palms in supplication. “Now, don’t blame me. This old country boy is only the messenger.”

  “How did this happen?” Ash asked.

  “I truly wish I knew,” said Roger. “All I can tell you is that I spoke to the seller a little while ago and mentioned that you were interested in the house. The very next thing she said was that it wasn’t for sale anymore.”

  “And she didn’t offer any reason?”

  “None at all. It was just ‘I’ve decided not to sell,’ and then she hung up. I’m as shocked as you are.”

  Roger had slipped. In all our past conversations, he’d never referred to the home’s owner as anything but “the seller.” Yet he’d just revealed that the property owner was a woman. Furthermore, it was a woman who was apparently so financially secure that she felt no need to sell a house during a time when the local real estate market was still in the doldrums. I began to have a nasty suspicion that I knew who the seller was, but wanted some more information before I allowed myself to go ballistic.

  I asked, “Roger, did you mention us by name to the seller?”

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t see any problem with that, Brad, old buddy,” the agent said a little defensively.

  “And was that the first time our names had come up in your conversations with her?”

  Roger thought for a second. “It had to have been, because it’s the first time I’ve talked to her about the property in a month. The seller only wanted contact if there was genuine interest in the house . . . and I assumed you’d be making an offer today. I’m so sorry.”

  “So are we.” I turned at Ash. “We don’t need to go to the county offices to find out who the seller is. It’s our favorite land baron, Liz Ewell.”

  Roger confirmed my theory by swallowing nervously. “Now, you didn’t hear that from me.”

  The set of Ash’s jaw told me she’d begun to do a slow simmer. She said, “Of course. That explains why she won’t sell the house, the harpy.”

  Despite being elderly and partially impaired by a stroke, Elizabeth Ewell was the most powerful, wealthy, and despised person in Massanutten County. There was already bad blood between Ashleigh’s family and Miss Ewell ever since she’d legally stolen some valuable farm-land from the Remmelkemps back in the early 1970s. However, the manipulative old woman had a more recent and personal reason for hating Ash and me. Two years earlier, we’d prevented Liz Ewell from turning the death of her nephew into a million-dollar payday. She’d gotten over the loss of her relative, but not the money.

  “You know what they say. Payback is a bitch . . . and so is Liz Ewell,” I muttered.

  Roger gave me a scandalized look and said, “Now, I don’t want y’all to worry. Old Roger has some more listings that he’d like to show you. We can go over right—”

  Ash cut him off. “Not today. We’re not in the mood.”

  I added, “Besides which, we both know that there aren’t any other properties in Remmelkemp Mill that meet our needs like this place would have.”

  “Well, I understand you being disappointed, and I just want to assure you that I’m going to stay on the job until you’re happy,” said Roger.

  Ash looked from the house to the real estate agent. “Roger, do you want to know what would make me happy?”

  “What’s that, Miss Ashleigh?”

  “If you’d pass along a message to Liz Ewell from me.” Ash’s tone was congenial, but the emergence of her usually latent Virginia mountain accent was a subtle clue that she was furious. “Tell that scheming old miser I’ll personally go down to South Carolina and buy all the fireworks that we’re going to set off when she dies. It’ll be the biggest celebration this town has ever seen and loud enough that she’ll be able to hear it in hell.”

  Roger didn’t know how to respond. We all knew he wasn’t going to transmit any such message, but he couldn’t come right out and admit it. So instead, he simply repeated his undeliverable promise to find us the perfect place for our shop. As we walked back to our cars, I began to whistle the tune to “Ding-Dong, the Witch Is Dead.” Roger gave us a halfhearted wave and got into his Beemer. A second later, he was on his way back into town.

  Ash climbed into the truck, but didn’t slam the door shut. Noti
ng my look of surprise, she said, “I’m okay. Oh, I’d still drop a house and Judy Garland on that old shrew if I could, but then I remembered something you used to say. Don’t get mad, get even.”

  I patted her on the knee. “Sweetheart, the law frowns on battering the elderly.”

  “I’ve got something quite legal and far worse than assault in mind for her.”

  “That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

  “First, answer a question. What is the one thing that gives Liz Ewell pleasure?”

  “That’s easy. Knowing that other folks are afraid of her. It makes her feel powerful.”

  “So, what if we find some place else to put the shop and tell everybody that Liz Ewell assisted us with the purchase, because she wanted to make amends for all her bad behavior over the years?” Ash gave me a mischievous smile.

  “You’re going to undermine her reputation as a tyrant by painting Attila the Hen as a repentant sinner? That’s diabolical. It’ll drive her batty.”

  “I know.”

  “Talk about killing someone with kindness.” I started the truck. “Remind me never to cross you.”

  Thirteen

  Although I really liked Ash’s proposal to use psychological warfare against Liz Ewell, I had the typical guy urge to retaliate in a more tangible—and let’s face it, juvenile—manner. We had just over an hour to spare before we were supposed to meet Tina at the Brick Pit, so I suggested that we had time for a brief errand. I wanted to swing by the hardware store to pick up some cans of obnoxiously bright yellow spray paint that I’d use to draw big pictures of teddy bears on the tall stone wall around Ewell’s property, once night fell.

  Ash nixed the proposal. She didn’t object to the vandalism per se. In fact, she was rather enchanted with the idea of the ursine-themed mural, but she was concerned that I might trip and fall in the dark. Besides, we had some last-minute tasks to complete before the teddy jubilee.

  When we got home, Ash went upstairs while I took Kitch outside and collected the daily half-inch stack of credit card applications and magazine offers from our mailbox. By the time I joined her in the sewing room, Ash was already lost in her work. She was making some final touches on Belinda Banana Split, the newest bear in her “Confection Collection” of teddies that wore incredibly realistic-looking costumes of desserts. I paused to admire the ineffably cute teddy and wonder yet again how my wife could consistently come up with such imaginative designs.