The Mournful Teddy (7 page)

The Mournful Teddy

49

I read on and was surprised to learn that there was no connection between the
Titanic
sinking and the Ewell family. Rather, Ewell’s Uncle Dorsey came home from World War One with the bear as a gift for his newly born niece. Uncle Dorsey was vague as to how he’d obtained the bear, telling the family only that he’d “found” it while on occupation duty somewhere in Germany. Call me suspicious, but I can’t tell you the number of thieves I’d met during my police career that, when arrested for possession of stolen property, claimed that they’d “found” the hot goods.

Once Ash was free to talk, I asked, “Hey sweetheart, do you know who owns the Mourning Bear they’re auctioning today?”

“No. Who?”

“A neighbor. Elizabeth Ewell. Recognize the name?”

Ash’s lips tightened slightly. “I know of her. Liz Ewell is very wealthy, so she didn’t come into town very much to associate with us rabble.”

“Yow. I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything bad about the people around here.”

“She’s different—thinks she can get whatever she wants just because she has money.” Ash’s voice became increasingly surly. “Back in nineteen-seventy-two, she decided that she wanted some bottomland next to her property that my daddy owned. She offered to buy it, but daddy didn’t want to sell, so she got a Richmond lawyer and went to court and claimed that the survey was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“She won—not because she was right, but because she had so much money that she could have bankrupted us just by keeping it in the courts.”

“That stinks.”

“Tell me. And you know what she told my daddy when they were done?”

50

John J. Lamb

“What?”

There was an unholy light in Ash’s eyes and a dormant Virginia mountain accent emerged in her voice. “She called my daddy an ignorant hillbilly and said she hoped he’d learned his lesson not to cross his betters.”

I exhaled slowly. Calling somebody a “hillbilly” and meaning it around here elicits the same violent response as standing on a South-Central Los Angeles street corner and screaming the “N” word. After a moment, I said,

“Well, maybe she’s changed. After all, she’s donating the auction proceeds to charity.”

“More likely trying to buy her way into heaven.”

I chuckled. “And
I’m
the one with the cynical view of humanity. Want to hear something else interesting?”

“What’s that?”

I lowered my voice. “As of about an hour ago, the Mourning Bear wasn’t here yet.”

“Now, how do you know that?”

I held up the brochure. “The kid from the auction company told me when I got this. The bear was supposed to have been delivered last night and the auction company owner is apparently in shake factor five.”

“Well, you know what I think? Liz Ewell would steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes, so it’s impossible for me to believe she’d give anything to charity. I’ll bet that greedy old witch decided not to sell and is having a big laugh over all the fuss she’s caused.”

Chapter 5

During the next hour or so, a constant stream of collectors stopped to admire our bears and Ash sold another one—

Gloria Excelsius, a white-winged bear dressed as an angel, with sparkling highlights woven into her plush ivory fur and holding a tiny brass French horn. Based on the envious and admiring comments of our neighbors, our business was brisk by teddy bear show standards.

After awhile, I noticed something sad but not particularly surprising. Although most of the women I saw wore wedding rings, men were about as scarce as lawyers in heaven and I wondered why. Yes, I realize teddy bear collecting is primarily a women’s hobby and I’m undoubtedly very different from most guys since I actually like bears, and, more importantly, want to be with Ash all the time. Still, how much effort would it have taken for all those absent husbands to turn off the college football or 52

John J. Lamb

NASCAR race for just one Saturday and go to a teddy bear show with their wives?

Right around noon, a woman walked up to our table, picked up Joey, a honey-colored bear dressed in periwinkle baby’s corduroy overalls and oversized white baby shoes, and began to carefully examine him. I paid attention to the newcomer because unlike the other collectors that had thus far visited our table, she wasn’t chatty or even very cheerful. Her demeanor was businesslike, bordering on taciturn, and her only response to Ash’s greeting was a distracted but firm, “Just looking.”

