The Treacherous Teddy (16 page)

Although the cane makes it hard for me to walk while holding Ash’s hand, I did so as we took a slow stroll on the brick path that circumscribed the house. The backyard provided a panoramic view to the southeast of the Blue Ridge Mountains and Kobler Hollow. It seemed strange for us to be making plans for a springtime teddy bear garden party when we were only a few minutes away from the site of a murder. However, I didn’t say anything to Ash. She was having a wonderful time envisioning our teddy bear shop, and I didn’t want to spoil her pleasure with talk of Rawlins’s killing.

As we returned to the front yard, I heard the crackle of tires on gravel and saw the real estate agent’s BMW pull up beside our SUV. I braced myself. Roger wasn’t a bad guy, but with his exaggerated Southern accent, brash folksy persona, and penchant for lame jokes, he reminded me of Foghorn Leghorn, the big rooster from the old Warner Bros. cartoons. He got out of the car, paused to admire his reflection in the car window and smooth the coppery-gray hair on his right temple, and then came through the gate to meet us.

“Bradley, good to see you, old buddy.” He vigorously pumped my hand and then turned to my wife. “And Miss Ashleigh, as always you’re as pretty as a picture.”

I said, “Thanks for coming out, Roger. We’re on the verge of making a formal offer for the house, but we’d like to take one more look inside.”

“Oh. Well, I have some bad news.” Roger’s smile became rigid. “The owner has decided to take the house off the market.”

“What?” Ash and I asked simultaneously.

Roger showed us his palms in supplication. “Now, don’t blame me. This old country boy is only the messenger.”

“How did this happen?” Ash asked.

“I truly wish I knew,” said Roger. “All I can tell you is that I spoke to the seller a little while ago and mentioned that you were interested in the house. The very next thing she said was that it wasn’t for sale anymore.”

“And she didn’t offer any reason?”

“None at all. It was just ‘I’ve decided not to sell,’ and then she hung up. I’m as shocked as you are.”

Roger had slipped. In all our past conversations, he’d never referred to the home’s owner as anything but “the seller.” Yet he’d just revealed that the property owner was a woman. Furthermore, it was a woman who was apparently so financially secure that she felt no need to sell a house during a time when the local real estate market was still in the doldrums. I began to have a nasty suspicion that I knew who the seller was, but wanted some more information before I allowed myself to go ballistic.

I asked, “Roger, did you mention us by name to the seller?”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t see any problem with that, Brad, old buddy,” the agent said a little defensively.

“And was that the first time our names had come up in your conversations with her?”

Roger thought for a second. “It had to have been, because it’s the first time I’ve talked to her about the property in a month. The seller only wanted contact if there was genuine interest in the house . . . and I assumed you’d be making an offer today. I’m so sorry.”

“So are we.” I turned at Ash. “We don’t need to go to the county offices to find out who the seller is. It’s our favorite land baron, Liz Ewell.”

Roger confirmed my theory by swallowing nervously. “Now, you didn’t hear that from me.”

The set of Ash’s jaw told me she’d begun to do a slow simmer. She said, “Of course. That explains why she won’t sell the house, the harpy.”

Despite being elderly and partially impaired by a stroke, Elizabeth Ewell was the most powerful, wealthy, and despised person in Massanutten County. There was already bad blood between Ashleigh’s family and Miss Ewell ever since she’d legally stolen some valuable farm-land from the Remmelkemps back in the early 1970s. However, the manipulative old woman had a more recent and personal reason for hating Ash and me. Two years earlier, we’d prevented Liz Ewell from turning the death of her nephew into a million-dollar payday. She’d gotten over the loss of her relative, but not the money.

“You know what they say. Payback is a bitch . . . and so is Liz Ewell,” I muttered.

Roger gave me a scandalized look and said, “Now, I don’t want y’all to worry. Old Roger has some more listings that he’d like to show you. We can go over right—”

Ash cut him off. “Not today. We’re not in the mood.”

I added, “Besides which, we both know that there aren’t any other properties in Remmelkemp Mill that meet our needs like this place would have.”

“Well, I understand you being disappointed, and I just want to assure you that I’m going to stay on the job until you’re happy,” said Roger.

