She wouldn’t know that their future together was going to include being used as a punching bag.”
“I see what you mean.”
There was a chime from overhead and the door opened. We left the elevator and headed toward our room.
“So, what if Tony’s found his sole mate—and I’m talking about someone new that he can wipe his feet on—
and wants to be free of Jennifer? If the contracts with Wintle and that cartoon company are written in a certain way, and I’ll bet they are because Jennifer was smart, di-vorce wouldn’t be an option.”
“But murder would be, if you made it look like a severe allergic reaction to medication.” Ash shook her head, her expression reflecting both disgust and wonderment.
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“Right. Maybe he was hoping that, due to Jennifer’s past medical history, there wouldn’t be an autopsy. And perhaps there wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t noticed that chemical smell,” I said as we arrived at our room.
“But it’s time for a big reality check. We don’t know if she’s even dead, and if she did die, that she was murdered, and most importantly, I’m not a cop anymore. So there’s really no point in any further speculation.”
“Not that it’s ever stopped you in the past,” Ash said sweetly.
I unlocked the door with the card key and held it open for Ash. After I washed my hands, she went into the bathroom to clean her face, reapply her makeup, and fix her hair. Ten minutes later, she emerged looking perfect and we went back downstairs. The crowd was larger outside the exhibit room door and we paused to show our event IDs to an organizer.
Inside the hall, we paused for a moment to look at the Cheery Cherub Bear booth. It was dark and the arched entrance was blocked with a couple of folding chairs. I noticed a single long-stemmed yellow rose lying on the seat of one of the chairs—evidence that either there was fresh news from the hospital or that at least one of the breakfast attendees hadn’t believed my cautiously hopeful and fraudulent spin on the incident. The affectionate message embodied in the flower reminded me of Todd and I wondered if he’d heard the awful news yet.
As is so often the case, Ash was thinking along the same lines and said, “Where do you suppose Todd went?”
“Probably the hospital. Do you think there was any truth to the stuff Tony said?”
“That Todd and Jennifer were having an affair? Of course not.” Ash sounded incredulous.
“How can you tell? From the brief conversation I had with him, it was pretty clear he was in love with her.”
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John J. Lamb
“He may have been, but she didn’t feel the same way about him. Most women can tell when another woman is attracted to a man, even if the other woman is playing it completely cool.”
“Really? Is that why—”
“Yes, that’s why I reacted so strongly to the judge making the ‘big one’ crack. She’d better keep her distance from you. I’ve got one of the few good men on the planet and I’m not about to share.”
“She was flirting with me? You’re kidding.”
“No, and for an otherwise extremely intelligent man, you’re clueless when it comes to recognizing when a woman is hitting on you.”
“Which should be very reassuring to you because it means that I’m not paying that sort of attention to any woman but you.” I took her hand and kissed it. “Now, let’s get to our table because I know that you want to rearrange everything before the collectors are allowed in.”
I wasn’t exaggerating. Ash is a perfectionist and the absence of the snow tiger and Dirty Beary had ruined her original eye-pleasing design. That meant starting over from scratch. I sat down and watched in fascination as she cleared the table and began carefully positioning the bears and tigers, pausing every so often to step back and assess the effect.
This time, Cindy Sundae took center stage. She was a pink plush bear dressed in a costume of two big scoops of fabric strawberry ice cream inside a golden brown quilted waffle cone, with a dollop of satin whipped cream and an artificial cherry on her head. As Ash worked, she was briefly interrupted a couple of times by passing artisans who stopped to thank and commend us for our lifesaving efforts.
When we were alone again, I said, “And how do you think Donna reacted when she heard the news?”
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61
“She was probably horrified.”
“Or kicking herself because she missed the incident.
That was big league-quality hate and it wasn’t just caused by a stolen teddy bear design.”
Ash looked up from straightening the French blue bow on a brown bear that I’d made from faux fur. “People say things when they’re upset that they don’t mean.”
“That’s true, but can you indulge me for a moment?”
“Sure. How?”
