The Crafty Teddy (2 page)

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to hunt a wascally wabbit,” I said in my best Elmer Fudd voice as I opened my dresser’s sock drawer and grabbed the Glock .40-caliber semiautomatic pistol I’d carried for many years as a cop.

Ash got Kitch to jump up on the bed and then jerked the cordless phone receiver from its base-station cradle. “Brad, honey, wouldn’t it be safer if you stayed up here?”

I chambered a cartridge into the pistol. “Maybe, but I don’t feel like letting some lowlife maggot pillage our house during the fifteen minutes it will take for the deputy to get here from Mount Meridian or wherever. Now, call the sheriff and I promise I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be.”

“Keep the door shut and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.” I did my best to limp stealthily toward the bedroom door, deciding to leave my cane behind. I’d want both hands free to handle the pistol, just in case things got even more interesting than they already were.

“I will.” There was a faint
boop
-
beep
-
beep
as Ash pressed 911.

I paused at the door to whisper, “And please tell the dispatcher to make sure the deputy understands that the guy in the turquoise nightshirt with the gun is the homeowner…although I hope they’ll send us a cop who can puzzle that out without our help.”

Next month, we’ll have been married twenty-seven years and Ash knows I have a habit of making wisecracks when I’m nervous. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them. I love you.”

“Love you too, darling. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Ash began talking in hushed tones to the dispatcher, I slipped out the door and slowly pushed it shut behind me. The house was as dark as Rob Schneider’s chances of playing King Lear at London’s Olivier Theatre—or anywhere else, for that matter. But after nearly a year of living in the 130-year-old farmhouse, I was able to navigate the hallway via a combination of touch and memory to the stairwell that led downstairs. I paused there for a moment to squint downward into the darkness and listen. Although I couldn’t hear anything, I had to assume that, unless I’d made enough noise to spook the intruder, he was already in the house. I caught a momentary glimpse of pale reflected light, as if the burglar had just shone a small flashlight against a reflective surface. There was no doubt now, the guy was in the living room; yet I hesitated to start down the stairs.

Why? Because I’d suddenly turned into the Cowardly Lion. Standing there in the dark, with my left shin aching and a trickle of sweat running down my brow, I was painfully aware that I had no business trying to tangle with a burglar who was probably half my age and likely amped to the gills on methamphetamine. Hell, even Clint Eastwood knew when it was time to pass on the role of the action hero, so what was I thinking? Rationalizing my fear as good sense, I was ready to sneak back down the hallway to the bedroom. It was the most shameful moment of my life, because there was no denying that I’d just shown the white feather.

Then I heard what sounded like fabric being savagely torn. That’s when I got mad, because I realized the son of a bitch was vandalizing one of the teddy bears from our collection of more than five hundred stuffed animals. We cherish all of them, but the really special ones—the antiques, those we’d given each other as gifts, and the one-of-a-kind artisan bears—are on display in the living room. I consider those bears a mohair and plush fur shrine to my joyful life with Ash, and now someone was desecrating it. Recovering a little of my nerve, I slowly started down the stairs, holding the pistol at the ready.

Three steps took me to a point where I could peek around the corner and down into the dark living room. I saw the silhouette of a man half-crouched near one of the tall glass and oak curio cabinets where we store some of our most valuable collectible bears. The crook’s clothing was all black, and though I couldn’t be certain, he seemed also to be wearing a dark-colored ski mask. This told me that the guy was probably a novice housebreaker. Professional “hot prowl” burglars almost never wear woolen masks, because they rely on speed, stealth, and an ability to hear whether they’ve awakened the victim homeowner. Anything that covers your ears also cuts down on your ability to hear, which explains why a crippled guy had managed to sneak up on this particular burglar in a house with hardwood floors.

I gingerly lowered myself into a kneeling position, using the banister as cover, and raised my pistol. There’s an old-fashioned attitude where we live about the rights of decent folks to defend their homes and persons, so I was under no legal obligation to announce my presence or ask the burglar to surrender before giving him the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre treatment. Still, I was incapable of just capping the guy in the back. A quarter century of cop work and obedience to the laws pertaining to the use of deadly force had taught me that just because something is legal, it doesn’t necessarily make it right.

