by John J. Lamb
Then again, I wondered if I was imagining a crisis where none existed. The position would give me the opportunity to share some of my specialized knowledge with the local cops, and as there wasn’t much violent crime in Massanutten County—the sole murder victim of the previous year was the guy who washed up in the river in front of our house—it wasn’t likely I’d be called to many murder scenes. I’d discussed my misgivings with Ash, who made it clear that she’d support me in whatever decision I eventually made.
I said, “Actually Tina, I have decided and I’d like to accept.”
Tina beamed and she patted my shoulder. “Thanks, Brad. We’ll talk more about it when you come to pick up Kitch.”
“Sounds great.”
“You’ve got a long drive, so I’ll let you get going now. Ash, good luck with the Confection Collection and maybe next year I can come, too.”
“With your own artisan bears? We’d love it,” said Ash.
“And Brad?”
“Yes, Tina?”
“There are times when you can be a real brat.”
“Just times?” Ash and I said simultaneously.
Two
There are two ways to get to Baltimore from our house. The most direct route is also the longest drive because it means committing your immortal soul to Interstate 495, otherwise known as the Washington Beltway. With its shocking collection of bad drivers, omnipresent gridlock, and claustrophobia-inducing fleets of eighteen-wheelers, the Beltway is one of the bolgias of hell that Dante missed on his tour of the Inferno. The longer but prettier and less stressful route is to go northeastward along the Shenandoah Valley to Frederick, Maryland, and head for Baltimore from there. Guess which way we went.
A little more than three hours later we were off the interstate, passing through Baltimore’s Little Italy and entering the neighborhood known as Fell’s Point. The tourist industry makes a big deal about Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, mostly because of the Camden Yards ballpark and the National Aquarium. But as far as I’m concerned, the rest of the district is one vast homogenized shopping center, mostly lacking in personality and featuring the same stores you can find in almost any mall throughout the county. Fell’s Point, on the other hand, is loaded with character. The well-maintained buildings are a delightful melding of antebellum and Victorian architecture and the cobblestone streets and black wrought iron streetlights hearken back to an earlier and more elegant era. You won’t find many national retailers in Fell’s Point, but as we made our way through the neighborhood we saw upscale antique stores, art galleries, trendy clothing boutiques, and an interesting collection of pubs and restaurants.
Ash pointed to a store as we made the turn from Fleet Street onto South Ann Street. “Look, a mystery bookshop. Maybe we can come back later on and see if the new Pam and Pom mystery is out.”
“Finally, a reason to go on living,” I said, taking note of the shop’s location.
My wife is a huge fan of mystery novels and her favorite books feature Pamela, a beautiful yoga instructor, and her cute talking Pomeranian dog, Bitsy. However, like almost every homicide detective I’ve ever known, I don’t care for mystery novels.
Ash gave me a wry here-we-go-again smile. “Honey, I know you don’t think they’re very realistic.”
“Really? You mean us dim-witted cops don’t always arrest the wrong person?”
“I don’t care, I still like them.”
“Yeah, and I’m really sorry for being such a curmudgeon. We’ll try to get back there this afternoon.”
“And I want you to promise not to make any comments about how unrealistic you think the books are.”
“You never let me have any fun.”
“Oh? And how would you describe last night?” She ran her hand upward along the top of my right thigh and I could feel my pulse begin to accelerate.
“My love, the word ‘fun’ doesn’t even begin to describe last night.”
A minute later, we turned left onto Thames Street, which ran along the north side of the harbor. Off to the southeast, on the other side of the shipping channel, the brown angular walls of Fort McHenry—of the “Star-Spangled Banner” fame—were just barely visible and I hoped that we might get over there on Sunday before heading home. We followed the road until it dead-ended at the driveway entrance to the Fell’s Point Maritime Inn.
The hotel was large and composed of dark brown brick. Its design was apparently intended to commemorate the clipper ships built long ago in Fell’s Point because the eight-storied structure was shaped like an elongated almond, vaguely in the manner of a sailing vessel, and the roof was dominated by three tall white metal scalene triangle wedges, each larger than the next, which I assumed were supposed to recall an array of wind-filled jib sails. Personally, I thought the angular display looked as if a behemoth paper plane had landed on the top of the building.
We pulled up to the main entrance and had to wait a few moments until the traffic ahead cleared out. The Har-Bear Expo was a major show that routinely attracted over a hundred artisans from all over the U.S. and Canada and even some bear makers from Europe. It looked as if most of them had arrived just a few minutes before us. The temporary parking area was packed with minivans and SUVs in the process of emptying their cargoes of folding tables, display shelves, signage, and crates of stuffed animals. The first fat droplets of rain began to splatter on our windshield and everyone began to scramble to get their bears inside. I parked in a handicapped slot not far from the door and Ash and I shared our large umbrella until we’d reached the shelter of the covered portico. Then we went inside to register.
