The Crafty Teddy (4 page)

“So, what will you do instead?”

“I don’t know. Maybe go over to the Brick Pit and visit with Sergei until the lunch crowd starts coming in. We can talk about your basic brainless guy stuff. You know: monster truck-pulls, guns, and which country has the best main battle tanks.”

“Wow. Men have all the fun.”

Pinckney’s Brick Pit was a barbecue restaurant owned and operated by Sergei Zubatov, my best friend in Remmelkemp Mill. Sergei was a former Soviet military attaché—which is a nice way of saying “godless Commie spy”—who’d immigrated to the United States shortly after the collapse of the U.S.S.R. Regardless of his past, I knew him to be a good and honorable man endowed with a wicked sense of humor and blessed with the talent to cook some of the most delicious North Carolina–style barbecue you’ve ever tasted.

However, I might as well admit that I hadn’t told Ash the entire truth about visiting with Sergei. That’s because—irony of ironies—our macho meeting was going to include me showing him some fabric swatches. Back in March, he’d commissioned me to make him a teddy bear costumed in the dress uniform of a Red Army Guards Tank officer from the 1970s, which I assumed was his alma mater before transferring to the intelligence service.

I’d finished the bear last week and was proud of it. The bear stood twenty-two inches tall, was made from cinnamon-colored velour plush, had hockey stick-shaped arms, and the ears were spaced wide enough so that it could eventually wear a military hat with a visor. Seeking to capture something of the essence of Sergei’s droll alpha-wolf personality in the stuffed animal’s face, I’d worked long and hard on the placement of the brown glass eyes and used distressed wool yarn to create a reasonable facsimile of his gray handlebar moustache. But now I’d come to the hard part of the project, making the bear’s miniature clothing. Soviet army officers from that era wore a dark green woolen uniform and I needed Sergei to look at the samples and tell me which of the fabrics looked the most authentic.

One of the most challenging things about making the bear was that I hadn’t been able to consult with Ash. Apprehensive that he’d forever lose his status as the town’s cheerful cynic if it became common knowledge that he wanted a teddy bear, Sergei had sworn me to a dark and bloody oath of secrecy about the project. I’d agreed to the original vow of silence, with the proviso that I’d have to tell Ash about the bear at some point. That’s because she was bound to notice it and, more importantly, I was going to need her guidance when it came time to make the uniform, which was going to be a quantum leap forward in complexity over anything I’d thus far attempted. The idea of making the hat alone was giving me night terrors.

Then, a month ago, Sergei had suddenly insisted that I couldn’t tell anybody—not even Ash…especially Ash, because he was concerned that my wife might accidentally reveal the secret to other members of the bear guild. The idea she would betray a confidence is just plain crazy and I told him so. Yet Sergei was so unhappy and earnest, I eventually surrendered to his quiet pleas.

That meant we needed a cover story and the best I could come up with was that I was making a bear modeled after legendary western lawman, Bill Tilghman. This temporarily explained the handlebar moustache, but I didn’t know what I was going to say once Ash noticed that my ursine frontier marshal was wearing a Soviet Army uniform.

“So, can I show him at the guild meeting?” Ash asked as she picked up Joe Fur-day and made a slight adjustment to the shirt collar.

“Of course.”

“And when you meet with Sergei are you going to discuss that bear you’re making for him?”

I took a sip of coffee. “Uh…what bear?”

“The one with the gray moustache that looks exactly like him. It’s excellent work, by the way—maybe your best. But why the cloak-and-dagger?” Her eyes met mine and I was relieved to see that she wasn’t annoyed, just curious.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was Sergei’s idea. He’s completely paranoid over people finding out he wants a teddy bear dressed as a Red Army colonel.”

“But I wouldn’t have said anything to anyone.”

“I told him that, but he made this huge deal over being concerned you might slip and unintentionally say something to the women in the guild.”

“The guild?”

“Yep. Pretty strange, huh?”

For some reason, Ash looked amused with me. She said, “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“And I have to ask a huge favor. Please humor me and pretend you don’t know anything about the bear.”

“What Russian Army bear?” She batted innocent blue eyes at me.