So, taking a deep breath in the hope that my voice wouldn’t quaver, I said, “Gee, I guess I missed the doorbell. Now, before you get any more stupid ideas tonight, take your filthy hands off our teddy bears and put them in the air where I can see them.”

The intruder inhaled sharply and froze.
So far, so good,
I thought, but realized that I wasn’t quite certain what my next move was. Back when I was a cop and physically capable, I’d have gone over and hooked the guy up. But, along with lacking two good legs, I also didn’t have any handcuffs. However, the problem of how to proceed was rendered academic when the burglar suddenly pivoted. I thought he was going to rabbit for the door, but he did something else first.

There was a blinding, yellowish-white muzzle flash, the deafening roar of a large caliber pistol being fired in our small living room, and the sound of the slug simultaneously slamming into the wall just a couple of inches from my head. Now, there was no question of what I should do. I threw myself backward onto my butt and out of the line of fire. For an instant, I considered sticking my gun around the corner and blindly shooting back at the crook, but the last thing I wanted was a prolonged gun battle in our house with Ash upstairs. Better the gunman should escape than a stray round go through the wooden ceiling and endanger my wife. Upstairs, Kitchener was barking like crazy. I heard the burglar run across the wooden living room floor and out the door.

I pushed myself to my feet and had just started down the remaining steps when I realized that Ash was charging down the stairs. It being dark, she ran smack into my back and I clung to the banister rail with my left hand to prevent us both from falling down the stairs. Something hard whacked my right shoulder blade and I realized that she’d armed herself with my cane. I didn’t quite know how to feel: angry that she’d ignored my instructions to remain upstairs and out of harm’s way, or profoundly humbled that she was willing to take on a gunman, armed only with a stick, because she thought I was in danger.

“Whoa, honey! Let’s hang on here for a second until we can be certain the guy is in the wind,” I said as we came to a stop a couple of steps short of the ground floor.

“Are you all right?” Ash demanded as her hand found my face in the darkness.

“Fine. He missed me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. For God’s sake, why didn’t you stay upstairs?”

“If you think I’m going to hide in our bedroom while someone tries to kill you, you’re completely fifty-one fifty,” Ash said indignantly, using a California police expression she picked up from me to describe acute mental illness. “So I told the dispatcher what was happening and grabbed your cane.”

“And then you came to the rescue. Thanks.” I kissed her on the forehead.

“Where did the suspect go?”

“Out the front door.”

“What do we do now?”

“Wait for the cops.” Descending the final two steps to the ground floor, I added, “Stay here while I lock the front door.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Is there any point in arguing about this?”

“No.”

“That’s what I figured. Then stay behind me.”

I held the gun pointed in the direction of the front door and we slowly crossed the living room. As we got to the front door, we heard a vehicle engine fire up somewhere down the long gravel driveway leading to our house. I pushed the screen door open to get a better look and saw the boxy silhouette of some sort of SUV—it could have been anything from an older model Jeep Cherokee to a newer Land Rover—back up into the lane. As the truck skidded to a stop, there was a momentary flicker of rectangular-shaped brake lamps and I noticed a small hole in the left-side light cover that showed bright white against the ruby background.

For a moment I considered firing at the SUV’s rear tires to disable it, but just as quickly rejected the idea. It was so dark that I couldn’t even see the wheels and the vehicle was perhaps fifty yards away, too great a distance to ensure I wouldn’t accidentally send a round into the passenger compartment. Not that I had any objections to smoking the gun-toting burglar, but there might be another occupant in the truck and I couldn’t accept the risk of shooting a relatively innocent person. The SUV took off down the driveway and turned right onto Cupp Road, where we lost sight of it. Somewhere in the distance to the north, a sheriff cruiser’s siren was yelping.

After closing the door and locking it, I switched on the entryway light and a second later Ash gasped in shock. I turned and my jaw tightened with rage. Suddenly, I regretted my decision not to shoot.