The lobby was decorated in an age-of-sail nautical theme—heavily varnished oaken floors, old naval flags hanging from the walls, and a wooden registration desk appointed in gleaming brass accents. A pair of painted and artificially weathered hand-carved mermaid figureheads were mounted on the wall flanking the desk, and thickly corded ship’s rigging was strung overhead like giant spider webs. Although it was a little noisy in the lobby, I could faintly hear music from the hotel’s PA system and it took a second before I realized it was an instrumental version of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” being played with an unfretted guitar, tin whistle, and concertina as if it were a jolly whaling song. The place was seriously kitschy, but I still considered the atmosphere an improvement over the usual marble-appointed hotel lobby, which tends to be so cold and austere that I’m reminded of a mausoleum.
A four-foot-tall sandwich-board sign featuring an illustration of a bear wearing a Cap’n Crunch–style old-time sea captain’s uniform stood at the head of the corridor leading to the right, pointing the direction to the conference room where the Har-Bear Expo was being held. There was a continuous stream of people entering and leaving as they unloaded their bears. At last, we checked into the hotel, got our key cards, and as we headed back toward the door, saw that it was raining harder.
Ash said, “Why don’t we drive the truck into the parking structure and unload it there?”
“I really need to stretch my leg, so if you don’t mind, could you drive it in and I’ll stand by here to grab one of those luggage carts?”
“Of course. How bad is your leg?”
“It isn’t where I got shot that’s hurting so much, but I end up holding my leg in a funny position—”
“And it causes the other muscles to ache. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Actually, I shouldn’t be complaining. I can still walk and there are people coming back from Iraq who are dealing with far more serious injuries and not singing the blues. Remind me of that the next time I snivel.” I handed her the umbrella and the keys to the Xterra.
“You don’t snivel.” She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll meet you in the parking structure.”
Once Ash left, I snagged a freshly abandoned cart. I pushed it down a corridor, through two sets of heavy metal fire doors, and out into the concrete parking structure where I walked right into one of a cop’s least favor
ite situations: a man and woman engaged in a domestic dispute. However, they were so involved in exchanging charming repartee that they didn’t notice my appearance.
The couple stood next to the open side doors of a huge metallic salmon-colored Dodge van. There was a dolly near the open doors of the vehicle and it was loaded with plastic crates full of plush bears with golden halos, little wings, and wearing ivory gossamer angelic robes. A petite woman in her mid-thirties with curly russet hair, full lips taut with anger, and a slightly olive complexion that looked jaundiced in the bluish light cast by the naked fluorescent bulbs overhead stood behind the dolly, clearly trying to keep it between herself and a man I assumed was her husband.
The man was at least six foot two and pushing three hundred pounds, with short blond hair, bright porcine eyes, and a moustache-goatee combo that did nothing but serve to draw attention to a fleshy double chin that bordered on being a full-blown wattle. He wore tan khakis and a long-sleeved Stuart-plaid flannel shirt that wasn’t tucked in because he erroneously thought it would conceal his huge gut.
She said, “Just for once, will you listen to me, Tony? I don’t like it.”
“Open your damn ears, we aren’t breaking any laws.”
My ears pricked up. Those are the words that corporate CEOs and politicians customarily use to describe unethical, dishonest, but technically legal behavior.
“I still don’t like it.”
“Yeah, and guess what? I don’t give a shit what you don’t like, Jennifer. You aren’t going to screw this up for us.”
“Us? I didn’t see you making any of these frigging bears.”
“But you are going to see me pound the snot out of you if you keep running that smart mouth of yours.”
Jennifer jerked her right hand upward, extending her middle finger. “Sit on it and spin you lard-ass son of a bitch.”
Tony moved fast for a big man. He grabbed her by the wrist and raised his meaty right hand as if to slap her. Up until that moment, I was going to let them bicker and not interfere. A verbal disagreement isn’t a crime and all couples have arguments, even Ash and I on a very rare occasion, although we’d never used that sort of vile language toward each other and couldn’t imagine ever doing so. However, I have absolutely no tolerance for even an iota of physical abuse. I’d investigated far too many spousal assaults that had suddenly escalated into homicide.
I rapped my cane loudly against the metal framework of the trolley and the clanging sound echoed off the cement walls. “Hey, pardon me for interrupting, but let go of the lady.”
They both looked at me and Tony growled, “She’s my wife.”
“That’s an even better reason not to manhandle her.”
“Mind your own business.” Tony tightened his grip and his wife winced.
“I’ll be happy to…once you let her go.”
“Are you deaf, Grandpa? I said, mind your own business. Go back inside the hotel.”
The “grandpa” stung a little but I didn’t let it show. The emotional rigors of all those years of police work and then getting shot had taken their physical toll on my appearance. My hair is completely gray and my face is beginning to show more tired lines than an episode of Friends in its final season. Ash says that I’m hypersensitive, but add the bum leg and the cane to the picture and I think my nickname should be Methuselah.
I flashed a disdainful grin. “Nah, I think I’ll stay right here and watch the big brave man smack his wife.”
Tony’s jaw began to jut. “Yeah? How about I come over there and kick your ass first?”