Three

I had another cup of coffee and some breakfast and then went upstairs to shower and shave. When it came time to get dressed, I put on an avocado-colored polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans. It was already in the low-eighties outside and short pants would have been far more comfortable, but I won’t wear them anyplace except at home. That’s because I have a puckered nine-by-four-inch cruciform-shaped scar on my left shin that looks as if Freddy Krueger was my orthopedic surgeon. People don’t mean to, but they stare, and although I hate to admit it, I’m too vain to ignore their pitying looks.

Ash came in to take her shower and I gallantly offered to wash her back with some of our fancy waffle cone–scented soap. She declined with a coy and slightly regretful smile, reminding me that I’d never once managed to wash her back without getting undressed and climbing back into the shower with her, which was true. Ordinarily, that wasn’t a problem—in fact, it was usually the high point of our day—but the guild members would be arriving soon and there wasn’t enough time. She gave me a long slow kiss, told me to go and have fun with Sergei, and promised that I’d have her undivided attention later that afternoon.

Slightly dazed, I went into our combination office, sewing room, and teddy bear dormitory to collect the fabric swatches and a couple of reference books on modern military uniforms that I’d gotten from the Rockingham County Public Library. Then Kitch began to bark happily and barreled downstairs. I looked out the window and saw Tina’s bronze-colored minivan rolling up the driveway toward our house.

Going into the bathroom, I said, “Sweetheart, Tina’s here.”

Ash stuck her head around the shower curtain. “And now aren’t you glad I didn’t let you wash my back?”

“Truthfully?”

She chuckled and flicked some water at me. “Tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“And I’ll see you later this afternoon. Love you, Ash.”

“I love you too, honey. Have a good time.”

I went into the bedroom to get my cane, stuffed the fabric samples into my left front pants’ pocket, and went downstairs. Kitch stood panting before the front door, his furry butt wiggling with joy. Tina was a frequent guest at our home and our dog loved playing with her three kids. He was going to be disappointed when he discovered that she’d come alone.

I pulled the door open before Tina had a chance to knock—not that she actually could have, since her arms were loaded with a couple of large and partially completed teddy bears, a rectangular Tupperware box packed with what appeared to be homemade chocolate chip cookies, and two canvas bags filled with mohair and what I assumed were sewing supplies. All that, plus a black nylon shoulder satchel that probably contained the tools of her trade: gun belt, semiautomatic pistol, handcuffs, and portable police radio. Massanutten County being small and rural, there were never any more than two deputies on patrol. That meant that if they needed backup, it was up to Tina to respond, even if she was off-duty and dressed in coral Bermuda shorts, a white poplin camp shirt, and tennis shoes, as she was today.

“Hi, Tina. Come on in.”

“Thanks, Brad.” Noting that Kitch was staring intently at the minivan, Tina added, “Sorry, Mr. Kitchener, but no kids this time.”

Kitch peered at the vehicle for another couple of seconds and then his head drooped. I shut the door and followed Tina into the living room. Meanwhile, Kitch had gone to his sulking spot, underneath the kitchen table.

“Ash will be down in a minute. She’s in the shower.” I pointed to one of three folding tables that Ash had erected before going upstairs. “Why don’t you put that stuff here?”

“Sorry. I know I’m early. It’s just that I really look forward to these meetings.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Here, let me give you a hand with that.” I slipped the black satchel from her shoulder and put it on the table.

“Thanks,” she said as she put the bags, bears, and cookies on the table. “And thanks also for teaching that class. The deputies really got a lot out of it.”

“My pleasure. It’s nice having a fresh audience for my old war stories.”

The class had been an eight-hour instructional workshop on the fundamentals of crime scene analysis and evidence collection that I’d given to Tina and seven of her deputies a few days earlier. Back in March, Tina had hired me as a consultant to the Massanutten Sheriff’s Department. My duties were to periodically provide training to the cops and to be available for call out in the event of a homicide. Thus far, my biggest challenge as a consultant was keeping the deputies awake when a class resumed after the lunch break. There hadn’t been a murder or suspicious death in the county since the previous October, not that I was complaining. After twenty-five years in San Francisco, one of the most attractive aspects of our new life in the Shenandoah Valley was the absence of routine carnage.

