The False-Hearted Teddy Read online

  Other people began to filter into the room and I wasn’t surprised to see Jennifer, Tony, and Todd seated at the VIP table with the event organizers and judges. Interestingly, the suits I’d seen with the Swifts the previous evening were nowhere to be seen. Tony was again wearing the I WUV CHEERY CHERUB BEARS T-shirt but, thankfully, not the goofy top hat. He was talking loudly to some guy about how early he’d gotten up to go down to their booth and repair the base of a Plexiglas teddy bear stand, making the entire operation sound as challenging as a spacewalk to fix something on the International Space Station. Jennifer actually seemed cheerful as she chatted with the woman beside her. Meanwhile, Todd stared straight ahead at the table’s centerpiece, one of Jennifer’s bears.

  I refilled my coffee cup and we found a place at an adjoining table. A few minutes later, things got under way as the event organizer, an older woman in a cream-colored dress, went up to the podium. She greeted us and then delivered some announcements about the day’s forthcoming activities. Several special workshops would convene at 8 A.M., the general public would be allowed entrance into the exhibit hall at 9 A.M., and the winners of the teddy bear competition would be announced at 5 P.M. As the lady spoke, a squad of waiters began circulating through the room carrying trays with glasses of various juices.

  “And I have one final bit of wonderful news I’m very pleased to share because I know that everyone here will want to applaud their success.” The organizer paused to glance and smile at the VIP table. “Yesterday, our good friends Jennifer and Tony Swift signed a licensing agreement with Wintle Toys and Dumollard Ani-Media. That means that those sweet Cheery Cherub Bears will soon be in stores nationwide and are also going to be featured in their own animated television series.”

  Tony grinned and raised his clasped hands like an old time prizefighter, while Jennifer smiled shyly in response to the applause. Todd merely looked up and grimaced. I thought his reaction was pretty strange and probably would have kept watching him if Ash hadn’t tapped on my arm and discreetly pointed toward the back of the room. That’s when I saw Donna marching up the aisle. Her fists were balled, her face was livid with rage, and she was headed for the VIP table. Although she wasn’t a large person, I don’t think I’d have wanted to try to prevent Donna from reaching her destination. Visualize a charging two-thousand-pound African Cape buffalo or better yet, a sixty-eight-ton M-1 Abrams tank racing along at forty-five-miles-an-hour and you’ll grasp some sense of her implacable demeanor.

  When the Swifts noticed Donna, I was intrigued and entertained by their responses. Jennifer blanched and began blinking as if she were sending some sort of ocular semaphore SOS message while Tony looked down at the table, wearing an expression that up until that moment I hadn’t imagined he was capable of: red-faced embarrassment. Meanwhile, Todd’s lips seemed to be twitching. I couldn’t be absolutely certain but it appeared as if he was struggling mightily not to smile.

  Donna stopped before the table, pointed an accusing finger at the Swifts, and although she didn’t shout, her icy words were audible throughout the now silent room. “I hope the pair of you burn forever in hell. Those cherub bears were my designs and you not only stole them, you turned them into something cheap and dirty.”

  Tony tried to square his shoulders. “Now, Donna—”

  “Shut your mouth, fat boy, or I’ll tell everyone here all about the time your thieving wife ‘fell down the basement stairs’ and was in the hospital for five days. Looking back at it, I wish you’d broken her damn neck.”

  The big man flinched as if he’d been snapped with a whip and was silent. Up behind the podium, the shocked old lady’s mouth was opening and closing in a way that reminded me of a goldfish. Everybody was just sitting there taking in the impromptu breakfast theater and I looked at Ash to see if she wanted me to intervene before a food fight broke out. She nodded vigorously and I pushed myself to my feet. As I approached, I caught sight of the hotel security guard coming through the door.

  Donna returned her baleful gaze to Jennifer. “And you, sitting there like a queen. Once these people know the truth about you they’ll be so disgusted they’ll want to vomit, just like I do every time I remember that you called me your best friend.”

  I touched Donna lightly on her upper left arm. Startled, she spun to face me. “I’m not done.”

  I kept my voice gentle. “Much as I’d like to hear the rest of the story, I think you are. You need to go before the guard ejects you from the building.”

  Why do most unarmed security guards behave with all the icy menace and swagger of an old-time Hollywood cowboy villain? Slouching slightly with his thumbs tucked into his belt, the rent-a-cop had clearly modeled his tough guy persona after Jack Palance’s classic performance as the evil hired gunslinger in Shane. He inclined his head toward the door, flashed a humorless half-smile, and said, “C’mon lady. You’re outta here.”

  As if awakening from a trance, Donna took in all the staring faces and her lower lip began to tremble. Her gaze fell to the floor and she shuffled toward the door as the guard escorted her. For a moment, there was utter silence and then the room erupted into hushed conversation that, unless I misread the tone, was tinged with disappointment. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one curious to hear the end of the story.

  Then I heard the sound of wheezing and looked at the VIP table. Jennifer was bent forward holding her right hand open over her upper chest and was clearly having great difficulties in catching her breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Ash asked as she joined me.

