by John J. Lamb
Inside, the air was redolent with the delicious aroma of slow-cooking meat. Two archaic Bose 901 stereo speakers were suspended from the ceiling behind the counter and I heard, “Take the ‘A’ Train,” being played by the Dave Brubeck Quartet—Paul Desmond’s saxophone was always instantly recognizable. Most folks listen to country music around here, but Sergei and I share a passion for vintage jazz from the 1950s and ’60s.
Lunch was still nearly two hours away, so there weren’t any customers in the restaurant. That was fine by me, because it meant we could examine the fabric swatches without Sergei getting all twitchy and acting as if I’d compromised the Manhattan Project. He was behind the counter, carefully chopping cabbage with a cleaver for his famous cole slaw. Sergei is about my height with a full head of silver curly hair, a handlebar moustache of the same color, high and strong Slavic cheekbones, and grayish-blue eyes that glitter with merriment. As is often the case with genuinely dangerous people, he doesn’t look it.
He looked up while continuing to gently rock the knife back and forth on the cutting board. “Good morning, Bradley. I didn’t expect to see you here this morning. Isn’t there a meeting of the teddy bear guild at your house?”
“There is and I went AWOL.”
“Absent Without Official Leave? That hardly seems the sort of thing you’d do to that lovely wife of yours.” Although Sergei was as Russian as ugly modern architecture, his accent was melodious Oxbridge English.
“Agreed. That’s why AWOL stands for Ash Was Okay with me Leaving.”
“That isn’t AWOL. It’s AWOWML.”
“You did go to university. Anyway, instead of making teddy bears with the girls, I thought I’d come over and harass you.”
“How fortunate I am.”
“And I brought these.” I pulled the fabric swatches from my pocket and tossed them onto the counter.
“For the bear?” Sergei’s eyes lit up.
“Yep, he’s done. Now it’s time to make the uniform.”
“You didn’t tell anybody?”
“Nobody except the teddy bear guild.”
Sergei glowered at me as the pace of his cleaver strokes slowed perceptibly.
“Relax, you paranoid spook. I haven’t told anyone.”
“Including Ashleigh?”
“No, the cover story seems to be holding,” I lied.
“Good.”
“But, if she discovers the truth, should I sedate her and smuggle her to Moscow in a steamer trunk?”
Sergei’s jaw tightened.
“Oh, I know…I’ll jab her with an umbrella that has a poisoned tip.”
“Brad, please be serious.”
“Me, be serious? You’ve initiated a full-on clandestine operation—complete with need-to-know security restrictions, code words, disinformation, and secret meetings—to protect the identity of a teddy bear. In some parts of the world, those behaviors would be considered prima facie evidence of mental illness. Even worse, you’ve got me keeping secrets from my wife, which I really don’t like.”
Sergei gave a tiny sigh. “I know and I’m sorry. It’s just that…”
“You don’t want to look like a sissy boy to the locals like I do.”
“No, it’s because the bear is…going to be a gift and I want it to be a surprise.”
“A gift, huh?”
“And don’t bother asking who the intended recipient is.”
Suddenly, some things began to make sense, including Ash’s surreptitious amusement over my puzzlement at Sergei’s insistence that the secret be kept from the teddy bear guild. There were only two persons in the club that he knew well enough to give a gift to and it didn’t make any sense that he’d commission me to make a bear for Ash. That left the other person, which now that I examined the matter, made perfect sense.
A smile spread across my face. “You dog. You’re sweet on Tina. Does she know?”
Sergei pointed the cleaver at me. “No, and I’ll stab you with a poisoned umbrella if you say anything.”
“Don’t tell me you’re shy.”
“No, it’s just that the last thing she needs in her life right now is me.” Sergei’s tone was melancholy. “Between raising her children and all the hours she spends at the Sheriff’s Office, she hasn’t got any time for romance.”
