The False-Hearted Teddy (3 page)

“Us? I didn’t see you making any of these frigging bears.”

“But you
are
going to see me pound the snot out of you if you keep running that smart mouth of yours.”

Jennifer jerked her right hand upward, extending her middle finger. “Sit on it and spin you lard-ass son of a bitch.”

Tony moved fast for a big man. He grabbed her by the wrist and raised his meaty right hand as if to slap her. Up until that moment, I was going to let them bicker and not interfere. A verbal disagreement isn’t a crime and all couples have arguments, even Ash and I on a very rare occasion, although we’d never used that sort of vile language toward each other and couldn’t imagine ever doing so.

However, I have absolutely no tolerance for even an iota of physical abuse. I’d investigated far too many spousal assaults that had suddenly escalated into homicide.

I rapped my cane loudly against the metal framework of the trolley and the clanging sound echoed off the cement walls. “Hey, pardon me for interrupting, but let go of the lady.”

They both looked at me and Tony growled, “She’s my wife.”

“That’s an even better reason not to manhandle her.”

“Mind your own business.” Tony tightened his grip and his wife winced.

“I’ll be happy to . . . once you let her go.”

“Are you deaf, Grandpa? I said, mind your own business. Go back inside the hotel.”

16

John J. Lamb

The “grandpa” stung a little but I didn’t let it show.

The emotional rigors of all those years of police work and then getting shot had taken their physical toll on my appearance. My hair is completely gray and my face is beginning to show more tired lines than an episode of
Friends
in its final season. Ash says that I’m hypersensi-tive, but add the bum leg and the cane to the picture and I think my nickname should be Methuselah.

I flashed a disdainful grin. “Nah, I think I’ll stay right here and watch the big brave man smack his wife.”

Tony’s jaw began to jut. “Yeah? How about I come over there and kick your ass first?”

I began to walk toward him, tapping the cane’s tip deliberately on the cement floor. One of the first skills a successful cop masters is something called “command presence.” That means exuding complete confidence and serenity in the face of disaster. I chuckled, fixed him with a cool stare, and said, “What is this, amateur night at the Laugh Factory? You? Kick my ass? Tony, I’ve arrested hundreds of blow-hard punks like you for domestic violence and there wasn’t a one of them that ever wanted to fight someone who could really hurt them. You aren’t any different.”

“You’re a cop?” There was a tiny flicker of doubt in Tony’s eyes. Meanwhile, it looked like his wife was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Retired.”

“So, you probably have a gun. That’s why you’re acting so brave.”

I snorted in contemptuous amusement. “I don’t need a gun to deal with a tub of pig manure like you.”

“Oh, you’ve got me so scared.”

“As a matter of fact you are. I can see it in your eyes.

Now, let go of her.”

We were only a few feet apart now and Tony suddenly released his grip on Jennifer’s arm. He turned and stalked The False-Hearted Teddy

17

toward the fire doors, calling to his wife over his shoulder,

“Get the rest of the crap and go to the conference hall.”

I watched him until I was certain he was gone and then noticed that Jennifer’s breathing had become very ragged and wheezy. She was searching her purse, frantically looking for something and at last produced a cylindrical-shaped asthma inhaler. Drawing deeply from the device, she held her breath for about ten seconds and then slowly exhaled. Meanwhile, a pair of vehicle headlights appeared at the opposite end of the parking structure and slowly headed in our direction. From the silhouette it looked like the Xterra.

The woman put the inhaler back into her purse and gave me a severe look. “What are you waiting for, a medal?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine and nobody asked you to interfere, so do me a big favor. Mind your own damn business.” Jennifer shoved the dolly past me, headed toward the fire doors.

“You’re welcome. And are those angel or anger bears?

The difference is only one letter.”

She flipped me off just before she entered the hotel.

Actually, I wasn’t that surprised by her rudeness. I’d encountered similar responses from battered spouses—

both husbands and wives—throughout my police career.

Although it’s difficult to understand, many of the victims genuinely love their abusive partners and often resent a stranger intruding, even to stop a savage assault. It’s also possible that Jennifer viewed the relative ease with which I’d intimidated her husband as a silent indictment that she was allowing herself to be bullied by a coward.

