The False-Hearted Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “How did you stop him from hitting her?”

  “I think he was afraid I was going to clobber him with my cane.”

  “If you ever get another chance under similar circumstances, do it.”

  “Always happy to be of service.”

  We went down the hallway towards the conference room, checked in at the organizers’ table, and after a short wait received our exhibitor IDs, pamphlets containing schedules of the special events and workshops, and a couple of commemorative magazines. Stopping briefly to show our event IDs to a sleepy-looking security guard, we went into the exhibit hall.

  In contrast to the H.M.S. Pinafore atmosphere of the lobby, the conference hall was about as welcoming as a police interview room. It was a large stark rectangle with the walls and floor upholstered in beige industrial carpet and a ceiling of white acoustic tiles. There were only two items of decoration: an oversized crystal chandelier in the middle of the room with so many cobwebs on it that it looked as if it had been borrowed from the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland, and a long white banner attached to the far wall that read, THE 17TH ANNUAL HAR-BEAR EXPO WELCOMES YOU in red letters.

  The room was a mass of activity and filled with the buzz of cheerful conversation. There was a series of nine aisles marked out with blue masking tape on the floor and along each row booths and display tables were being set up. Facing the main entrance at the head of an aisle, in the very best foot-traffic location in the room, was the slot assigned to the Cheery Cherub Bears. We both paused to examine the lavish booth with a mixture of awe and embarrassed amusement.

  Like most artisans, we simply set our bears up on cloth-covered tables with a sign attached to the front. The Cheery Cherub Bears display, however, was housed behind a hinged, seven-foot-tall and sixteen-foot-long plywood barrier upon which was painted an exquisite fresco of a heavenly scene showing angel bears with harps sitting on fluffy white clouds and others flying above them. I looked through the arched doorway into the enclosure, which was brightly illuminated by several battery-operated halogen lamps, and saw Jennifer releasing her bears from plastic crate captivity. A man in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a friendly looking, clean-shaven round face, was assisting her by setting small books with brightly colored illustrations of cherub bears on the covers next to each stuffed animal. The man quietly said something to Jennifer, but her only response was a brusque shake of the head.

  Behind me, I heard a woman call, “Ashleigh, is that really you?”

  I turned and saw Ash embracing a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair. Ash said, “Oh my gosh, Karen, once we moved back to Virginia I didn’t think we’d see you again! How are you?”

  “Jet-lagged but wonderful.”

  “And you’re doing this show?”

  Karen tapped the handle of a dolly loaded with teddy bears. “It’s my first trip to an eastern event in a few years and I was hoping to see you since I know you’re making bears now.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t as good as yours.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I’ve been hearing. I saw the article about the Harrisonburg show in Teddy Bear Review. Congratulations on the award.”

  “Thank you.” Ash grabbed my hand. “Brad, honey, you remember Karen, don’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s really great to see you,” I lied, shaking hands with her. Ash could have told me that the lady was the lost Romanov Princess Anastasia and I wouldn’t have known any different.

  “Is it all right if I ask what happened to your leg? When you took Molly Mae home…”

  “I didn’t have a cane. I got shot a couple of years ago and I’m retired from the PD.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. Life is good.”

  “And he’s making bears,” Ash added proudly.

  The teddy bear named Molly Mae refreshed my memory. The woman was Karen Rundlett, an artisan from Southern California whom we’d first met at the Nevada City Teddy Bear Convention back in 1999 when we were just avid collectors. Two years and several events later, at a San Diego show, we’d purchased a large and beautiful honey-colored bear from her named Molly Mae, which led to an unexpected bit of fame for me: after buying Molly, I carried her through the rest of the exhibit hall and attracted the attention of a professional photographer who was doing an article on the centennial anniversary of the teddy bear for Smithsonian magazine. He snapped a picture of me smiling and holding Molly, which subsequently appeared in the August 2002 issue.