“Maybe so, but do you want to take the risk that someone else isn’t going to be so considerate? Tina is a very special lady—a close second to Ash—and you’re a damned fool if you don’t say something sooner rather than later.”
“I know.”
“So, when were you going to give her the bear?”
“Her birthday is in August. Will you be finished by then?”
“I guess I’d better be.” I held the two books up. “The only thing holding me up is the uniform. I’ve looked at these for hours and can’t decide which shade of green is best. You’ll have to pick.”
He meticulously scraped the pile of cabbage pieces into a stainless steel bowl, put the cleaver down, and wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “Some sweet tea?”
“That would be great.”
Mark Twain once wrote that only Southerners know how to make truly delicious cornbread. Having married a Virginian, I agree with that statement and would add that the folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line are also the unchallenged masters of making sweetened ice tea. It doesn’t taste quite as good anywhere else, which presented a conundrum the first time I sipped Sergei’s brew. His sweet tea was magnificent—perhaps as good as Ash’s, although I’d never admit it—yet, Sergei was a Russian. When I finally asked him how he’d acquired this talent, he informed me that he was a Southerner, after a fashion, having been born in Georgia…the one that used to be part of the U.S.S.R.
Sergei poured us big sixteen-ounce glasses of tea, put a wedge of lemon in his, and we sat down at a table. I slid the books across the table and he opened the top one. He grunted and mumbled under his breath as he leafed through the pages while holding the fabric swatches up against the color photographs and illustrations. Meanwhile, I sipped my sweet tea and enjoyed the music, which was now Brubeck’s jazz classic, “Take Five.”
As last, Sergei slid one of the fabric swatches across the table. “This one.”
“Evening Evergreen,” I read from the tag.
“And you know that the tank officers—”
“Wore black shoulder boards. Yes, you’ve mentioned that just a few times. There’s one thing I think I should tell you about the bear, however.”
“What’s that?”
“It has a silver handlebar moustache and kind of looks like you.”
Sergei blanched. “Good Lord, I can’t give that to Tina. It, it…”
“Would say that behind that Cossack façade, you’re a great big teddy bear. Believe me, she’ll love it.”
Four
Our conversation came to an abrupt halt as the front door opened and Reverend Terry Richert, the new pastor of the Remmelkemp Mill Apostolic Assembly, entered the restaurant. He and his wife Karen had come to the Shenandoah Valley from Alexandria in February, filling the vacancy left by Pastor Marc Poole when he suddenly abandoned his flock. I’d only encountered Richert a couple of times since his arrival, yet he’d impressed me as a quietly good and earnest man. This tallied with the things we heard from Ash’s folks and some of our friends who were members of the congregation. They told us that even though Richert was from Northern Virginia, which practically made him a Yankee, he was a fine pastor.
The clergyman looked to be in his mid-thirties, which made me a little jealous because I knew that he was actually a couple of years older than me. Richert was about five-foot-ten, 190 pounds, with glossy brown hair, and a flawless white complexion he was shielding from the sun with the sort of huge straw hat that lifeguards wear on the beach. He also appeared to have enough sunscreen smeared on his face and arms to provide skin protection even if the sun went nova. I wasn’t dense enough not to realize the surplus of SPF was one of the reasons Richert loo
ked so much younger than me. Although I use it religiously now, I didn’t during my early years as a street cop, and not because Ash didn’t buy me tube after tube of sunscreen. The reason was idiotic: I got tired of the stuff liquefying as I perspired, dripping into my eyes, and making them sting.
Richert removed his sunglasses and hat. “Hi, fellas. It’s a little hot out there. Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”
“By all means, pastor. Sweet tea?” asked Sergei as he closed the book and gave me a look that told me to put the fabric swatches in my pocket, which I did.
“Thank you, and I’d be a lot happier if you guys just called me Terry.”
I pulled a chair out. “Then have a seat, Terry.”
“I’ll get the tea. Lemon?” Sergei asked as he went to the kitchen.
