Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear (16 page)

He placed his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to hurt his wife and her friends, sure hadn’t meant to scare Fiona like that. All this time, he had thought he was working so hard, striving toward excellence, thinking God would smile on that. Really, he was just being selfish.

On the other side of the hotel, the noisy buzz of traffic and garage salers carried to the lake side of the hotel. He’d never cared much for garage sales. That was Ginger’s thing. Maybe, though, he could just wander around and think things through … be with people again and see them, really see them.

He walked on the path that separated the Wind-Up from Little Italy and out into the revelry of the garage salers. From a distance, he thought he saw Ginger’s distinctive hair.

“I know you think
it’s silly.” Martha Hillstrong stood on the edge of the crowd watching the new Binky be pulled by his little remote-control boat. An inflatable pool with a depth of two or three feet had been set up on the dock.

Mallory crossed her arms. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. She could feel her skin turning red and crispy as she spoke. “Think what is silly?”

Martha Hillstrong pushed her plastic-frame glasses up on her face. “Squirrel lovers, getting together, having a convention.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to pass judgment on people.” It hadn’t been a planned interview. She didn’t think Hillstrong had anything to hide with the fingerprints. She had run out of people to talk to in an official capacity when the roar of the crowd had lured her out to the lake.

“They’re special creatures. I can be having a bad day at the lab and go to the park for lunch with a bag of peanuts. Just feeding them makes me feel better.”

“I don’t have anything against squirrels or squirrel lovers, Miss Hillstrong.”

“It’s Mrs. I am married, and I have two kids.” Martha tucked a strand of stringy hair behind her ear. “You just assumed that I was some recluse weirdo.”

“That’s not at all what I meant.” She had to give Hillstrong credit. The woman was pretty good at reading people. Mallory had mastered the art of hiding her feelings as part of her police training, but Martha had picked up on some subtle clue and determined her prejudice. “I spoke without thinking.” If Martha ever quit her job at the lab, she had a bright future in police work.

The crowd erupted in applause as the new Binky made another round in the pool.

“There are some people who can’t even handle the responsibility of a pet, but they can go to the park and hang out with the squirrels.”

Mallory shaded her eyes from the sun. “Mrs. Hillstrong, I am not here to indict your love for squirrels.”

“Then why did you track me down?”

Hillstrong didn’t need to know that after two days, she was the strongest lead they had and that the interview was accidental. “We found the ball Binky was in when he was abducted.”

Hillstrong shifted her weight, tugged on a strand of hair, and crossed her arms. “How do you know it was Binky’s ball? This place has tons of squirrels and tons of balls.”

The flash of guilt in Hillstrong’s eyes, that furtive glance, surprised Mallory. Maybe she was onto something. “This one had Binky’s name on it. Mr. Simpson identified it.”

“So what does that have to do with me?”

“Your prints were on it.”

“Mr. Simpson and I know each other.” Martha stared out at the water. “I can’t remember when, but it is entirely possible that I touched that ball. I was fond of Binky. He was a smart squirrel.”

Mallory would have taken Hillstrong at her word except for the signals she was sending up like bottle rockets: nervous gestures, no eye contact, precise enunciation. No doubt about it, she was lying.

“Why don’t you tell me why your prints are really on that ball?” Mallory infused her voice with sympathy. Where interviews were concerned, overt hostility only worked in detective movies.

Hillstrong breathed Lamaze style, exhaling audibly. Mallory feared the woman would hyperventilate. “I just feel … so guilty.”

Mallory closed the distance between her and Hillstrong. “And why is that?” she asked gently, barely letting her voice get above a whisper.

Hillstrong rubbed her forehead with the heels of her hands. “I think I am responsible for Binky’s death.”

Mallory didn’t say anything. She waited. A confession comes easiest in silence.
No pressure here, Martha; just tell me what you know
.

“I wanted to help him, Binky. To get him free from the life Mr. Simpson had set up for him.”

“You mean … the water-skiing.”

“No, Binky loved to water-ski. His show was good PR for all squirrels.” Hillstrong wet her lips. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Simpson was stealing jewelry and he was using Binky to help him.”

Ginger bent down to study a hand-woven welcome mat that looked like new. When she stood up, she’d lost sight of Arleta and Suzanne. Those two! The lure of a good sale made them lose track of where they were. They couldn’t have gotten far. People milled around her.