  I thought it was great until Detective Merv “The Perv” Bronsey, a creepy coworker of mine in the homicide unit, saw the picture and decided it constituted excellent fodder for a practical joke. And if you want to ponder a real mystery, how did he find it? Merv’s favorite magazines were purchased from adult bookshops and the only notion more outlandish than him reading Smithsonian is that reality TV programs are “real” and produce “stars.” My guess is that he found the magazine in the waiting room of some doctor’s office just before going in to get a shot of penicillin.

  Anyway, cops can be cruel, especially to each other. Merv scanned the picture into his computer, digitally added a pair of handcuffs to my wrist and Molly Mae’s paw, and attached a caption underneath that read, “The courageous Inspector Lyon captures another violent felon.” Then he e-mailed the modified photo to every cop on the SFPD. That was bad enough, but when criminals were brought in for questioning and they saw the picture on display at detectives’ desks it got worse—much worse. Soon almost every lowlife informant or crook I contacted chafed me over it. I eventually got my revenge on Merv, but I’ll share that story once I’m absolutely certain that the statute of limitations has expired.

  Karen nodded toward the Cheery Cherub Bears booth as the archway began to glow pink due to the young guy turning on a battery-powered strip of fiber optic lights. “Pretty impressive, huh? But then again, it paid off.”

  Ash raised her eyebrows. “How so?”

  “I guess they haven’t made it public yet, but the Swifts and Todd there are about to become relatively wealthy. I heard some other artisans talking about it.”

  “Who’s Todd?”

  “The young fellow helping Jennifer. If I recall correctly, his last name is Litten. Each of the bears comes with a children’s book that he writes and illustrates. They’re sweet little books on how to behave and the importance of being kind to others.”

  “Interesting. Have the Swifts actually ever read the books?”

  Ash gave my hand a warning squeeze.

  As we talked, I noticed a slightly plump woman pushing a cart loaded with very cute bears dressed as medieval knights, damsels, and one that looked like Robin Hood, complete with a longbow. She paused to shoot a brief but venomous glare at the Cheery Cherub Bears booth then quickly turned away. That caught my full attention. The woman looked to be in her mid-forties, with long dark brunette tresses gathered into a clear plastic hairclip, and she wore jeans, a burgundy pullover shirt, and a white Quacker Factory sweater decorated with hearts, angels, and topiaries. However, the cheerful clothing didn’t match her expression. Her brown eyes looked sad and lonely and they scanned the room as if in search of a friend but not expecting to find one. Then she drifted casually in our direction, looking shyly interested in joining our conversation.

  I turned to her and smiled. “Hi. How are you? This is only our second show, so it’s good to meet you. I’m Brad Lyon, this is my wife, Ashleigh, and this is our friend Karen Rundlett.”

  The woman’s face brightened a little and she held up her name tag. “Hi, I’m Donna Jordan and it’s been awhile since I’ve been to any shows myself. Thanks for making me feel welcome.”

  Once everybody had shaken hands, I asked Karen, “So how are Litten and the Swifts about to become wealthy?”

  “I’m old enough to remember when three hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, so maybe ‘wealthy’ is an overstatement.” Karen gave a wry chuckle. “Wintle Toys is going to b
uy the manufacturing rights to the cherub bears and books and the Swifts are also selling the television rights to some animation company so that they can make a cartoon series about the bears.”

  I thought: During which they’ll broadcast a half-dozen brainwashing commercials advertising the stuffed animals, a Cheery Cherub Bears’ breakfast cereal, and inevitably, some sort of related video game. Talk about a license to print money.

  Karen continued, “Some of the other big manufacturers do a nice job on producing mass-market versions of artisan bears, but Wintle? You know the quality will go right down the drain. What a shame.”

  “It all sounds a little…mercenary. But maybe I’m only saying that because I’m jealous,” said Ash.

  Karen half-whispered, “No, you’re right, it does seem mercenary, which is really surprising considering the wonderful reputation Jen has in the teddy bear community.”

  It was hard to tell with all the background conversation and the tinny synthesized version of “Spring” from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” that began burbling from the speakers built into the Cheery Cherub Bears booth, but I thought I heard Donna quietly mutter, “Yeah, Jen’s a frigging saint.”

