The Mournful Teddy (20 page)

“For starters, it’s Sunday and they’d want to consult with State Police headquarters in Richmond before doing anything and nobody would be there and, even if they were, then the office pogues at HQ would need to run the entire thing past the governor.” I fed Kitch another piece of sandwich.

“Don’t blame me when he drools on your leg at mealtime.”

“Who? The governor?”

“Bradley.”

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“We can’t waste table scraps. Dogs in China are starving.” I gave Kitch the remainder of the sandwich.

“I give up. Now, explain to me why the governor would have to get involved?”

“Because we’re talking about temporarily shutting down an entire county sheriff ’s department for corruption. The political fallout could be huge. Nobody will do that until the bureaucrats are absolutely sure they’ve got their asses safely covered and you do that best by kicking the problem upstairs as far as possible.”

“What about the FBI?”

“I think the closest office is over in Charlottesville and there’s a greater chance of O.J. finding the real killer on the golf course than we have of locating a FBI agent on a Sunday afternoon.”

“What about the media?” There was a faint trace of annoyance in Ash’s voice. “Couldn’t we contact the Harrisonburg newspaper or, better yet, the papers in Richmond and Washington?”

“Again, it’s Sunday. Dustin Hoffman and Robert Red-ford aren’t sitting in the
Washington Post
newsroom waiting for our hot tip. We’d get voice mail.”

“So, we’re on our own.”

“Basically. Tina’s got to watch out for herself and her kids.”

“What are you going to do if Trent stops you on the way to or from the Ewell place?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your gun is upstairs.”

My gun was a Glock .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol. It was in our bedroom inside a zippered leather pouch, tucked away with my black nylon shoulder holster in the bottom of my sock drawer. The pouch also contained three magazines of seventeen bullets each—enough ammunition 168

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to ignite a respectable skirmish. During my years at SFPD, I’d shot expert, but it had been over a year since I’d had the pistol in my hand. Besides, the mere possession of a gun didn’t mean I was any safer. It’d been in my hand when I was shot and crippled.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about that, but nothing good can come of it.” I swiveled my lemonade glass on the tabletop and studied the wet marks it made. “If he shoots me, he can always claim it was because I pulled my gun on him.

If I shoot him, I get arrested for smoking a cop and afterwards very conveniently commit suicide in jail. Better I should go unarmed and hope that if Trent stops me there are witnesses around.”

“I can’t believe this. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen here where I grew up. And what are you going to do if you get in to see Liz Ewell and she turns around and calls the sheriff?”

“There’s a chance of that, but we’ve still got to roll the dice, honey. She hasn’t called the sheriff yet, which might mean she doesn’t trust Holcombe herself.” I took her hand. “It’s going to be all right. I promise you.”

Ash forced a smile. “If you say so.”

“I do. Now, it’s time I got going. Here’s a question: How exactly do I get to the Ewell House?”

“Just cross the river on Coggins Spring Road and turn right on Kilday Road. Believe me, you’ll recognize the Ewell place when you see it.”

“It’s that distinctive?”

“It makes the Winchester House look cheerful.”

“Boy, I can hardly wait.”

The Winchester House is a huge, gloomy, and very peculiar Victorian mansion operated as a tourist attraction in San Jose. We’d taken the kids there back in the late eighties because they’d seen the famous “haunted” house on some TV show and it was a short trip down the The Mournful Teddy

169

Junipero Serra Freeway. I don’t know if any ghosts actually live there, but I can tell you that the rambling old house was as depressing as a child’s wheelchair.

Before heading out again, I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I eyed the sock drawer for a moment and then stumped downstairs. Grabbing the knapsack and my cane, I headed for the door where Ash was waiting for me.

She gave me a hug and a kiss. “I love you. Please, be careful.”

“I will. I love you too.”

It was an old ritualistic exchange and I think we both tried to overlook what had happened the last time we’d spoken those words before I left the house.

I drove to Coggins Spring Road, turned left and crossed the river. Arriving at Kilday Road, I turned right.