No matter, she had plenty of good deals to look at. If she worked her way down the long, somewhat crooked line of sales, she’d run into them sooner or later. The girls had been right. Staring at the phone wouldn’t make the detective get back to her any sooner. The peace she had felt when she was with Ida Mae returned. There was very little she could control. She’d done her part. Things would happen when they needed to happen.

“You,” a voice croaked out.

Ginger’s looked up. Binky’s owner—she couldn’t remember his name—stared at her, shaking his head. The expression on his face confused her. His eyebrows were all knit together, like this was his personal garage sale and she shouldn’t be here.

Maybe a sympathetic word would get rid of the scowl. “You’re the owner of that squirrel who died. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The man nodded. Even in the hot sun his face paled. Was he coming down with the flu?

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Simpson. Alex Simpson.”

People pushed past Ginger. Mr. Simpson continued to stand close to her, to stare.
Might as well try to make conversation
. “Are you finding any good deals out here?”

“What?” he snapped.

“At the garage sales.” Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up the dead squirrel. His grief was coming out in hostility. “Have you found any treasures?”

“I … no.”

“I’m really not here to shop either.” She picked up a bronze statue and turned it over in her hand. “Just killing some time.”

Without breaking eye contact, he brushed his hand up and down his thin, freckled arm. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say, but it’s Ginger.” She stepped free of the force field of his gaze. Maybe he was just broken up about his squirrel, but Mr. Simpson was acting peculiar.

His arm shot up, clamping onto her forearm. “Do you know anything about antiques? Because I saw some pottery.” He pointed with his free hand several garage sales over. “It had a signature on the bottom. Does that mean it’s worth something?”

“I know a little about pottery, and a signature is an indication that it might be valuable.”

He leaned toward her. “Would you mind coming with me?”

“I’m kind of looking for my friends—” She turned slightly, and his grip tightened.

“It’s just a few tables over. I could use your expertise.”

His eyes held a desperate, pleading quality. She did like helping people get a good deal. “I suppose I can keep an eye out for my friends while we walk.”

The crowd on the boardwalk and pier had dispersed. A lady in a leotard gathered up the new Binky and turned a half circle while the audience applauded. His trainer gave the audience a final wave.

Mallory moved closer to an awning to get out of the sun. Hillstrong trailed behind her. “Why didn’t you tell the police of your suspicions?”

“I wasn’t sure. Mr. Simpson and I do a lot of shows and conventions together. At a different convention, I saw him working with Binky, teaching him to retrieve a piece of plastic the size of a card key. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Then at the start-up of this convention, I was in his room going over an itinerary. I spilled one of his buckets of ice while he was in the bathroom. There was a diamond tennis bracelet in it.”

In the little patio that separated the two hotels, Mallory spotted a va can’t table with an umbrella. She spoke over her shoulder as she made her way to the table. “Why didn’t you speak up when my partner and I were talking to Mr. Simpson?” Once the confession spilled out, Mallory had no doubt that Hillstrong would be an easy interview. The need to tell someone in authority must have been building for some time.

Hillstrong plunked down in the chair opposite Mallory. “Mr. Simpson scares me. He has a temper. I don’t know if he could be violent, but”—she pulled her glasses off—“I just wanted to get Binky to a safe place, a good home and away from his life of crime.” She opened and closed the stems on her glasses. “I was thinking of the squirrel. Nobody thinks about the squirrels.”

“Something must have gone wrong. Binky ended up out on the pier … dead.”

“There was a large cat in the hallway. Who expects to see that? I dropped the ball; it broke open. Binky ran away with the cat after him.” She closed her glistening eyes. “I tried to find him; I did.”

“Do you know where Mr. Simpson is now?”

Ginger didn’t like the way Mr. Simpson’s fingers dug into her arm. “I thought you said it was just a few tables over?” She stepped around two four-foot stacks of encyclopedias. The crowd was thinner on this side of the parking lot.

“I must have been mistaken. I’ve looked at so many things today.” He dragged her toward the edge of the lot. “If you would just please come and help me.”

He hadn’t overtly said or done anything to make her suspicious. It was just that the urgency in his voice caused a prickling, tingling sensation at the back of her neck and his fingers pressed hard into her flesh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Simpson, but I have to go.” She pulled herself from his grip. Best to be as polite as possible. Her instincts could be wrong.