Tina picked up one of her bears and pretended to study the frosted raspberry fur. “Also, I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t have any new leads on your burglary and I’m going to have to suspend the case.”

“Hey, you did the best you could. There just wasn’t any evidence.”

She looked up at me. “I know, but it makes me so mad that someone broke into my best friends’ house, destroyed your property, robbed and nearly killed you, and then I couldn’t catch the guy.”

“Tina, you conducted a first-rate investigation. But sometimes it isn’t enough and when that happens you just have to let it go. You can’t take it personally, or you’ll end up eating antacids like they’re salted peanuts.”

“I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“But you understand the concept.”

She gave me a wry smile. “I suppose. So, how do you learn to let it go?”

“Beats me. I dispense excellent advice, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever followed it,” I said, grabbing the Xterra keys from a wicker basket on our kitchen counter.

“Hey, aren’t you staying for the meeting?”

“No, I woke up this morning wanting to sing ‘I Feel Pretty’ from
West Side Story
, which was a clue that I needed a little R and R from the ladies.”

“This from the man that wears a prettier and more revealing nightshirt than anything I own.”

“You know, that sweet face of yours hides a cruel sense of humor.”

“Thank you.”

“So, I’m going to visit Sergei.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

With the reference books tucked under my arm, I went outside and limped across the lawn toward the garage. I heard the shrill and challenging call of a blue jay from the towering, hundred-year-old chinquapin oak which stands between our house and the river. The wild sound was a call to pause for a moment, take a deep breath of the warm morning air, and remind myself that I actually lived in a place of such astonishing beauty. Looking eastward, on the opposite side of the languidly flowing Shenandoah, was a rustic panorama of rolling yellowish-green hay fields dotted with old white barns, farmhouses, and the occasional huge black walnut tree. The undulating plain stretched for about three miles, coming to an abrupt end at the base of the forest-covered Blue Ridge Mountains, which were cloaked in a thin mist this morning.

I climbed into the Xterra and headed toward town. At the end of our driveway, I turned right onto Cupp Road and then, shortly thereafter, made another right turn, west onto Coggins Spring Road. The highway was lined with a colorful mosaic of white Queen Anne’s lace, blue chicory flowers, yellow buttercups, and orange daylilies, all swaying in the gentle southerly breeze. As I emerged from the river valley, Massanutten Mountain came into view, some five miles to the west. Massanutten is an eye-grabber from almost any direction. The peak is shaped like the prow of a Victorian era–dreadnought battleship and it juts dramatically 2,100 feet above the valley floor. However, the mountain’s splendor was marred by a rocky summit bristling with microwave towers and tall antennae and upper slopes scarred with brown ski paths.

A few minutes later, I arrived in downtown Remmelkemp Mill, population 117, and the governmental seat of Massanutten County. The village is named after my wife’s family, whose ancestors settled this part of the Valley before the American Revolution. It’s your archetypal Southern small town, with a graceful Greek Revival courthouse, volunteer fire department and rescue squad, post office, and church. The commercial district consists of a small grocery market; a hardware and livestock supply store; an old-fashioned barber shop where they offer a RBH—Regular Boy’s Haircut—with electric clippers for five bucks; a veterinary clinic; a combination tractor repair and video/DVD rental store; Pinckney’s Brick Pit Barbecue Restaurant; and, mercifully, no businesses with golden arches, yellow happy faces, or green mermaids as their corporate emblems.

Ordinarily, Remmelkemp Mill is as torpid as a lizard in cold weather, but it being a Saturday, there were some tourists in town…although I wasn’t certain why. Other than the river, there were only two things in the immediate area that might qualify as tourist attractions—and only if you were suffering from terminal boredom. The first was a bizarre-looking Civil War monument consisting of a bronze sculpture of a musket between two water buckets, which looks like the magical broomstick in the “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” sequence from
Fantasia
. The other was the Massanutten County Museum of History, located in an old plantation mansion a couple of miles south of town on Wheale Road. Bottom line: neither place was going to supplant Colonial Williamsburg as Virginia’s foremost tourist destination.