The lane was fenced on both sides and lined with cedar trees. I saw a driveway up ahead on the right and slowed down in anticipation of turning, but when I got closer I saw the name “Wm. Pouncey” on the black plastic mailbox. There was also a wooden sign affixed to the wooden gate that read, headquarters, massanutten rangers, csa. Somewhere out there on the farm, Ash’s brother and the rest of the Confederate reenactors were camped.

A little later, I came to the edge of the Ewell estate and was immediately reminded of a California landmark: Folsom State Prison. A grimly imposing seven-foot-tall wall of large hand-hewn granite blocks surrounded the property and the only things missing were guard towers. I turned right into the driveway and came to a halt before a tracked steel gate. There was a callbox in a stone pillar by the side of the driveway and I pressed the button.

After a moment, a woman’s voice, distorted by static, answered, “Who is it?”

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“My name is Bradley Lyon and I need to see Ms.

Ewell. She doesn’t know me, but it’s important we talk.”

“Miss Ewell is not seeing visitors.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll see me. Tell her I want to talk to her about Robert Thayer and the disappearance of the Mourning Bear.”

There was a long interval of silence and then the speaker said, “Drive up to the house.”

Chapter 15

After the gate rumbled open, I drove inside the estate.

The vast rolling yard reminded me of a memorial park, only much less cheerful. There were severely cut hedges forming a low barricade around the house, clusters of tall bluish-tinted evergreens, a lush lawn with mower tracks so straight it looked as if a surveying team had marked out the paths, and not a single flower in sight.

The house was a three-storied neo-gothic castle constructed from the same bleak stone as the perimeter fortifications and it bore a vague resemblance to the Tower of London. There were turrets at each of the house’s four corners, leering gargoyles for rain gutter spouts, and a low crenellated wall running just beneath the roofline. The place was such a grim burlesque of a medieval stronghold that I half-expected to see John Cleese from
Monty
Python and the Holy Grail,
dressed in armor up on that 172

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topmost battlement, shouting that I was an empty-headed animal-food trough wiper.

I parked the Xterra near the massive oaken front doors and slowly made my way up the broad stone steps. There was a wrought-iron doorknocker fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in his mouth—another deliciously kitschy touch. I rapped on the door with the ring and waited for perhaps a minute, suspecting the delay in answering was deliberate. That didn’t bother me, because I’m an expert at mind games myself and now I could employ some of my own with a clean conscience.

At last, the door swung inward and a woman appeared in the opening, blocking entry into the house. She was nearly my height, with a lithe form, a tiny waist, nicely shaped calves, and a small bust—sorry, but being a guy and, by definition, shallow, I notice those things first. I’d have guessed her as being in her mid-twenties, but the dowdy beige-colored knee-length skirt, matching jacket, and the stark white cotton blouse she wore made her look much older. Her hair was dark brunette, long and straight, and framed a reasonably attractive face distinguished by eyes the same color and luster of smoky quartz and marred by a thin-lipped expression of either anger or worry or both.

“Hi, like I said back at the road, I’m Bradley Lyon and I’m here to see Ms. Ewell.”

“Where did you find Robert?” Her voice was resigned.

“At that casino down in Charles Town, I’ll bet. What does he owe this time?”

“I’m not connected with any casino. I live right here in town.”

“Then what do you know about Robert?”

I took my sunglasses off. “That’s information I’d prefer to tell Ms. Ewell in person. It’s very important I talk to her right now.”

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“Is he all right?”

“No, he’s not. Can I please come inside?”

“Oh, God.” She seemed to wilt slightly and stepped away from the door.

Entering the foyer, my footfalls and cane tip echoed hollowly on the pale-gray marble tile floor. I wasn’t surprised that the interior of the house was even more funereal than the yard. The foyer walls were papered in murky plum, there were two tiny and uncomfortable looking chairs upholstered in dull eggplant-colored jacquard, and the stairway and second-floor landing woodwork were varnished in a dark muddy color that should have been called

“black hole” because it absorbed all light and reflected none. Overhead, six faux candlelight bulbs flickered inside a large cagelike black metal light fixture decorated with protruding spikes that looked as if it had been modeled after a gibbet. I wondered if whoever had done the interior design for the house had been on suicide watch at the time.

Noticing the wheelchair lift on the stairway, I asked,

“Are you Ms. Ewell’s nurse?”

