The Mournful Teddy (11 page)

“Oh. I suppose if you’d
rather
talk to Sergei than—”

“Five minutes. I promise.” I dug the wireless phone and Sergei’s message from my pants’ pocket and started pressing the number.

He picked up on the second ring. “Bradley?”

“Evening, Sergei. I hope you had a good laugh.” Then trying to mimic his cultured English accent, I added, “Nothing I’d care to become involved in, my friend. You fraud.”

“You should have seen your face. It was priceless.”

“And how would you know whether I’d be a bloody awful spy? Is that your professional opinion as a former spook?”

Sergei chuckled. “Oh, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean by that, Brad.”

“And I’m certain you do, but I’d prefer to save that discussion for some evening when I can get enough eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich into you.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” I heard a match strike in the background, and Sergei began making smacking sounds, and I knew he was firing up a Cuban cigar.

86

John J. Lamb

“So, what about that guy I described? You know him, right?”

“Not by name, and I only saw him once. It was Wednesday morning, shortly after six a.m. I’d come in early to repair the exhaust duct behind the restaurant and I was up on a ladder, which gave me an unobstructed view of Reverend Poole’s house.”

As Sergei spoke, I grabbed a pen and began taking notes. There was a pause and I said, “And?”

“I saw this fellow with the shaved head and goatee that you described. He was unloading all sorts of appliances and electronic equipment from his truck and taking them inside the house.”

“Can you remember what kind of truck?”

“A metallic red Chevrolet S-10 with an extended cab.

It looked brand new.”

I jotted down the description. “Was Poole there?”

“Absolutely, in fact he was helping the man carry the things into the house.” Sergei took a long pull from the cigar and added. “And here’s something else you might want to know: When the bald-headed fellow got ready to drive away, Poole became quite angry and yelled at him.”

“What did he say?”

“That if he tried to double-cross him again, he’d be sorry.”

Chapter 8

I turned off the phone and went into the bedroom, wondering how I was going to break the news to Ash. Actually—

and I know this is going to sound insensitive, but I’m sorry, that’s just the way guys are hard-wired—my big question was
when
to tell her, since there are few topics of discussion that will dampen a warm romantic atmosphere more quickly than telling your wife that her childhood friend was now “a person of interest” in a homicide investigation. Look at it from my point of view: Why should I lose out on an evening of bliss with Ash simply because Poole threatened his stolen goods supplier a mere three days before the crook turned up dead? And the most aggravating part was that I only had myself to blame.

If I hadn’t been so damned diligent and insisted on calling Sergei this wouldn’t be a problem . . . and it was a problem, because I couldn’t lie to her.

88

John J. Lamb

Ash was in bed, her head propped up on a couple of pillows, reading a mystery novel about an amateur sleuth and her talking Pomeranian dog. My wife is a big fan of mysteries, but I’ve never cared for them. In fact, they drive me nuts, because the cops are almost always portrayed as endowed with the brainpower of gravel—and not high-grade gravel—the killer is invariably brilliant and erudite, and the perfect murder is solved by a canny layperson with the assistance of psychic intuition, magic, or an anthropomorphic house pet, for God’s sake.

Ash lowered the book and said, “So, what was the cloak-and-dagger message that Sergei wanted to convey?”

I put the wireless phone on the dresser and started to undress. “He told me that he saw someone matching the victim’s description at Marc Poole’s house early Wednesday morning. I guess Poole was absent the day they covered the eighth commandment at Bible college because they were both unloading stolen goods from the guy’s pickup truck and taking them inside the house.”

Ash sat up in bed. “What?”

“Wait, it gets better. Poole was also flamed at the guy and told him he’d be sorry if he double-crossed him again.”

“But this morning he acted like he didn’t know that man.”

“Yeah, the heartfelt prayer asking the Lord to help Tina identify the poor sinner was a masterful touch.” I tossed my clothes into the laundry hamper and pulled my nightshirt over my head.

“So, how was Pastor Marc double-crossed?”