Ash drove up in the rain-spattered Xterra and jerked her head in the direction of the fire doors. “Did she just do what I thought I saw her do?”

“The one finger salute? Yeah, but I’m pretty certain it was intended as an insult rather than an invitation.”

“Why would she do that?”

18

John J. Lamb

“I walked into the middle of a four-fifteen that was about to go physical,” I said, using the California penal code section for a disturbance of the peace. “She’s annoyed because I stopped her husband from using her face as a tetherball.”

“And they’re teddy bear artisans? Did you catch their names?” Ash pressed the button that opened the rear hatch and climbed from the SUV.

“Jennifer and Tony, although they were using some rather more colorful expressions for each other.”

“Jennifer Swift?” Ash stopped and stared at me. “Did you notice what kind of bears she had?”

“They were made from tipped plush fur with hockey-stick arms, little wings, and dressed as angels—probably of the fallen variety if they’re any reflection of their cre-ators. You sound as if you know her.”

“I’ve never met her, but she makes the Cheery Cherub Bears. She’s a very successful artisan—”

“If not a human being.”

“And she won both a TOBY and a Golden Teddy last year.”

Three years ago those names wouldn’t have meant anything to me, but now that I work with mohair instead of murder I was impressed. The Golden Teddy and the TOBY—a slightly out-of-sequence acronym for Teddy Bear Of the Year—rank above the prizes given out at local bear shows. They’re prestigious annual awards given out by the two major American teddy bear magazines and it’s an honor to merely be nominated for one because it’s an international competition. Few artisans win even one of the prizes, much less both, and those who do are considered the aristocrats of the artisan teddy bear world.

I glanced back at the fire doors and then checked my watch. “Not bad. We’ve been here less than thirty minutes and I’ve already managed to piss off a VIP. What if The False-Hearted Teddy

19

she has some pull with the local show judges and screws you out of an award?”

Ash took my hand and squeezed it. “Sweetheart, you did the right thing and it’s going to be fine. And besides, there’s no guarantee that either of us is going to even be nominated for a prize. We won’t know that until this evening.”

“You, I can see nominated. The Confection Collection is great. But, me? A nominee? Ash honey, when did you start having hallucinations?”

“Right about the same time I fell in love with this wonderful man who became a San Francisco cop.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get this stuff unloaded.”

Three

We went back into the hotel, Ash with the dolly loaded with bears, and me pushing our two folding tables and chairs in the luggage cart. As we entered the lobby, I caught a glimpse of Tony Swift as he emerged from the corridor leading to the conference hall and headed in the direction of the hotel restaurant. He didn’t seem to notice me, but that’s probably because he was lost in a daydream about a nice green salad with low-cal oil and vinegar dressing.

I nudged Ash and nodded in the big man’s direction.

“Jennifer’s husband.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed. “My God, he’s three times her size. Maybe you should have called the police.”

“There’d have been no point. She’d simply deny it happened and with no physical injuries, it’d be my word against theirs.”

“And now he’s going to lunch.”

“Hey, you can work up a real man-sized appetite ter-rorizing your wife.”

The False-Hearted Teddy

21

“How did you stop him from hitting her?”

“I think he was afraid I was going to clobber him with my cane.”

“If you ever get another chance under similar circumstances, do it.”

“Always happy to be of service.”

We went down the hallway towards the conference room, checked in at the organizers’ table, and after a short wait received our exhibitor IDs, pamphlets containing schedules of the special events and workshops, and a couple of commemorative magazines. Stopping briefly to show our event IDs to a sleepy-looking security guard, we went into the exhibit hall.

In contrast to the
H.M.S. Pinafore
atmosphere of the lobby, the conference hall was about as welcoming as a police interview room. It was a large stark rectangle with the walls and floor upholstered in beige industrial carpet and a ceiling of white acoustic tiles. There were only two items of decoration: an oversized crystal chandelier in the middle of the room with so many cobwebs on it that it looked as if it had been borrowed from the Haunted Man-sion in Disneyland, and a long white banner attached to the far wall that read, the 17th annual har-bear expo welcomes you in red letters.