  Karen sighed. “I guess I should get going. Are you guys going to the reception tonight?”

  “We’ll be there,” said Ash.

  “Good. I’m in space number forty-one. Drop by and say hello if you get the chance and I’ll see you later at the reception.”

  “And we’re in space twenty-three. See you tonight.” Ash gave Karen a hug.

  As Karen disappeared down one of the aisles, I turned to Donna. “Hey, I really like your Robin Hood–themed bears.”

  “Actually, they’re characters from Ivanhoe. I used to read it to my son.” She reached into a crate and pulled out a bear dressed in a long coat of silvery material that resembled iron chain mail. “Here’s Sir Wilfred.”

  “This is amazing workmanship,” said Ash.

  “Thank you.”

  I pointed to another bear that was wearing gray fabric armor and a black sleeveless tunic embroidered with a crimson Latin cross. “Brian Bois-Guilbert?”

  “Right, the evil Knight Templar. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who’s read Sir Walter Scott.”

  “And your son was lucky to have someone to read him Ivanhoe.”

  Ash twisted my arm slightly to look at my watch. “Oh, my gosh, we’d better find our places and get set up. The judges will be making their way through the hall at two o’clock to pick out the finalists for the show awards and we haven’t even set our table up yet.”

  “We’ll see you at the reception tonight. Good to meet you.” I shook Donna’s hand and she disappeared into the crowd.

  Meanwhile, we went up the second aisle to the left from the doors. Halfway up the row we found space twenty-three on the left-hand side. I began to set the tables up as Ash went back out to the parking structure to bring in another load of bears. Once the tables were up, I covered them with the fitted white cloths with lace ruffles that Ash had made and attached our LYON’S TIGERS AND BEARS sign to the front. But I didn’t begin setting the bears up for display, because that’s a talent I completely lack. The fact is, I’d just stand the bears up in a row like they were suspects in an ursine police lineup, but Ash possesses an artist’s eye for positioning the stuffed animals and her arrangements never fail to attract foot traffic.

  Picking up Dirty Beary and looking into his sunglasses, I said, “In the words of the immortal Clint in…I forget which cop movie: ‘A man’s got to know his limitations.’”

  Ash returned about ten minutes later with the remainder of the bears and a wicker basket containing our lunch of turkey sandwiches, fiery jalapeno-flavored potato chips, slices of dried apple, and bottles of water. Hotel and restaurant food is expensive and we’d be eating out a lot over the next few days, so we were trying to save a few pennies. Besides we really didn’t have time to sit down over a leisurely lunch.

  Once we finished eating, Ash went to the restroom to wash her hands before arranging our wares. The first bear she picked up was Teri Tiramisu, who wore a rectangular-shaped costume of simulated ladyfinger cookies topped with a glossy layer of faux Mascarpone cheese bisected with a thin and irregular ribbon of brown fabric that looked exactly like a mixture of cocoa and espresso.

  Ash scrutinized the bear with a furrowed brow. “I don’t know. I still think this one is just kind of blah.”

  “She’s wonderful.”

  “Honey, you say that about all my bears.”

  “And I mean it. But if you’re worried, put Teri next to a couple of the ones I made. She’ll look great in comparison.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your bears—”

  “That a skilled artist couldn’t fix, given enough time,” I added. I leaned over to give her a kiss on her forehead. “Hey, while you arrange the bears, why don’t I take the dolly back to the Xterra and get our luggage up to our room?”

  “That sounds good. Hurry back.” Ash sounded a little distracted as she put Teri Tiramisu down and picked up Patty Pumpkin Pie, a bear wearing an orange wedge-shaped costume complete with golden brown crust and a dab of satin whipped cream.

  I’d volunteered to do the grunt work because I knew that Ash found it easier to focus on posing the bears when I wasn’t looking over her shoulder. It also gave me the opportunity to check out some of the other artists’ displays. As always, I was profoundly impressed with the number, variety, and above all, the quality of bears on display. On our aisle alone, there were bears dressed as Teddy Roosevelt, Little Red Riding Hood, Long John Silver, Mia Hamm, and Neil Armstrong in an incredibly realistic looking spacesuit. The other thing I noticed was the atmosphere of good will and unfeigned joy pervading the room…right up until I limped past the Cheery Cherub Bears booth.