“Sergei didn’t hear that, but it probably had something to do with how they were dividing up the profits from the flea market. Maybe our victim was holding some of the property back or wanted a bigger cut. Whatever it was, Poole was mad.”

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There was an interval of uncomfortable silence. Then Ash said, “Brad, are you seriously suggesting that Pastor Marc had something to do with that man’s murder?”

I shrugged wearily and said, “Honey, I know you like him, but we can’t ignore the facts. Poole knew the victim and lied about it, which you’ll have to admit doesn’t look very good.”

“I agree that he’s covering something up. I just find it impossible to believe he could murder anybody.”

“And I respect that because you’re an excellent judge of character. Still, he’s the closest thing we have to a suspect so far.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to talk to him?”

“I don’t know. The problem is that once I do, it probably won’t be much more than five minutes before Holcombe knows what I’m up to.”

“How so?”

“That monthly stolen goods carnival couldn’t exist without the tacit approval of the sheriff—who is undoubtedly getting a cut from the action.”

Ash closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “Okay then . . . so, it’s in the sheriff ’s best interest to make sure there isn’t a murder investigation, otherwise Pastor Marc would tell a grand jury about the graft he’s been paying to Holcombe.”

“Precisely. Remember that old acronym from the cold war, MAD—‘Mutual Assured Destruction’? That’s what we have here. It explains why the sheriff never looked under the blanket, because the faster the death is ruled accidental and the guy is shoved into some pauper’s grave, the better for the spiritual and legal leaders of Remmelkemp Mill.”

I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I returned a couple of minutes later, Ash 90

John J. Lamb

was still sitting up in bed. “Just for the sake of argument, couldn’t Sheriff Holcombe have killed the man?”

“I’m always ready to believe the worst about him. Tell me more,” I said, climbing into bed.

“Well, what if the double-cross that Pastor Marc was talking about was directed at the sheriff? Remember earlier today, when you were talking about how whoever was providing the stolen property to the flea market would never do a day in jail because he’d roll over on Poole and Holcombe?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe the dead guy was arrested someplace, bailed out, and came back to blackmail them. They pay him off or he tells everything he knows to a prosecutor.”

“It’s a plausible scenario except for one thing: Holcombe is an intelligent and experienced cop, so if he was going to kill someone, he wouldn’t just throw the body into the river and hope for the best. Either he’d bury the victim somewhere in the Alleghenies or . . .” I hesitated because I didn’t want to frighten her.

But we’d been together too many years and Ash had already guessed my thoughts. “Or he’d kill them, ostensibly in the line of duty, and claim he was acting in self-defense.”

“Yeah, and make sure there was a stolen throw-down gun next to the victim when the other cops arrived.”

“I see what you mean about the sheriff, but what about Trent?
He
isn’t that smart, is he?”

“No, but then again, if he killed the guy, I’d have expected to see trauma from a beating. Trent impresses me as the sort of vicious cretin that’d get off on pounding someone until they begged for mercy. Still . . .”

“This is beginning to get scary.”

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“Beginning?” I hesitated before continuing. “Would you be more comfortable if we just dropped this entire investigation idea?”

“And let somebody get away with murder?” She doesn’t do it often, but Ash has a way of lowering her head, staring, and opening her mouth in surprise that never fails to make me feel as if I’ve said something irredeemably foolish.

“I’m not thrilled with the notion either, but it’s an option. After all, I’m not a homicide inspector anymore, so it isn’t my duty to right the wrongs of Massanutten County—especially if there’s the chance that I’d be putting you in danger.”

“Honey, how long have we been married?”

“Twenty-six years.”

“And how long were you a cop?”

“The same amount of time.”

“And did I ever once wimp out while you were working a murder?”

“No.”

“So, what makes you think I’m going to start now?”

“Maybe I’m the one that wants to wimp out.”

“Brad, you are so full of it, your eyes are brown. Don’t worry about me, we’ll get through this together, just like we always have.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. Well, I guess it’s time we got some sleep.” I turned the bedside lamp off and leaned over, intending to give Ash an innocent goodnight kiss, but discovered that she was interested in much more than a chaste peck on the cheek. This may sound unbelievable, but when Ash kisses me, the effect is exactly the same as the very first time we kissed twenty-six years ago—total sensory overload.

