The Mournful Teddy (24 page)

Next, I made a quick search of the cedar dresser and we were back in a strange realm. There weren’t a lot of clothes, but they were clean, neatly folded, and sorted into drawers by items of apparel. Perhaps that doesn’t sound peculiar to you, but that’s only because you haven’t had my wealth of experience in looking inside men’s dressers.

As a general rule, guys, including myself, don’t invest a lot of worry over maintaining our clothing in assigned drawers. Indeed our attitude can be summed up in a Johnny Cochran-esque rhyme:
If it can fit in the drawer,
then I’m out the door.
Therefore, the presence of order, attention to detail, and aesthetic arrangement of folded clothing told me that the odds were very high a woman had put the stuff in the drawers—a woman that was The Mournful Teddy

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something more than a casual girlfriend or just a onetime sex partner.

After peeking into the fireplace to make sure there was no evidence of anything having been recently burned, I limped into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet contained a small assortment of men’s cosmetics, and the shower contained nothing but a tiny fragment of bar soap and a serpentine arrangement of soap-scum-coated brown hairs on the drain cover. The only remarkable element was that the towels were clean.

After that, I checked the kitchenette. Opening the refrigerator, I caught another glimpse of the genuine Thayer.

There was a grease-stained cardboard pizza box tipped sideways so it would fit, a couple of cans of beer, and a package of lunchmeat colored the same shade of verdigris as the tarnished copper roof of the Rockingham County courthouse over in Harrisonburg. There were only a few dishes and glasses in the cupboard, and the contents of the pantry consisted of a bag of potato chips and a box of Count Chocula cereal.

“Well, I guess that’s about it,” I said.

“It doesn’t look as if you found anything.”

“Nope.”

“What do you want me to do with the marijuana and the other . . . stuff?” Meredith was already heading for the door.

“Nothing. Leave it exactly where it is for now. Hopefully, we’ll get the State Police involved soon and they’ll probably send over a photographer to take pictures of everything.”

I followed her outside and she locked the door. We stood for a moment in the bright afternoon sunshine and I savored the fresh air, the sound of the trees rustling in the gentle breeze, and an almost iridescent blue sky dotted 204

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with puffy white clouds. It was a tranquil moment in a long and frantic day, and I was enjoying it right up until the moment a volley of gunfire erupted from over the ridge and just to the north. I flinched and turned, then saw a thin wispy cloud of white smoke rise from behind the hill and begin dissipating as it drifted westward on the wind.

“What the hell was that?”

Meredith glared at the hillside. “It’s those idiot reenactors over at Bill Pouncey’s farm. They’re out there almost every weekend playing soldiers like a bunch of kids.

Sometimes I think they camp as close as they can to the property line just to bother Miss Ewell.”

“Considering how popular she is with her neighbors, you may be right.”

My tone was jocular, but that was intended to conceal my sudden and stomach-flipping realization that I might be wrong about almost everything. Remembering the conversation I’d overheard yesterday morning near the church, I realized that I had to get over to Pouncey’s farm and talk to the reenactors before they broke camp and there wasn’t a moment to waste. Yet there was also a chance to resolve this mystery here and now.

I fixed her with a sad, knowing smile and said, “You know, Meredith, I’ve been completely focused on Trent Holcombe as the suspect, but it occurs to me that it’s also possible Bobby’s death had nothing whatsoever to do with the theft of the Mourning Bear. Can you think of anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Meredith looked very thoughtful and shook her head.

“No, I’ve told you everything I can.”

But not everything you know,
I wanted to add. Instead, I offered her my hand. “Please tell Miss Ewell good-bye for me and thank you for all your help. I’ll just go around the side of the house to get to my truck.”

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I followed the driveway to the front of the castle and saw a sheriff ’s patrol car come to a stop behind the Xterra.

Sheriff Holcombe was behind the wheel. It looked as if he’d aged perceptibly over the past thirty-six or so hours and he definitely wasn’t happy to see me. He got out of the cruiser, slammed the door, and approached me with his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Up close, I could see that Holcombe looked fatigued beyond measure and his eyes were feverish.