  Tony was standing just outside the archway. However, this was a Tony from some alternate universe—a Tony that was seeking camouflage behind the popular myth that all fat men are jolly. He’d changed into a periwinkle-colored T-shirt with the message, I WUV CHEERY CHERUB BEARS printed in white three-inch tall block capital letters on the chest, and he wore one of those red-striped Cat in the Hat felt top hats they give as prizes at county fair game booths. Tony’s toothy smile was as big as Michael Jackson’s attorney’s bills and the big man was calling out to friends while greeting and shaking hands with folks passing the booth. I’ll give the guy this, Tony was an accomplished actor because when he saw me he only broke from character for a split-second to give me a hateful and challenging look that’s known on the streets as a “mad dog.” I met his gaze and laughed scornfully as I trudged by. As I went out the door, I heard him shouting out a cheerful hello to someone else.

  I dropped our luggage off in our room on the fifth floor and returned about fifteen minutes later. Tony was gone—off pressing the flesh in another part of the hall—and Jennifer was inside the booth seated on a folding chair with her arms folded across her chest and eyes shut. Todd stood behind her, looking for something inside a brown shoulder bag while prattling away, even though the woman’s posture clearly said that she wanted to be left alone. Meanwhile, “The March of the Gladiators”—the song played when a circus troupe makes its grand entrance into the arena—was blaring from the booth’s music system while the fiber optic lights pulsed in time to the music. I paused and shook my head in bemusement. I’d never seen anything like it at the thirty or so bear shows we’d attended. It was like slowing down to look at a bad traffic accident. You know you shouldn’t do it, but there’s an unsavory fascination in looking at something awful.

  Coming up our aisle, I saw that Ash had finished arranging the stuffed animals. The Confection Collection looked as delectable as a dessert tray and the centerpiece of the display was her amazingly realistic-looking Siberian snow tiger. It had articulated limbs and seemed to be prowling across the table. I was also pleased to see that Teri Tiramisu had made the cut and was on display with the other members of the Confect
ion Collection. Then I noticed that Ash had attached Dirty Beary to a stand and placed him on one of the felt-covered cylindrical pedestals we’d refashioned from some old paint cans. Leaning against his legs was one of the small placards Ash had produced earlier in the week on the computer that bore the bear’s name and that of the artisan.

  I’ll admit it; suddenly I was a little scared. It was only a few minutes until two o’clock and I wasn’t eager to have teddy bear experts examining my work because I knew Beary and the four other stuffed animals I’d completed over the winter bore the unmistakable marks of being made by an amateur.

  Slipping behind the table, I said, “Sweetheart, why don’t you take him down and put up one of your bears? Where’s Cheri Cherry Pie? Put her there.”

  “I’m proud of Dirty Beary, and you should be, too.”

  “He’s just a bear wearing a sports jacket and sunglasses.”

  “No, he represents three months of hard work and a quarter-century of what you did very bravely for a living,” Ash said quietly. “And he represents our new life together. So, do you still want to take him down?”

  I took her hand. “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you know what? When the judges visit our table and check Beary out, I’ll just give them a steely-eyed look and say”—I paused to add a muted snarl to my voice—“Go ahead. Make my day.”

  Four

  While we waited for the judges to appear, I told Ash about Tony’s T-shirt, cheesy top hat, and unctuous carnival barker’s performance.

  She gaped in disbelief. “Wuv? It actually says, wuv? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “The shirt wasn’t half as nauseating as his hyperactive Barney the Dinosaur shtick.”

  “And I’m sorry, but the longer I think about that booth with its flashing lights…”

  “The more words such as ‘sell-out’ and ‘pimped’ come to mind?”

  Ash nodded and frowned. “But I keep wondering if we’re just saying that because we’re envious of their success.”