Ash looked from the house to the real estate agent. “Roger, do you want to know what would make me happy?”

“What’s that, Miss Ashleigh?”

“If you’d pass along a message to Liz Ewell from me.” Ash’s tone was congenial, but the emergence of her usually latent Virginia mountain accent was a subtle clue that she was furious. “Tell that scheming old miser I’ll personally go down to South Carolina and buy all the fireworks that we’re going to set off when she dies. It’ll be the biggest celebration this town has ever seen and loud enough that she’ll be able to hear it in hell.”

Roger didn’t know how to respond. We all knew he wasn’t going to transmit any such message, but he couldn’t come right out and admit it. So instead, he simply repeated his undeliverable promise to find us the perfect place for our shop. As we walked back to our cars, I began to whistle the tune to “Ding-Dong, the Witch Is Dead.” Roger gave us a halfhearted wave and got into his Beemer. A second later, he was on his way back into town.

Ash climbed into the truck, but didn’t slam the door shut. Noting my look of surprise, she said, “I’m okay. Oh, I’d still drop a house and Judy Garland on that old shrew if I could, but then I remembered something you used to say. Don’t get mad, get even.”

I patted her on the knee. “Sweetheart, the law frowns on battering the elderly.”

“I’ve got something quite legal and far worse than assault in mind for her.”

“That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

“First, answer a question. What is the one thing that gives Liz Ewell pleasure?”

“That’s easy. Knowing that other folks are afraid of her. It makes her feel powerful.”

“So, what if we find some place else to put the shop and tell everybody that Liz Ewell assisted us with the purchase, because she wanted to make amends for all her bad behavior over the years?” Ash gave me a mischievous smile.

“You’re going to undermine her reputation as a tyrant by painting Attila the Hen as a repentant sinner? That’s diabolical. It’ll drive her batty.”

“I know.”

“Talk about killing someone with kindness.” I started the truck. “Remind me never to cross you.”

Thirteen

Although I really liked Ash’s proposal to use psychological warfare against Liz Ewell, I had the typical guy urge to retaliate in a more tangible—and let’s face it, juvenile—manner. We had just over an hour to spare before we were supposed to meet Tina at the Brick Pit, so I suggested that we had time for a brief errand. I wanted to swing by the hardware store to pick up some cans of obnoxiously bright yellow spray paint that I’d use to draw big pictures of teddy bears on the tall stone wall around Ewell’s property, once night fell.

Ash nixed the proposal. She didn’t object to the vandalism per se. In fact, she was rather enchanted with the idea of the ursine-themed mural, but she was concerned that I might trip and fall in the dark. Besides, we had some last-minute tasks to complete before the teddy jubilee.

When we got home, Ash went upstairs while I took Kitch outside and collected the daily half-inch stack of credit card applications and magazine offers from our mailbox. By the time I joined her in the sewing room, Ash was already lost in her work. She was making some final touches on Belinda Banana Split, the newest bear in her “Confection Collection” of teddies that wore incredibly realistic-looking costumes of desserts. I paused to admire the ineffably cute teddy and wonder yet again how my wife could consistently come up with such imaginative designs.

I began to load some of the bears we intended to sell at tomorrow’s jubilee into plastic crates and slowly took one of them downstairs to the truck. Then I grabbed a braided rope dog toy and had a fine time playing tug-of-war with Kitch until he almost pulled me off my feet. I regretted that we were about to leave him alone again, but felt some consolation knowing that he’d spend all of the following day with Tina’s children. By the time I returned upstairs, not only had Ash completed work on Belinda, but Bear-atio was now wearing the trousers I’d left half-completed the previous evening.

She held up the furry detective and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I finished his pants.”

“Not at all. Thank you.”

“Bear-atio needs sunglasses.”

“And acting lessons.”

I reached into a plastic fishing tackle box I’d converted into a bear accessory chest and removed a small pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses that I’d purchased from a doll maker’s supply shop. Ash handed me Bear-atio and I slid the shades over the teddy’s mohair snout. I adjusted his arms so that they were on his hips, tilted his head over to one side, and was satisfied. Bear-atio looked ready to deliver one of Caruso’s eye roll-producing corny one-liners.