“What are you doing here?” He did his best to sound menacing, but the demand came across as merely querulous.

“What you should have been doing—investigating a robbery and a murder.”

“It was an accidental drowning.”

“Right. And you’re late making the death notification because you didn’t recognize the victim as the man you’d been ordered to treat with kid gloves by Czarina Ewell.

Great story.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Funny, Miss E seems to think I do. And a word to the wise, if you’ve come to tell her that Thayer accidentally drowned, I wouldn’t waste my breath. She already knows the truth, and I think at this very moment she’s talking to her lawyer about suing you personally and the Sheriff ’s Department for fifteen million bucks.”

“There is no murder.”

“Tell me something, Hokie. The local folks say there was a time when you were an honest cop. Naturally, I don’t believe that, but if it’s true, how does it feel to have so thoroughly pimped yourself for a freaking teddy bear?”

“Shut your filthy mouth. I told you yesterday what would happen if you began interfering in official sheriff ’s business.” His hand tightened on the pistol.

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“What are you going to do? Shoot me? Put me in jail?

Take me over to the Island Ford Bridge and have Trent shoot up my truck and rob me? I guess I should warn you that I’ve only got a couple of dollars in my wallet.” Holcombe winced at the mention of the bridge and I continued, “Oh yeah, I know all about the Island Ford Bridge.

In fact, I even have the evidence you were looking for earlier today—not on me of course.”

“You don’t know anything. You’re bluffing.”

“Dude, get this through your head. This is over and killing me or putting me in jail isn’t going to solve your problems.” Knowing that now it
was
time to bluff, I continued, “And the reason for that is because my old partner back in San Francisco is sitting by the phone and if I don’t call at the prearranged time and say the proper code phrase, he’s going to call his old friend at FBI headquarters. After that, how much time do you think it’ll take before the State Police and all the Washington TV reporters are here? Do you really want to add another murder to the charges you’re going to be facing?”

As I spoke, Holcombe seemed to sag and his hand fell away from his gun. “What do you want?”

“Stay out of my way while I finish this investigation and I’ll let you leave with some dignity. Go back to your office and keep that lunatic son of yours there until I arrive.” I paused and assumed a more gentle tone. “And I know you’re crazy with worry because you think Trent killed Thayer, right?”

“Yes.” The sheriff ’s voice was a sick whisper.

“Well, he may not have, but believe me, he will take the fall for a capital murder unless I get to the bottom of this mess. Oh, and one other thing: If you’ve got any brains you won’t call Poole and tell him what’s happened.”

“Why?”

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“Because if he learns that this thing is going south he’s going to shovel every bit of the blame onto you and Trent.

There’s no honor among thieves . . . or corrupt pillars of the community for that matter.”

Chapter 18

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Why was I suddenly on a crusade to clear Trent’s name? Well, I wasn’t. My goal was still to identify Thayer’s killer. That required viewing the fresh facts dispassionately and not trying to twist them to fit my old—and as I now suspected—

obsolete theory of how and why the killing occurred. As much as I despised the Holcombes, I wasn’t going to try to pin a murder on Trent if he hadn’t committed it . . .

even if Massanutten County would be a better place if he were locked up for life.

Besides, I had nearly enough proof to send Trent and his dad to prison for robbery and attempted malicious wounding, which is what they call assault with a deadly weapon here in Virginia. The evidence seemed pretty clear that Trent had robbed Thayer of the Mourning Bear on the Island Ford Bridge and taken a couple of shots at the truck. Then, afterwards, the elder Holcombe The Mournful Teddy

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attempted to conceal the crimes, making him an accessory after the fact.

However, I was now almost sure that neither of the rogue cops had killed Thayer. I’d know for certain in a few minutes when I interviewed the faux rebel soldiers camped on Pouncey’s farm. Everything depended on whether they could remember what time and from what direction they’d heard the violent argument on Friday night.

