The Crafty Teddy (7 page)

Really.

Not buying it, huh?
Okay, the truth is, if the Hummer was still there, I planned to go Code Five on it—that is, place it under surveillance—and call Tina on my cell phone to tell her about our intriguing visitors. As a general rule, when Yakuza mobsters come to the United States, they visit places such as Hawaii, California, Las Vegas, New York, and Atlantic City. They gravitate toward casinos, nightclubs, and posh hotels, not insignificant museums in the middle of nowhere in the Shenandoah Valley. The fact is I was dying to know what the three gangsters were doing here.

I was soon driving through lush pastureland. On one side of the road, the field was dotted with grazing black and white Holstein cattle and on the other a tractor chugged along, cutting hay. Off to the southwest and far away, white cumulus clouds were blossoming over the Allegheny Mountains, which meant that before the day was done we might have thunderstorms. The road took me up a gentle hill and through a dense copse of maple, oak, white pine, and scrubby cedar. On the other side of woods, there was a green sign with white lettering by the side of the road. It read,
MASSANUTTEN COUNTY MUSEUM OF HISTORY
, and there was a white arrow pointing leftward. I turned onto the macadamized driveway and started up the lane toward an old brick mansion, which was about a quarter of a mile away.

I knew from my one previous visit to the museum that the house and its outbuildings were the last vestiges of the sprawling Bromhead Plantation. During the Civil War, the estate had produced wheat, tobacco, and three sons who’d given their lives for the Confederacy. The fortunes of the Bromhead family slowly declined after the war and the farm began to shrink as it was sold parcel by parcel until all that remained was the mansion. After the last Bromhead died in the late 1940s the dilapidated old house sat vacant until 1976, when Massanutten County bought it and began the long task of renovating it and converting it into a museum.

The house was magnificent. Surrounded by majestic oak trees, the large two-storied mansion was constructed in the Federal-style from red brick that had grown darker with the passage of some two hundred years. The front of the building was adorned with four white Doric columns, which supported a protruding gable with an oval window. A large and sun-faded Confederate stars-and-bars flag hung lengthwise from the second-floor porch railing, flapping languidly in the warm breeze above the white double front door. On opposites sides of the house were two brick outbuildings: the stables and the slaves’ quarters.

There was no sign of the Hummer. The only car in the gravel parking lot was a salmon-colored Toyota Camry and it was parked in a spot marked with a
RESERVED
sign, which meant it must belong to the museum director. Unfortunately, I wasn’t surprised the lot was empty. From what I’d heard, attendance had been sparse for years and the facility was becoming such a money pit, due to the cost of insurance, employee wages, and maintenance expenses, that a few months earlier the county board of supervisors had been forced to take drastic measures. They’d slashed employee work hours and wages, and reduced the days of operation to just Saturday and Sunday.

I pulled into the handicapped space near the steps leading up to the front door and turned off the engine. The museum was so small that the
oyabun
and his two bodyguards had probably already finished their tour and gotten back on the road. If so, there was a slight chance they might have asked the museum director how to get to their next destination. I decided to go inside and find out.

Grabbing my cane, I climbed from the truck. The air was so hot and muggy and fragrant with newly mown hay it felt as if I were breathing warm vegetable broth. I heard the
prit-tee, prit-tee, prit-tee
call of a cardinal from one of the nearby oak trees and then the sound was drowned out by the grinding whine of the air conditioning unit starting up. Walking up the sidewalk toward the house, I paused to look at the unkempt flowerbeds. There were hollyhocks, coneflowers, and stargazer lilies and all looked wilted and water-stressed, probably because the sprinklers were only turned on once or twice a week. I noticed a fresh white cigarette butt lying on the ground near a parched dianthus plant. Probably one of the Yakuza had discarded it, as it wasn’t likely there’d been any other visitors today.

I slowly mounted the steps and went inside the mansion. Despite the air conditioner, it wasn’t much cooler indoors. The museum director probably had orders to set the thermostat at 80 degrees to save on the electrical bill. Once inside, I took my sunglasses off and gave my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light. I stood at one end of the main hall, which stretched straight through to the opposite side of the building. The building was equipped with an audio system on which I could hear Stephen Foster’s, “Old Dog Tray,” being picked mournfully on a banjo.