“He’s perfect,” said Ash.

“He’ll do,” I replied. “But no matter how technically proficient I’ve become with the sewing and assembly, my bears still look kind of blah next to yours.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Ash, my love, you’re sweet but a lousy liar. I’m wondering if I need to try something a little more out of the ordinary.”

“Lord, I hope you aren’t thinking of making some of those creepy-looking bears with the bug eyes,” said Ash, referring to a current and incomprehensibly popular trend among a few artists toward making teddies with oversized heads and distorted facial features.

“Chernobyl bears? I think not. Actually, I’ve been giving some thought to creating a new collection. But what I have in mind is even less commercially attractive than my cop bears.”

“Brad, honey, you can’t let your designs be influenced by whether you think people will buy the bears. They’ve got to come from your heart.”

“I agree, in theory,” I said, putting Bear-atio on the table. “But with the price of mohair and all the other materials going through the roof, I don’t want to waste money on some vanity project.”

Ash reached out to rub my arm. “Tell me your idea.”

“Well, you know how Gary Nett makes his bears dressed as soldiers from the American Civil War? I’d like to do something like that, but different.”

“Go on.”

“What I have in mind is making a series of one-of-a-kind teddies to commemorate individuals who’ve won the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

“That’s the highest award a soldier can get, right?”

“Yeah, and a lot of times the medal is given posthumously. My bears would wear historically accurate uniforms, and I’d include a small information card with each one telling the soldier’s name and giving a brief account of what he did to win the award.” Suddenly diffident, I added, “These bears won’t be cute and cuddly, but I’d like to honor some forgotten heroes.”

Ash stood up to wrap her arms around my shoulders. “You’re right, the bears probably won’t turn a profit, but I love the idea. You need to make them and they’ll have a special display case at our shop.”

We hugged for a while, and I would have been happy to do so for the rest of the evening, except I noticed that it was nearly six o’clock and we had to go meet Tina at the Brick Pit. I put Bear-atio into a plastic crate and carried another load of bears down to the SUV while Ash ran a brush through her hair and fed Kitch his dinner.

When we arrived at the Brick Pit, the restaurant parking lot was misty with smoke and I paused to savor the rich and delicious smell. Unlike many supposed genuine barbecue eateries, Sergei’s hadn’t made the transition to using a gas oven. He still cooked his meat the old-fashioned way over hardwood charcoal. His customers appreciated the effort, as evidenced by the fact the restaurant parking lot was already two-thirds full.

A moment later, Tina’s patrol car rolled into the lot and parked beside our Xterra. The sheriff looked glum as she climbed out of her car to greet us.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ash.

Tina glanced across the street in the direction of the county courthouse and shook her head wearily. “Ever since I got back from Roanoke, I’ve been lectured by the commonwealth’s attorney and then three members of the county board of supervisors about how unhappy they are with our lack of progress in finding Mr. Rawlins’s killer.”

“But we’ve been investigating less than twenty-four hours,” Ash protested.

“And we’ve made some headway,” I said.

“I know, but as far as they’re concerned, that isn’t good enough,” Tina replied. “They want someone arrested by Monday, and the prosecutor is strongly leaning toward charging Chet Lincoln with murder.”

“That’s crazy. Aside from the fact that we haven’t yet proved that Rawlins was even murdered, there isn’t enough probable cause to arrest Chet.”

“I agree, but the CA doesn’t. He says that Chet had motive, means, and opportunity, and that the fact he ran from you at the lodge shows consciousness of guilt.”

“Talk about a rush to judgment. Did you tell the prosecutor that we’re looking at several other persons of interest?”

“Yes, but he’s convinced that Mr. Lincoln is the killer.”

“The CA isn’t stupid. More likely, he sees Chet as being fairly easy to convict. Our favorite poacher is indigent, already wanted for other crimes, and disliked by the community. He’s custom-made to take the fall.”

Tina wore a sour expression. “That’s what I think, too, but the CA will never admit it.”

“What did you say to the prosecutor?” asked Ash.

“That I wasn’t going to arrest
anyone
until I was absolutely certain Mr. Rawlins was actually murdered and that we’d identified the right suspect.”