“Please.” Richert sat down and put the straw hat on a vacant chair.
“So, what brings you to the Ptomaine Palace?” I asked.
“I heard that,” said Sergei.
“You were supposed to.”
Richert seemed oblivious to the silly verbal exchange. He grimaced slightly and I could tell he was a little uneasy. “Actually, when I saw your truck in the lot, I thought I’d come over and talk to you.”
“Really? About what?”
“It might be a rather sensitive topic.”
“You mean like why you’ve never seen me at church?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
When Sergei returned, it was apparent he’d noticed Richert’s uncomfortable demeanor and realized that the pastor wanted to speak to me privately. He placed the glass of sweet tea on the table and said, “I’d love to sit and chat, but I have to finish the cole slaw and turn the chickens over one more time before lunch.”
Once Sergei was back behind the counter, Richert said diffidently, “I don’t want to dredge up any bad memories, but can we talk about my predecessor for a couple of minutes?”
“Marvelous Marc Poole? Why?”
“As you know, he was very popular and some members of my congregation haven’t come to terms with the circumstances of his departure. It’s causing a rift and I’m searching for a way to heal the situation.”
“Interesting. Ash’s folks haven’t said anything about a problem. They like you.”
“Thank you and it isn’t surprising that they haven’t heard anything. They come to church to worship God, not gossip in the assembly hall afterwards.”
“I’m still not quite certain how I can help.”
“I need information. I just want some sense of what actually happened.”
I shrugged. “Then you should ask Sheriff Barron to let you read the crime reports. It’s all a matter of public record.”
“I did read the reports, but they didn’t really answer the questions I have. That’s why I think it’s so important to talk to you.”
“Sorry, my brain is apparently working at half-speed this morning. Why me?”
“Because the reports only tell about the crimes that Pastor Poole apparently committed. I’m interested in his…relationship…with you and your wife.”
At first I couldn’t figure out what he meant and then the nasty answer hit me like a Three Stooges–quality smack to the face with a cast-iron frying pan. “Oh, don’t tell me. Some of your flock told you that I framed Poole because I was insanely and irrationally jealous of his purely Christian love for my wife.”
“I won’t lie to you. I’ve heard that.”
“And apparently you think there might be at least a kernel of truth to that idiotic story, otherwise you wouldn’t have come over here to talk to me about it.” My voice grew a little icy.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t believe it.”
“Because?”
“He stole every penny from the church treasury when he became a fugitive. A man that would do that is capable of anything.”
I relaxed slightly. “Then, why the interest?”
“I’m tired of the gossip. My sermon tomorrow morning is going to be about bearing false witness against your neighbor.” Richert paused to take a sip of sweet tea. “I want to kill that ugly story once and for all, but I need some facts from you to do that.”
“Information about Poole lusting after my wife?”
“If that’s what happened.”
“That’s exactly what happened. But I want to be totally accurate: He never overtly tried to romance her, because I think he knew that she’d have broken his neck. But Poole was utterly infatuated with Ash.”
“How could you tell?”
“Well, for starters, he was always showing up at our house to visit and I can assure you, he wasn’t interested in saving my soul.” I drained the remainder of the sweet tea from the glass.
“Then what happened?”
“Ever seen a kid ogling the dessert counter at a buffet? That’s the way he looked at Ash’s…uh, figure, when he thought no one was paying attention. Also, whenever we met Poole, he wanted to give her a big hug.”
“You know, to play devil’s advocate, hugs can be a sign of innocent affection.”
“Ash thought that for a long time too. But us guys know that hugs can also be a sneaky way of snuggling yourself up against a woman’s breasts—not that you’d ever do such a thing, padre.”
Richert pressed his index and middle fingers against his lips to half-conceal a tiny smile. “Not that I doubt you, but how could you tell which sort of hugs they were?”