“If you can spare me for a minute or two, I think I’d like to limp on over to her booth and scope her out . . .
just to satisfy my unsavory curiosity.”
I grabbed the expo program from the top of the upside-down crate that constituted our clerical workspace and opened the booklet to the middle page where the event map was located. Donna was assigned to slot fifty-three, which was two rows over and near the back of the room.
“But I thought you’d decided this wasn’t any of your business.” Teasingly feigning surprise, Ash raised her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened.
“Oh, as if you aren’t the least bit interested either.”
She came over to kiss me on the forehead. “Of course, I’m interested. Just stay clear of that judge.”
“I promise I’ll be back in a couple of minutes with my virtue intact.”
“It’s not
your
virtue I’m worried about.”
I walked to the end of our aisle, checking out the amazing collections of bears, and made a right turn. Two rows later, I turned right again and immediately saw Donna’s booth, which was identified by a superbly hand-painted sign with metallic blue Gothic lettering that read, the ivanhoe collection by donna jordan. The single table was covered with bears cleverly arranged as if they were at a jousting tournament. All the classic book’s characters were there: Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, Wamba the jester, Lady 62
John J. Lamb
Rowena, Sir Cedric, Isaac and his daughter Rebecca, and King Richard the Lion Heart. Everyone was present but Donna, who was nowhere to be seen.
Glancing at a woman in the adjoining booth, I asked,
“Excuse me, but have you seen Donna?”
The woman was tall, blond, and utterly focused on posing a brown German merino wool teddy bear boy wearing blue denim shorts, a shirt, and boots. Beside the bear was a framed eight-by-ten color photo of an exquisite shadow box diorama display of the scene from
Win-nie the Pooh
, where the characters try to free Pooh, who’s stuck in Rabbit’s door. The tableau seemed vaguely fa-miliar and I suddenly realized where I’d seen it before. It had been featured a few months ago in one of the teddy bear magazines we subscribe to. The display had won first prize in one of the judging categories at last year’s Teddy Bear Artist Invitational, one of the most prestigious shows in North America. However, I couldn’t remember the artisan’s name.
At last, the woman looked up from her work and said,
“Not since that scene at breakfast, although I don’t blame her for being furious if Jennifer actually did steal her designs. I had it happen to me once, so I know how it feels.
You and your wife are the ones who tried to help Jennifer, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Hi, I’m Bradley Lyon and my wife is Ashleigh.” I extended my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Dolores Austin. Please tell your wife thanks for all you did.”
“I will.”
“Is there any news about Jennifer?”
“I haven’t heard anything.” I don’t know if she noticed the oblique nature of my reply, but I figured it was better manners to profess ignorance than to tell her that Jennifer was probably dead. To further change the subject, I nod-The False-Hearted Teddy
63
ded in the direction of the photograph. “Congratulations on your win at TBAI. Your work is superb.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“I guess I’d better get back to our booth. Take care and good luck.”
“If I see Donna, should I tell her—oh, wait, there she is!”
I turned and saw Donna walking stiffly down the aisle toward us. Her face was pale and taut with stress. She marched past us and threw herself into the chair behind her display table, where she began to unconsciously wring her hands. Then she jammed them in her jacket pockets, while continuing to stare straight ahead.
I quietly said good-bye to Dolores and went back over to Donna’s booth. “Are you okay?”
I startled her from an unpleasant reverie. “What do you want?”
“I just came to see if you were all right.”
“You mean you just came by to see if I was gloating over what happened to Jennifer.”
“Nah. I’ve run into hundreds of genuinely evil people in my time, but you aren’t one of them.”
“I don’t feel bad that she’s dead.”
“For starters, we don’t know for a fact that she is dead, and secondly, she hurt you very badly, so your attitude is understandable.” I paused for a moment and then gently asked, “Would it help if you told me what she did?”
“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you leave me the hell alone? You wouldn’t let me tell everyone, but now
you
want to know? Go away. I’ve got work to do.” Donna pushed herself from the chair and turned her back on me to rearrange her bears.
“I’m sorry for intruding and I hope you do well with your bears today.”