The door to my right led into a room that housed the admission desk and gift shop. I went inside the gift shop, my footfalls echoing hollowly on the hardwood floor. There was no one inside, yet I paused before pushing further into the house. The souvenirs themselves belonged in a museum rather than as merchandise in a gift shop. There were commemorative ashtrays, Bromhead Plantation whisky shot glasses, coonskin caps, little Confederate uniforms for the kids, complete with the Rebel battle flag on the gray cap, wood and metal toy muskets that looked like real guns, and age-yellowed plastic packages of color photographic slides of the mansion and grounds. It was like stepping back in time about sixty years.

Going back out into the hallway, I called, “Hello! Is there anybody here? Hello?”

There was no response, so I decided to wander through the museum until I found the director. I crossed the corridor and went into a room I knew contained an eclectic collection of household artifacts. There were old quilts hanging from the walls; ceramic clay jugs and kitchenware produced by local artisans in the early nineteenth century; rag dolls; a collection of antique tools on a hand-hewn wooden table; an old Edison gramophone; and my favorite pieces, the two antique teddy bears sitting on the elegant marble mantle above the fireplace. Both were valuable collector’s items.

On the left side of the mantle was a slightly frayed and obviously much-loved bear that had been produced by the Bruin Manufacturing Company of New York in about 1907. Bruin bears are very rare, because the company went out of business almost immediately. The bear had distinctively wide shoulders, was made from shaggy golden mohair, had black shoe-button eyes, and a smile embroidered in black thread. I also knew that there was an imported German “growler” inside the stuffed animal, which made a growling sound when the bear was tipped over. Hey, I’m not much at catching felons anymore, but I do know my antique teddy bears. I still haven’t decided whether that should make me laugh or cry.

The bear on the opposite side of the mantle was even more amazing and precious. It was an original Michtom, made sometime around 1904. Unless you’re an arctophile, which is just a fancy way of saying a teddy bear devotee, the name likely doesn’t mean much, but it means a lot to collectors.

Back in 1901, Clifford K. Berryman, an editorial cartoonist for the
Washington Post
, drew a cartoon featuring President Theodore Roosevelt refusing to shoot a captured bear cub. The following year, Rose and Morris Michtom of New York City produced a toy bear inspired by the cartoon. This stuffed animal was known as “Teddy’s Bear,” which later became simply the Teddy Bear. Michtom bears from the early years are rare and extremely valuable.

The museum’s bear was about eleven-inches tall, made from beige mohair plush, with widely spaced ears and the classic triangular face of an initial Michtom effort. It had a frayed nose made from embroidered black thread, a sweet little embroidered smile, elongated and slightly curved arms, and felt paw pads. Unlike many expensive historical teddy bears, this one had a cute face. I’d have liked it even if I didn’t know that it was worth thousands and thousands of dollars.

Reluctantly turning from the bears, I resumed my search. There was another doorway leading directly into what looked like a dining room and I headed in that direction. I hoped I’d find the museum director there or in some other first-floor room, because I really didn’t want to tackle the stairs with my bum leg. Entering the dining room, I stopped abruptly. Now I knew why my calls had gone unanswered. The museum director was lying flat on the dining room floor, motionless and crushed beneath an enormous oak china cupboard that had fallen on him.

Six

Only the very top of the man’s head and his right hand were visible…and a fair amount of blood. I hobbled over as quickly as I could to check and see if the guy was still alive, although I didn’t think it was very likely. There was broken glass on the floor, which I assumed was from the cupboard’s doors, or perhaps glassware that had been stored inside, and I heard and felt it crunching underfoot. I gingerly knelt down and took the limp wrist in my hand. The flesh still felt a little warm, but I couldn’t find a pulse. The guy was “sneakers-up,” a cheerful cop expression that meant he was dead. I bent my head over to look at the man’s face and inhaled sharply. It had been a long time since I’d seen something that bad.