I followed the patrol car down the driveway and stopped while Holcombe continued on through the gate and turned north onto Kilday Road. Getting out of my truck, I limped over to the two-foot-tall metal box housing the gate motor.

As I expected, there was an external power toggle switch on the box and I flicked it to the “off ” setting, locking the gate in the open position. The Ewell house was invisible behind a wall of trees, so with any luck, no one would notice the gate was open and I could come back into the estate without announcing myself.

Getting back in the truck, I drove down the driveway and out the gate, but stopped again before turning back onto Kilday Road. I pulled the phone from the knapsack and pressed the auto dial for our home number. Ash answered on the first ring.

“I was beginning to get worried. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Is Cleland still there.”

“Her highness has come and gone.” Ash was clearly fuming.

“What happened?”

“She got here, looked at Susannah, and said that she’d changed her mind. I asked her why and she said,” and now Ash’s voice slipped into a wickedly accurate caricature of Cleland’s Boston Brahmin accent, “that, upon further reflection, Susannah just wasn’t right for her company.”

“That’s all she said?”

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“That was it and then she bailed out of here so fast, I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sonic boom.

“That doesn’t make any sense, especially when she seemed so enthusiastic yesterday. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless the reason I saw her Saturday morning at the church was because she was going to cut a private deal with Poole to buy the Mourning Bear. Maybe she knows that we’re investigating the murder.”

“But how would Pastor Marc have known to contact Cleland and how would he have gotten the bear?”

“Because he’s on the charity committee that organized the auction and he and Thayer were supposed to deliver the bear to the auctioneers on Friday night.”

“Oh my God.”

“Look, sweetheart, this thing has gotten even more bewildering and I don’t have a lot of time to talk. Please call Tina and tell her that she’s no longer being hunted and she should come to our house immediately.”

“Sorry, but I have to ask—how do you know that?”

“I ran into Holcombe and he’s run up the white flag—

at least for now. He’s a complete basket case because he thinks Trent murdered Thayer.”

“Well, didn’t he?”

“Probably not, and please don’t ask me to explain because it would take way too long. I’ll be home in a little bit. Oh, and tell Tina to be prepared to take over as interim sheriff sometime tonight, okay?”

“I’ll call her the moment I hang up from you. Good job, honey.”

“Thanks, but let’s hold off on the congratulations for now, sweetheart. This case has had more twists in it than Lombard Street and we aren’t finished yet. I love you and I’ll see you in a little bit.”

I disconnected from the call and turned left onto Kil

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day Road. A minute later, I turned left again onto the asphalt lane leading to the Pouncey home and farm buildings, which were about a quarter mile from the road.

Arriving at the two-storied white clapboard house, I came to an intersection of four gravel lanes and I selected the one that led in the general direction of the Ewell estate.

The rutted track took me over a grassy hill and down into a meadow where I saw an encampment of about twenty tents in two perfect rows facing each other. Beyond the tents, twenty or so Massanutten Rangers were engaged in close-order drill on a grassy field. The stone wall separating the Ewell and Pouncey farms was less than thirty-five yards from the tents and, in fact, the tops of two of the castle towers were visible just above the trees.

There was a makeshift parking lot about a hundred yards from the camp but I drove past it because my leg was hurting like hell and I didn’t have the time to plod across the field and back again. Instead, I guided the Xterra off-road, slipped the transmission into four-wheel drive, and slowly proceeded toward the encampment, hoping the pastureland wasn’t too soggy from the recent heavy rains. I didn’t get stuck and parked the truck near the tents.

Climbing from the Xterra, I wandered into the camp, astonished at how authentic everything looked. The tents were small and low to the ground and made from sun-bleached canvas. There weren’t any sleeping bags or other modern conveniences inside the tents—just replica Civil War–era knapsacks constructed out of tar-coated canvas with uncomfortable-looking leather shoulder straps. I also noted that the soldiers had slept on the wet ground, protected only by rubber ground cloths and bundled up in threadbare woolen blankets. It was a commitment to recreating history that I admired, but not so much that I wanted to enlist.