Donna shot a dirty glance over her shoulder.
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John J. Lamb
Of course, I was intrigued that Donna was so utterly certain that Jennifer had died, but I couldn’t tell whether it was firsthand knowledge, something she’d heard in garbled form from another witness, or just wishful thinking. Furthermore, I wondered where she’d been for the past hour or so. However, it was none of my business and I hoped that if I just kept saying it, the simple concept that I wasn’t a cop anymore would eventually sink into my thick skull.
As I walked back to our aisle, I could tell the doors had been opened because the room began to fill with en-thusiastic collectors. A man and a woman were already standing in front of our booth talking to Ash and you didn’t need to be a clairvoyant to know that they hadn’t stopped to admire our teddy bears. Homicide detectives look the same all over the globe and their arrival at our booth meant that Jennifer was dead.
Seven
Ash said, “Honey, these are detectives from the Baltimore City Police and they’d like to speak with us.”
I shook hands with the woman first because it was obvious that she was the ranking investigator. “So I take it Jennifer was DOA?”
“That’s correct, Mr. Lyon. I’m Homicide Lieutenant Sarah Mulvaney and this is my partner, Sergeant Richard Delcambre.” Mulvaney’s voice was a pleasant yet mildly officious contralto.
“Any idea of what killed her?”
“Excuse me, but that’s confidential information.”
“Of course,” I said, while thinking:
Give us a break,
lady. We’re the ones who called you to report that Jennifer
was probably poisoned.
Still, I suppose I’d have said the same thing if I were in her place because you have to safeguard “case specific” facts—things that only the killer and the detectives know. That knowledge can be in-valuable in discerning whether you’re dealing with a genuine suspect or some pathetic twit who falsely confesses 66
John J. Lamb
to a murder hoping to achieve a few moments of fame on the television news. Still, she didn’t need to make it sound as if I’d asked her to reveal the Strategic Air Command’s ICBM launch codes.
I guessed Mulvaney’s age as about fifty years old and she would have been reasonably attractive if it weren’t for the fact that her cheeks were so immobilized with skin-paralyzing cosmetics that it called to mind Jack Nicholson as the frozen-faced Joker in the
Batman
film.
Her hair was a dark brunette with barely discernable maroon highlights and her hazel eyes were as cold as the waters of San Francisco Bay in January. She wore brown, cuffed slacks with a tiny plaid pattern; a long-sleeved burgundy pullover knit top, and a camel-colored woolen blazer. The coat hung open enough for me to see the silver badge hooked to her belt and the auto-pistol in the cross-draw holster on her left hip.
Delcambre was more the archetypal burly veteran cop—big shoulders accentuated by the black leather jacket he wore, no waist, and alert brown eyes that moved constantly as he scanned the room and passersby for any signs of a threat. His face was round with a rich café-
au-lait complexion, his short black curly hair was flecked with gray, and he wore a full salt-and-pepper moustache and wire-framed eyeglasses.
At last Delcambre’s eyes settled on me and he stuck out his hand. “Your wife told us that you’re a former San Francisco PD homicide inspector.”
“Yeah, up until my shin got FUBAR-ed.” The sanitized version of what the acronym FUBAR stands for is
“Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.” However, cops usually employ a more expressive word than “fouled.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Gun fight with a murder suspect.”
“You mind if I ask if you’re CCW now?” Mulvaney asked. The initials stood for carrying a concealed weapon.
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“I haven’t carried a gun in a couple of years and don’t miss it either. So, how can we help you guys?”
Mulvaney said, “We came here from the hospital. The emergency room physician is almost certain that Jennifer died from a toxin that basically shut her lungs down.
However, we won’t know what kind of poison it was until tissue samples are collected at the autopsy and the ME’s office runs toxicological tests.”
“And it usually takes five or six working days before we get the results from the lab,” Delcambre added.
Mulvaney frowned slightly at what she clearly considered an interruption. “So naturally, we’re interested in how you knew she’d been poisoned.”
“That’s because my wife smelled a strange chemical odor when she was giving Jennifer rescue breaths.”