The curio cabinet doors stood open and the floor around the display case was littered with the brutally torn arms, legs, torsos, and heads of three of our favorite teddy bears. Among the casualties was a sweet little girl bear made by Joanne Mitchell, that was attired in a maroon velvet dress; a large pink mohair bear made by Serieta Harrell that we’d gotten at a San Diego teddy bear show years before; and a café au lait–colored bear we’d purchased from Barbara Burke while attending the Har-Bear Expo in Baltimore two months previously. Each piece had cost several hundred dollars, yet the damage couldn’t be measured in terms of money. Ash stooped to pick up a mohair leg.

I said, “Honey, please don’t touch anything until the sheriff gets here.”

“Why would anyone do this?” Her eyes were moist and red.

“To hurt us. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill burglary.” I hooked a thumb in the direction of the DVD player. “The suspect wasn’t interested in regular loot, because nothing else has been touched.”

“But who could hate us that much?”

“Pick a name from the list of ‘public servants’ who either lost their jobs or went to prison because of us.” I was referring to the events of the previous October when Ash and I solved a murder and recovered a stolen and very valuable Steiff teddy bear.

The siren was growing closer now and I said, “Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you go upstairs and put some real clothes on? Call me old-fashioned, but I’m the only one who gets to see you dressed like that.”

“I will in a sec—Oh God, the Farnell is gone.”

“Damn it, you’re right,” I said, peering into the curio cabinet.

Ash began to cry and I gathered her into my arms, not quite certain how to hold her with the pistol still in my hand. The Farnell Alpha teddy bear—one of the most celebrated mass-produced stuffed animals in history—had been my gift to her on our twentieth wedding anniversary. Standing approximately two-feet tall with embroidered webbed paws, and made from golden-brown Yorkshire mohair, the bear was created by English toy manufacturer J. K. Farnell. Its fame derived from the fact that back in 1921, Allen and Dorothy Milne purchased an Alpha bear from Harrod’s Department Store in London as a first birthday present for their son, Christopher Robin. Yes,
that
Christopher Robin. And that teddy bear, christened Edward, was the inspiration for A. A. Milne’s
Winnie the Pooh
books.

I’d found our Alpha bear in an antique shop in the California wine country town of Sonoma. The blue and white label sewn to the left foot marked it as being made sometime between 1926 and 1945, yet it was pretty much in pristine condition, with only a little wear on the embroidered black nose. It had cost almost two thousand dollars at the time, so there was no telling what it was worth now. Yeah, it was insured, but at the moment that was scant consolation.

Murmuring what I knew were useless words of comfort, I looked out the window and saw the sheriff’s cruiser slue into our driveway. With its rapidly flashing blue overhead emergency lights, spotlight flicking to and fro, and wigwagging headlights, the patrol car was lit up like a Las Vegas marquee.

I said, “Honey, the deputy is here. Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed? Once you come back down, then I’ll go up and throw some clothes on too.”

“Okay,” Ash sniffled.

“And please take this with you.” I handed her the pistol.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Ash padded up the stairs as the cop car slid to a halt on the gravel in front of our house. A few seconds later, there was a series of sharp raps on the door, as if delivered with a heavy-duty police flashlight, followed by the shouted announcement that it was the sheriff’s department. I recognized the voice. It was our friend, Massanutten County Sheriff Tina Barron, who’d responded from her home in town and beaten her deputy to the call. I turned the porch light on and opened the door.

Tina had a large black flashlight in one hand and a stainless steel 9-mil pistol in the other. She’d taken over the reins of the sheriff’s department in the wake of the Holcombe scandal and was elected by a landslide the following month. Since then, she’d labored ceaselessly to redeem her agency’s tarnished reputation and had even won over some of the local Neanderthals who thought that women had no place in law enforcement. Tina was maybe an inch taller than me and in her late thirties, with curly brunette hair, kind brown eyes, and a cherubic face. Having left home in a rush, she wasn’t dressed in her brown and tan sheriff’s uniform. Instead, she wore a gray-colored McGaheysville Volunteer Fire Department T-shirt, blue jeans, a gun belt, and tennis shoes. As she came into the house, I saw another sheriff’s unit turn into our driveway.