The room was a mass of activity and filled with the buzz of cheerful conversation. There was a series of nine aisles marked out with blue masking tape on the floor and along each row booths and display tables were being set up. Facing the main entrance at the head of an aisle, in the very best foot-traffic location in the room, was the slot assigned to the Cheery Cherub Bears. We both paused to examine the lavish booth with a mixture of awe and embarrassed amusement.

Like most artisans, we simply set our bears up on cloth-covered tables with a sign attached to the front.

The Cheery Cherub Bears display, however, was housed 22

John J. Lamb

behind a hinged, seven-foot-tall and sixteen-foot-long plywood barrier upon which was painted an exquisite fresco of a heavenly scene showing angel bears with harps sitting on fluffy white clouds and others flying above them. I looked through the arched doorway into the enclosure, which was brightly illuminated by several battery-operated halogen lamps, and saw Jennifer releasing her bears from plastic crate captivity. A man in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a friendly looking, clean-shaven round face, was assisting her by setting small books with brightly colored illustrations of cherub bears on the covers next to each stuffed animal.

The man quietly said something to Jennifer, but her only response was a brusque shake of the head.

Behind me, I heard a woman call, “Ashleigh, is that really you?”

I turned and saw Ash embracing a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair. Ash said, “Oh my gosh, Karen, once we moved back to Virginia I didn’t think we’d see you again! How are you?”

“Jet-lagged but wonderful.”

“And you’re doing this show?”

Karen tapped the handle of a dolly loaded with teddy bears. “It’s my first trip to an eastern event in a few years and I was hoping to see you since I know you’re making bears now.”

“Yes, but they aren’t as good as yours.”

“Thanks, but that’s not what I’ve been hearing. I saw the article about the Harrisonburg show in
Teddy Bear
Review
. Congratulations on the award.”

“Thank you.” Ash grabbed my hand. “Brad, honey, you remember Karen, don’t you?”

“Of course. It’s really great to see you,” I lied, shaking hands with her. Ash could have told me that the lady was the lost Romanov Princess Anastasia and I wouldn’t have known any different.

The False-Hearted Teddy

23

“Is it all right if I ask what happened to your leg?

When you took Molly Mae home . . .”

“I didn’t have a cane. I got shot a couple of years ago and I’m retired from the PD.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, but it’s okay. Life is good.”

“And he’s making bears,” Ash added proudly.

The teddy bear named Molly Mae refreshed my memory. The woman was Karen Rundlett, an artisan from Southern California whom we’d first met at the Nevada City Teddy Bear Convention back in 1999 when we were just avid collectors. Two years and several events later, at a San Diego show, we’d purchased a large and beautiful honey-colored bear from her named Molly Mae, which led to an unexpected bit of fame for me: after buying Molly, I carried her through the rest of the exhibit hall and attracted the attention of a professional photographer who was doing an article on the centen-nial anniversary of the teddy bear for
Smithsonian
magazine. He snapped a picture of me smiling and holding Molly, which subsequently appeared in the August 2002

issue.

I thought it was great until Detective Merv “The Perv”

Bronsey, a creepy coworker of mine in the homicide unit, saw the picture and decided it constituted excellent fod-der for a practical joke. And if you want to ponder a
real
mystery, how did he find it? Merv’s favorite magazines were purchased from adult bookshops and the only notion more outlandish than him reading
Smithsonian
is that reality TV programs are “real” and produce “stars.”

My guess is that he found the magazine in the waiting room of some doctor’s office just before going in to get a shot of penicillin.

Anyway, cops can be cruel, especially to each other.

Merv scanned the picture into his computer, digitally added a pair of handcuffs to my wrist and Molly Mae’s 24

John J. Lamb

paw, and attached a caption underneath that read, “The courageous Inspector Lyon captures another violent felon.” Then he e-mailed the modified photo to every cop on the SFPD. That was bad enough, but when criminals were brought in for questioning and they saw the picture on display at detectives’ desks it got worse—