I began to walk toward him, tapping the cane’s tip deliberately on the cement floor. One of the first skills a successful cop masters is something called “command presence.” That means exuding complete confidence and serenity in the face of disaster. I chuckled, fixed him with a cool stare, and said, “What is this, amateur night at the Laugh Factory? You? Kick my ass? Tony, I’ve arrested hundreds of blow-hard punks like you for domestic violence and there wasn’t a one of them that ever wanted to fight someone who could really hurt them. You aren’t any different.”
“You’re a cop?” There was a tiny flicker of doubt in Tony’s eyes. Meanwhile, it looked like his wife was beginning to hyperventilate.
“Retired.”
“So, you probably have a gun. That’s why you’re acting so brave.”
I snorted in contemptuous amusement. “I don’t need a gun to deal with a tub of pig manure like you.”
“Oh, you’ve got me so scared.”
“As a matter of fact you are. I can see it in your eyes. Now, let go of her.”
We were only a few feet apart now and Tony suddenly released his grip on Jennifer’s arm. He turned and stalked toward the fire doors, calling to his wife over his shoulder, “Get the rest of the crap and go to the conference hall.”
I watched him until I was certain he was gone and then noticed that Jennifer’s breathing had become very ragged and wheezy. She was searching her purse, frantically looking for something and at last produced a cylindrical-shaped asthma inhaler. Drawing deeply from the device, she held her breath for about ten seconds and then slowly exhaled. Meanwhile, a pair of vehicle headlights appeared at the opposite end of the parking structure and slowly headed in our direction. From the silhouette it looked like the Xterra.
The woman put the inhaler back into her purse and gave me a severe look. “What are you waiting for, a medal?”
“No, I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine and nobody asked you to interfere, so do me a big favor. Mind your own damn business.” Jennifer shoved the dolly past me, headed toward the fire doors.
“You’re welcome. And are those angel or anger bears? The difference is only one letter.”
She flipped me off just before she entered the hotel.
Actually, I wasn’t that surprised by her rudeness. I’d encountered similar responses from battered spouses—both husbands and wives—throughout my police career. Although it’s difficult to understand, many of the victims genuinely love their abusive partners and often resent a stranger intruding, even to stop a savage assault. It’s also possible that Jennifer viewed the relative ease with which I’d intimidated her husband as a silent indictment that she was allowing herself to be bullied by a coward.
Ash drove up in the rain-spattered Xterra and jerked her head in the direction of the fire doors. “Did she just do what I thought I saw her do?”
“The one finger salute? Yeah, but I’m pretty certain it was intended as an insult rather than an invitation.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I walked into the middle of a four-fifteen that was about to go physical,” I said, using the California penal code section for a disturbance of the peace. “She’s annoyed because I stopped her husband from using her face as a tetherball.”
“And they’re teddy bear artisans? Did you catch their names?” Ash pressed the button that opened the rear hatch and climbed from the SUV.
“Jennifer and Tony, although they were using some rather more colorful expressions for each other.”
“Jennifer Swift?” Ash stopped and stared at me. “Did you notice what kind of bears she had?”
“They were made from tipped plush fur with hockey-stick arms, little wings, and dressed as angels—probably of the fallen variety if they’re any reflection of their creators. You sound as if you know her.”
“I’ve never met her, but she makes the Cheery Cherub Bears. She’s a very successful artisan—”
“If not a human being.”
“And she won both a TOBY and a Golden Teddy last year.”
Three years ago those names wouldn’t have meant anything to me, but now that I work with mohair instead of murder I was impressed. The Golden Teddy and the TOBY—a slightly out-of-sequence acronym for Teddy Bear Of the Year—rank above the prizes given out at local bear shows. They’re prestigious annual awards given out by the two major American teddy bear
magazines and it’s an honor to merely be nominated for one because it’s an international competition. Few artisans win even one of the prizes, much less both, and those who do are considered the aristocrats of the artisan teddy bear world.
I glanced back at the fire doors and then checked my watch. “Not bad. We’ve been here less than thirty minutes and I’ve already managed to piss off a VIP. What if she has some pull with the local show judges and screws you out of an award?”
Ash took my hand and squeezed it. “Sweetheart, you did the right thing and it’s going to be fine. And besides, there’s no guarantee that either of us is going to even be nominated for a prize. We won’t know that until this evening.”
“You, I can see nominated. The Confection Collection is great. But, me? A nominee? Ash honey, when did you start having hallucinations?”
“Right about the same time I fell in love with this wonderful man who became a San Francisco cop.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get this stuff unloaded.”
Three
We went back into the hotel, Ash with the dolly loaded with bears, and me pushing our two folding tables and chairs in the luggage cart. As we entered the lobby, I caught a glimpse of Tony Swift as he emerged from the corridor leading to the conference hall and headed in the direction of the hotel restaurant. He didn’t seem to notice me, but that’s probably because he was lost in a daydream about a nice green salad with low-cal oil and vinegar dressing.
I nudged Ash and nodded in the big man’s direction. “Jennifer’s husband.”
Ash’s eyes narrowed. “My God, he’s three times her size. Maybe you should have called the police.”
“There’d have been no point. She’d simply deny it happened and with no physical injuries, it’d be my word against theirs.”
“And now he’s going to lunch.”
“Hey, you can work up a real man-sized appetite terrorizing your wife.”