The woman was forty-something, of medium height with a willowy frame, had straight collar-length reddish-brown hair and stunning green eyes. Another distinctive thing about her was her clothing. Most women attending teddy bear shows dress for both comfort and to advertise their beloved pastime, which usually means blue jeans and a blouse or pullover shirt decorated with teddy bears. Yet, our visitor was wearing gray woolen slacks, a burgundy-colored turtleneck cashmere sweater, and matching blazer—and I know enough about women’s clothes to be certain that nothing in that ensemble was purchased off the rack. She also had a briefcase, and once she put Joey down she reached into it and produced a Nikon digital camera.

“Do you mind if I take a picture of him?”

“Not at all. His name is Joey,” Ash said.

“Yes, I saw that from the tag.” She crouched, aimed the camera, and the strobe flashed. As she turned Joey for a profile shot, she continued, “You’ve got a bear in the finals for artisan-dressed. The pink girl in the Victorian costume, right?”

“Yes. Susannah.”

“Original design?”

“Of course.”

The Mournful Teddy

53

“Do you have a business card?” The camera strobe flashed again.

Ash handed her one.

The woman looked at the card. “Lyon’s Tigers and Bears. Cute name. Don’t you have a web site?”

“Not yet. We’ve been kind of—”

“Get one. Good luck with the judging.” The woman stuck the business card into her briefcase and she disappeared into the crowd.

“Charming conversationalist. Did she graduate magna cum laude from the Donald Trump School of Etiquette?”

I asked.

Before Ash could reply, one of our neighbors leaned over in her chair and said, “Oh my God! Do you know who that was?”

“No. Who?”

“Lorraine Cleland.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “From the Boston Bear Company?”

“Uh-huh. I’d give my left arm for her to stop and look at my things.”

“Why? Isn’t she exclusively mass-market plush?”

“Not any more. She’s about to expand her line of bears with some licensed artisan, limited-edition designs. It was in last month’s
Teddy Bear and Friends
.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard. We just moved here and in between unpacking and getting ready for the show, I haven’t been able to look at any of the magazines.”

“I have mine here.” The woman produced a copy of a teddy bear magazine, flipped through the pages and then handed it to Ash, while pointing to a color photograph of the woman who’d just been at our table. “Read this.”

I looked over Ash’s shoulder. The article was a one-page question-and-answer profile on Lorraine Cleland, who’d established the Boston Bear Company back in 1993.

54

John J. Lamb

Although the business was only eleven years old, the BBC, as it was called, was already number seven on the list of top ten American teddy bear manufacturers and preparing to make a move into the top ranks. Moreover, following the lead of bear-making giants, Gund and Boyds, the BBC was about to launch it’s own premium line of artisan bears, which would be called the Beacon Hill Platinum Collection.

Ash glanced up at me. “You don’t actually think she might be interested in our bears for the new artisan line, do you?”

“Why not? She sure didn’t stop to chat.”

“But, that’s crazy. This place is filled with great designers.”

“And even though this is your first show, you’re one of them.”

“Do you think she’ll be back if we win?”

“If
you
win and we’ll know in about ninety minutes, my love.”

We had a lunch of pulled pork sandwiches from the snack bar and Ash talked to more collectors, but we didn’t sell any more bears. She began to fidget as one-thirty approached. Finally, a woman’s voice echoed from the public address system requesting that all finalists go to the judging area. We spread a sheet over the teddy bears and our neighbors said they’d keep an eye on the table while we were away. Then, holding hands we followed the crowd into the tent. I guess it was a slow news day in the Shenandoah Valley, because the Channel 3 news camera crew was still there.

There was a two-foot-tall wooden platform beside the judging tables and on it stood a plump middle-aged woman who wore more make-up than a Kabuki dancer.

Speaking too loudly into the microphone, she launched into a long tale of how much time and effort it took to The Mournful Teddy

55

organize the annual Teddy Bear Extravaganza, which just seemed to be a clumsy way of patting herself on the back.

I whispered, “Wake me when she actually starts handing out awards.”

Ash gently elbowed me. “Be nice. She worked hard.”

At last, the woman finished her speech and began to read off the winners. There were six categories and Large Dressed was the very last to be awarded, so we had to wait for about another five minutes as each of the winners from the five other groups were photographed receiving their trophies. Then it was our turn and I noticed my breath had become rapid and shallow.