* * *

92

John J. Lamb

I awakened to the sound of the shower running and the rich aroma of the cinnamon bun–scented soap Ash was currently using. One of the things I love about her is the fact that she always smells so good. She always uses lotions and bath products that smell warm and soft.

Most guys don’t pay any attention to that, but it’s important to me.

Rolling from the bed, I went over to the window and checked the river. The water looked relatively calm and the level had gone down another foot or so overnight. It was a beautiful morning with clear blue skies, a gentle and balmy breeze blowing out of the southwest, and excellent prospects for another unseasonably warm day. Although autumn was officially over a week old, we’d yet to see anything approaching cool weather, but Ash assured me that it was coming.

We had breakfast and afterwards, while waiting for Ash’s dad to arrive, I took Kitchener outside to play.

I’ve been trying to teach him to chase a tennis ball, but he’s real vague on the concept of retrieving. Every time I throw the ball and yell for him to chase it, he cocks his head and looks at me in a puzzled and slightly offended manner as if I’ve asked him to do something completely unreasonable, such as name the capital of Mauritania.

I haven’t given up hope yet, but I’m starting to believe there’s a greater likelihood that someday he’ll say,

“Hey, just in case you didn’t know, Nouakchott is the capital of Mauritania” before he brings that tennis ball back to me.

Shortly after 9 a.m., Lolly Remmelkemp arrived. His actual Christian name is Laurence, but nobody in the area has called him that since before Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected to his fourth term as president. The nickname originated with his younger brother, who couldn’t pronounce “Laurence” as a toddler. Lolly was driving his The Mournful Teddy

93

battered blue Dodge pickup and towing a trailer with an aluminum rowboat on it.

I really like Ash’s parents. Her mom’s name is Irene and with her milky complexion, silvery hair, and buxom figure, she looks like a slightly older version of her daughter. She is also a wonderful cook and her pan-fried chicken and mashed potatoes with cream gravy are famous throughout the region.

Besides being a sweet and genteel lady, Irene knows her Bible like a personal injury attorney knows the back-end of an ambulance. She lives by Jesus’ admonition to turn the other cheek and forgive your enemies . . . except when it comes to offenses against her family. I learned this the first time Ash brought me home to introduce me to her parents.

Irene waited until we were alone and then tranquilly told me that if I ever hurt her daughter she’d hunt me down and skin me. We were in the kitchen when she made this announcement and pointed out the large wooden-handled carving knife she’d use. Of course, regarding the emotional protection of my own daughter, I have a far more progressive attitude. I never once considered threatening Heather’s first serious boyfriend with an old-fashioned edged weapon if he didn’t treat her with perfect respect—I would’ve used a semi-automatic handgun with a laser sight.

Lolly doesn’t look sixty-eight years old. He’s got a barrel chest, a full head of white hair, and a round, cheerful face highlighted by blue eyes that glint with the sheer joy of being alive. And not surprisingly, his behavior isn’t that of a senior citizen. He’s a full-time farmer, manages a herd of Texas longhorn cattle, goes hunting for bear and deer with a single-shot black powder musket, and when the ladies aren’t around, tells some of the most extraordinarily dirty jokes I’ve ever heard—jokes that you’d never expect a lay church deacon would even be aware of, much less tell with consummate skill.

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John J. Lamb

Lolly also owns every power tool known to the human race and can fix absolutely anything. If he’d been one of the astronauts on
Apollo 13
, he’d have repaired the damage and the mission would have been a success. As an added bonus, the expression “Houston, we have a problem” would never have made its way into popular language, to be used by a generation of dullards who know more about the Olsen twins than they do about the amazing program that put human beings on the moon.

I limped over to the truck as he climbed from the cab.

“Good morning, Lolly. Thanks for letting us borrow your boat.”

“Anytime, son. Hey, I heard about that BS Trent Holcombe pulled yesterday afternoon. Anything you want me to do about it?”