I stood up and backed away from the body. It may sound heartless, but my first thought wasn’t to call 911 for the rescue squad and EMTs. The guy was dead and nothing was going to bring him back, but I knew that the rescue squad would feel duty-bound to yank the victim from underneath the cupboard and rush him to Rockingham Memorial Hospital, a well-meaning yet useless gesture, which could also irrevocably contaminate the death scene and perhaps destroy vital evidence. Welcome to the wonderful world of death investigations. True, this appeared to have been an accident, but murder couldn’t be ruled out, especially since the Yakuza had said they were coming to the museum.

Looking down at the body, a horrible thought occurred to me: if this was indeed a homicide, could the murder have been prevented if I’d telephoned Tina immediately about the Yakuza? I was deeply ashamed to think that my misjudgment might have cost a man his life.

I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and speed-dialed our home number.

Ash answered, “Hello?”

“Hi honey. Sorry for disturbing your meeting. Is Tina still there?”

“No need to apologize. We wrapped up a little early and everyone’s gone but Tina.” Hearing my troubled tone, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but I’ve stumbled onto a DB.” The initials stood for Dead Body.

“What? Where?”

“At the County History Museum on Wheale Road. It looks like a huge china cupboard fell on the museum director.”

“What are you doing there?”

“It’s kind of a long story and I need Tina out here ASAP. There’s a slight chance we’re looking at a one-eighty-seven here.” I used the California penal code section for murder.

“I’ll put her on.”

A moment later, Tina got on the phone. “Hey Brad, what’s up?”

“Sorry to ruin your Saturday off, but you need to come to the history museum right away. The director is dead.”

“Franklin Merrit?”

“Yeah, he’s crushed beneath a china cupboard.”

“And you don’t think it’s an accident.”

“I’d probably classify it as one if it weren’t for the fact that, about ninety minutes ago, three Yakuza came into Sergei’s place and asked for directions to the museum.”

“
Yakuza?
Are you sure?”

“Almost positive.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Tina sounded distraught.

“They weren’t breaking any laws, and I figured it could wait until the guild meeting was finished. Turns out I was wrong. Sorry,” I said, realizing how lame and inadequate the words sounded.

“If I’m going to be out there in an official capacity for any length of time, I guess I’d better go home and change into uniform.”

“And you don’t want to be wearing shorts while you do this. There’s broken glass all over the place. Besides, our victim isn’t going anywhere. I’ll secure the scene until you arrive. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t put this information out over the radio unless you want reporters from the Harrisonburg newspaper and TV station there.”

“Good idea. I’m on my way. Here’s Ash.”

A second later, Ash was on the line. “Sweetheart, you sound bad. Are you all right?”

I turned away from the body. “No. If this guy was murdered, it’s partly my fault. When I was at Sergei’s, three Yakuza came in, wanting to know how to get to the museum. I should have called Tina then, but I didn’t.”

“Brad honey, were these Yakuza committing any crimes?”

“No. They looked like they were on vacation.”

“So, how could you have predicted what they were going to do? And for that matter, if they were going to come all the way from Japan to commit a murder, is it logical to think that they would ask local witnesses how to get to the scene of the crime?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“So, maybe it
was
an accident. Look, hang on and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sweetheart, my days of sitting at home while you work a homicide case are over. I’m coming to the museum with Tina. Bye, love.”

“Hang on. I’m not so certain Tina is going to allow you to come here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t have any official standing to be at a potential homicide scene.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Ash disconnected from the call and I stood there marveling yet again that I was married to such a magnificent woman. You like mysteries? Try solving this one: We met back in 1977 in Northern Virginia when I was finishing up my enlistment as an army battlefield intelligence specialist at Fort Belvoir and she was an English major at George Mason University. Intelligent, witty, gorgeous, and as sweet as a Honey Crisp apple, Ash could have had almost any man on a campus full of future doctors, lawyers, and business executives. But she picked me, and it still doesn’t make any sense. Later, during my career as a cop, Ash chose to be a stay-at-home mom to raise our kids, who are now both successful adults. She’d carried me through the bad days after the shooting and then moved on to create amazing award-winning teddy bears. She’s incredible, all right. But who could have predicted that she’d also have a talent for investigating murders?