The woman opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. She cleared her throat and read, “And finally, the first-place award for Large Dressed goes to Susannah S. Seraphim, created by Ashleigh Lyon.”

All right, I’ll admit it: I was shocked and not because I didn’t objectively think that Ash deserved the award. She did—hands down. But in a skewed universe where Paris Hilton is a cultural icon, and a software company can turn a profit on a computer video game of the JFK assassination where the player is Lee Harvey Oswald, I always figure it’s wise to expect that the right thing will never ever happen.

Ash looked stunned and I had to nudge her toward the platform. There was only a smattering of applause because we were new to the hobby and largely unknown to the other artisans, but I made up for it by clapping until my hands ached. Then I slipped through the crowd and took a picture of her receiving the trophy—a handsome plaque made from frosted glass cut in the silhouette of a teddy bear and mounted on a round oak base. Ash was beaming and I was so happy for her that my cheeks were sore from smiling.

56

John J. Lamb

Once the final speechmaking was finished and the group photos were taken, Ash stepped from the platform to join me. She had Susannah under one arm and the trophy under the other and she wore a look of dazed joy.

I was giving her a huge hug when Lorraine Cleland appeared from the milling crowd.

“Congratulations, Ashleigh!”

“This is an excellent sign. You have a name now,” I whispered and released Ash so she could talk with the teddy bear mogul.

“Thank you, Ms. Cleland. I’m very sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

“Yeah, we weren’t expecting someone looking so young to be the head of a major company,” I said, injecting just the right amounts of earnestness and mild surprise. Like most veteran homicide cops, I’m a very accomplished liar when the situation demands.

Cleland blushed. “Please, call me Lorraine.”

“This is my husband, Brad. He helped make Susannah.”

“Hi, I’m the unskilled labor. Ashleigh is the brains of the operation.”

“I’m pleased to meet you both and I’d like to set some time aside tomorrow so that we can meet and talk.”

“About what?”

“As you may know, I’m preparing to produce a select line of limited-edition bears and I’m still in the process of identifying those I’m interested in reproducing. However, I like Susannah a great deal.”

“Oh my God! That’s wonderful!”

Cleland held up her hand to signal a halt. “Please understand, I’m not making any sort of formal offer right now, but I would like to at least discuss the basic elements of our licensing agreement. Are you interested?”

“Very much.” Ash shot me a look that said:
I can’t believe this is happening
.

The Mournful Teddy

57

“Excellent. I understand you live near here. That’s convenient.”

I perked up at that. Since Ash’s business card just listed our home telephone number, the only way Cleland could know where we lived was if she’d already contacted the show organizers and obtained our address from the registration form. That meant she’d either checked a local map or asked someone about our obscure hometown because there are folks that have lived their entire life in the Shenandoah Valley and are vague as to the location of our Remmelkemp Mill. It also signified that Cleland was more than just a little interested in Susannah.

“That’s right. Over in Remmelkemp Mill, across the valley,” Ash said.

“And I’m staying at the Massanutten Crest Lodge.”

“Why, that’s just a few miles from where we live.”

I wasn’t surprised with Cleland’s choice of lodgings.

The Massanutten Crest Lodge is without a doubt the finest and most luxurious hotel in the central Shenandoah Valley. It stands on the southeast side of the mountain and I’ve been told it’s supposed to be modeled after King Ludwig II of Bavaria’s famous fairytale Neuschwanstein Castle. However, I think it actually resembles Cinderella’s Castle from Disneyland—so much so, that the one time Ash and I went up there for Sunday brunch, I half expected the concierge to be dressed in a Mickey Mouse costume. Rooms routinely go for 700 dollars a night, and while I’m told you get a free breakfast for those seven bills, that still seems a little exorbitant to me.

When I tuned back into the conversation, Cleland was saying, “I’ll be tied up the rest of this afternoon and evening. Could we meet sometime tomorrow afternoon?”

“Certainly. When and where?” Ash asked.