“Not her nurse—her live-in physical therapist. She had a minor stroke about eighteen months ago and, well . . . I guess I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“I can keep a secret. Are you okay? You looked bad there for a second.”

“I’m fine. Robert just has a way of wearing you out. Is he in jail?”

“I don’t really want to get into details until Ms. Ewell is here, but I’m sorry this has upset you, Ms . . . ?”

“Audett. Miss Meredith Audett and I should warn you: Don’t call Miss Ewell, Ms.—she doesn’t like it.”

I extended my hand. “It’s good to meet you and thanks for the guidance.”

Her skin was soft and her grip strong. “Let’s go into the parlor and you can wait there while I go get Miss Ewell.”

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She led me through a doorway that led to the left and into a room decorated in various coordinating and depressing shades of blue. The stucco walls were painted the chilly pallid hue of cyanotic skin, the matching wingchairs and sofa were melancholy cobalt, and the area rug covering the polished hardwood floor was dingy sapphire with a perimeter of faded flowers. Another light fixture purchased from Dungeons R Us hung from the ceiling, and the window curtains were made of white damask that reminded me of burial shrouds. Above the marble fireplace mantle was an age-darkened oil portrait of a stern-faced man with muttonchop whiskers and steely gray eyes, attired in what looked to me like a businessman’s suit from the late nineteenth century.

“Who’s that?” I jerked my head in the direction of the painting.

“Hosea Ewell—Miss Ewell’s great-grandfather. He built one of the first modern factories in this part of the Valley.”

“Right next to the river, I’ll bet,” I muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing. If you don’t mind me asking, just what do you do for Miss Ewell?” I motioned with the cane toward my bum leg. “I’m interested because, as you can see, I’m a little handicapped myself.”

“Well, I supervise her physical workouts, give massages, make sure she takes her medication, and I oversee her diet.”

“And you obviously work out. You look as if you’re in great physical shape—and I hope I’m not coming across like a dirty old man because that’s certainly not my intention.”

That elicited a shy smile from her. “Thank you for the compliment. There’s a weight-training room in the back of the house and I work out for a couple of hours every day.”

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“I admire that sort of dedication.”

“I guess I’d better go up and get Miss Ewell now. Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable until I get back.”

“Thanks.”

Meredith left the parlor and I heard her start up the staircase. I lowered myself into one of the wingchairs and stretched my leg out. There was an old clock on the mantle and its mellow tick was hypnotic. The house was so hushed, the day had already been long and taxing, and the atmosphere so soporific that it wasn’t long before I was trying to suppress a yawn.

I thought:
Great! All I need now is to fall asleep, have
my head slump forward, and begin drooling on my shirt.

I reached up intending to rub my eyes—something Ash says I should never do because it stretches the skin and I’ve already got bags the size of Samsonite luggage beneath my eyes—but paused to sniff my fingers when I detected a strange delicate aroma. My right hand smelled faintly of one of the perfumed hand lotions that Ash wore . . . but not the one she’d put on this morning. That had been scented with sweet pea. What I smelled now wasn’t floral but vaguely like a baked dessert.

From out in the foyer I heard a small electric motor begin to hum and I presumed it was the wheelchair lift bringing Miss Ewell downstairs. The hum stopped after about thirty seconds and was replaced by the sound of a higher-pitched motor. She rolled through the doorway at bumper car speed in a motorized wheelchair with Meredith a few steps to the rear, half-jogging to keep up with the old woman. I struggled to my feet because I knew that someone like Miss Ewell would expect someone like me to stand when royalty enters the room.

One of the first things a young rookie cop ideally learns after leaving the police academy is that bad people 176

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usually don’t look bad. For instance, serial killer Ted Bundy could have been considered handsome, personable, and intelligent . . . so long as you weren’t one of his many victims. Lifelong successfully bad people are chameleons; masters of improvisational acting for an audience of dupes—that’s all the rest of us, by the way. They wear the ultimate disguise: They look just like us. Still, I had to admit I was a little surprised when I finally got a look at Miss Ewell. Based on everything I’d heard about the woman, I was expecting someone dour and hatchet-faced like Carrie Nation; what I got was Mrs. Santa Claus.