“Trust me, he wasn’t expressing platonic love and part of the proof is that he didn’t even try to deny it when Ash jumped ten-eight in his face about those hugs and the vicious lies he’d been spreading around town about her.”
“Ten-eight?”
“A California police expression. It’s the radio transmission code for being in service, but it’s also cop slang for reading someone the riot act.”
“What was he telling folks?”
“That Ash had invited Poole over to our house one afternoon while I was in Harrisonburg at a doctor’s appointment. The inference was that she was eager—panting almost—for a little laying-on of his hands.”
Richert shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
“Ash was incredibly hurt and ashamed when she found out what Poole had said.” I tightened my hand around the plastic glass until my knuckles were white. “Nobody does that to my wife. And my only regret is that the randy reverend was in the wind before I could come back to conduct a little amateur dental extraction work on his front teeth.”
“Well, come tomorrow I hope the Remmelkemp Mill Apostolic Assembly can begin to make some amends for my predecessor’s behavior.” Richert reached over to pat me on the arm.
Although Richert meant well, I thought his idea of discussing the false tale in church was a bad idea. People love gossip, so even though the purpose of his sermon would be to debunk the slimy story, the result would be like shattering a two-liter glass bottle of olive oil on a kitchen floor. The mess would spread everywhere and take forever to clean up. But before I could voice my misgivings, the door opened.
A stern-faced Asian man paused in the entrance to slowly scan the restaurant’s interior through mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was about five-nine, kind of stocky, and had longish black pomaded hair. He was dressed in business casual: navy slacks, a periwinkle polo shirt, and a blue blazer that bore a small red diamond-shaped pin on the right lapel. I also noticed that he kept his right hand tucked inside the jacket pocket, which made me a little wary. Twenty-five years as a cop had drilled a vital lesson into my skull: watch people’s hands and be cautious around someone deliberately concealing them. Without thinking, I reached out and took hold of my cane, ready to use it as a club.
Apparently deciding the restaurant was safe, the man—who was obviously either some sort of bodyguard or had watched far too many old Warner Bros. gangster films—held the door open for someone outside. That’s when I got a loo
k at his left hand and went into full alert mode. The tip of his pinky finger was gone. Most people wouldn’t realize the significance of the missing bit of bone and flesh, but I did.
Mistaking my suddenly attentive demeanor for anger, Richert said, “I hope I didn’t say anything to upset you.”
“No, I’m just fascinated by the guy doing the bad George Raft impression,” I murmured, and nodded toward the door. “And it would be best if you didn’t turn around and stare at him.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
A second Asian man entered the restaurant and walked up to the counter, followed closely by his bodyguard. The newcomer looked to be in his mid-fifties with a plump physique, receding hairline, black hair that shone like the sealing wax nose of an antique Steiff teddy bear, and eyes invisible behind silver-framed eyeglasses with gray transition lenses. His clothing was similar to his bodyguard’s, including the diamond-shaped lapel pin. However, he wore a twill shirt with a button-down collar. The man sniffed the air appreciatively, nodded, and softly said something to the younger man, who nodded and quietly barked, “Hai.”
I casually turned to take a quick look out the window at the parking lot and saw there was a third member of the group outside. The man was also Asian, was dressed in a brown business casual ensemble, and wore the inevitable mirrored aviator sunglasses. He stood in the scorching sun, smoking a cigarette next to a huge Hummer H3, an already ugly vehicle made even harder on the eyes because it was painted the same color orange as a highway roadwork sign. The Hummer had a Virginia license plate and I set myself to memorizing the alphanumeric sequence.
Sergei appeared through the doorway at the back of the kitchen and I guessed he’d been turning the chickens over in the brick pit. He looked first at the two newcomers and then glanced at me. Noticing my rigid posture and the cane in my hand, Sergei realized something was amiss. Calling out a cheerful, “Good morning,” he strolled over to the cash register, where I knew he kept a loaded .45 semiautomatic pistol under the counter.