  “She’s got a long history of asthma.” Todd turned to Jennifer and placed a comforting hand on her lower left arm. “It’s okay. Slow down and try to breathe a little more deeply, Jen. You’re panicking.”

  It was good advice. Sometimes asthma attacks can be provoked by stress or emotional upheaval and when the victim becomes naturally frightened from being unable to breathe properly, the episode becomes a vicious cycle. She needed calm, but what she got was Tony, who’d just shifted into caveman mode.

  “Get your hands off her!” Tony delivered the command at bullhorn volume about six inches from Jennifer’s right ear as he pushed himself out of the chair.

  “She needs help.”

  “You’re the one that’s gonna need help if you don’t get away from her. You must think I’m stupid not to know.”

  “This is insane. Your wife can hardly breathe.”

  Jennifer wheezed and erupted into a long cadence of savage hacking coughs to emphasize the point. Meanwhile, there was a growing cacophony of agitated voices from the rest of the folks in attendance.

  “That’s right, she’s my wife!”

  “This crazy shit will cease immediately!” I barked in my best hands-up-or-get-ready-to-show-St.-Peter-two-forms-of-picture-ID voice, deliberately using the obscenity for shock value. Both men shut up instantly and the room became much quieter. I pointed to Todd. “You. Move away because Stupid there is going to continue his temper tantrum until you do. We’ll take over.”

  “You?” Todd looked doubtful.

  “Todd, I’ve been handling emergencies since you were probably still in third grade. We can handle this.”

  “But I’m an EMT.”

  “I know, but Tony is going to go into low earth orbit if you touch her. We’ll take over.”

  “Fine.” Todd spat the word. As he rose from his chair and stepped away, he quietly added, “I’m sorry, Jen.”

  Ash slid into the vacant chair and took the gasping woman’s limp left hand. In the same tender and serene voice I’d heard her use so long ago to soothe our children when they were sick, she said, “Jennifer, pay attention to me: you’re panicking, honey, and you need to calm down.”

  “I don’t want you to touch her either,” Tony snarled.

  “I’m not exactly thrilled over it myself, considering whatever you two did to Donna, but we’re out of options. Now, try to behave like an adult for just a couple of minutes. I assume she has an inhaler. Where
is it?”

  “Upstairs in our room.”

  “Then make yourself useful and go get it.”

  Tony glowered for a moment. Then he turned to jog toward the door and the elevator as Ash continued to urge Jennifer to breathe more slowly. I sat down on the other side of Jennifer and didn’t interfere. Ash’s voice was hypnotically tranquil and I could see the fear slowly receding from Jennifer’s eyes as her breathing gradually became more normal. Jennifer was only wheezing slightly when Tony reappeared. His T-shirt was damp with sweat and he had the inhaler in his meaty hand. He handed the small cylindrical canister to his wife.

  Jennifer put the device to her mouth, took a deep huff of the medication, and flinched in pain and alarm. She tried to cough and her eyes widened with terror as she realized that she couldn’t catch her breath. The inhaler fell from her hands as Jennifer clutched at her chest with both hands and was wracked with powerful respiratory spasms as she attempted to breathe. With every exhalation, I could hear horrible gurgling sounds. This wasn’t an asthma attack anymore and if we didn’t do something immediately, Jennifer was going to find out if there really were Cheery Cherub Bears in heaven—provided of course, that was her final destination.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Tony sounded frightened and was dancing an anxious and clumsy jig, skipping from one foot to the other.

  “I don’t know. Go to the lobby and call nine-one-one, now! And wait out there to show them where we are.”

  I figured there were probably a dozen people calling for the paramedics on their cell phones at that very moment, but it would be best to give Tony some task to divert him while we tried to save his wife’s life. Otherwise, he’d just get in the way. Tony took off for the door with the same speed, grace, and agility of a bull walrus trying to escape from a polar bear and I hoped this second session of light aerobic exercise didn’t cause him to have a heart attack. Things were already going to hell in a hand-basket.

  “Ash, let’s get her on the floor for CPR.” Then I yelled over my shoulder to the circle of spectators that had closed around us, “Clear out and give us some room!”

  The people moved back and Ash and I lowered the shuddering and gasping woman to the floor and laid her on her back. Her eyes were locked on Ash, silently begging for help, then her pupils rolled upward as she lost consciousness. The violent breathing convulsions continued for another couple of seconds and then her body suddenly went limp. I grabbed the woman’s wrist and felt for her pulse and couldn’t find one. Jennifer was in full cardiac arrest and death was imminent. For the briefest of instants I wondered why Todd hadn’t come back to help and assumed it was because he’d left the ballroom. That meant it was up to us.

  I told Ash, “No pulse. You do rescue breathing and I’ll do the chest compressions…and be prepared for her to throw up.”

  “I’m ready.”

  As I interlaced my fingers over Jennifer’s heart, Ash blew three rapid breaths into the woman’s mouth and I saw her chest rise each time. That signified the airway was open. As she finished the sequence, Ash looked up at me and made a face as if she’d tasted something awful. However, there was no time to ask her about it, because it was now my turn. I’ll spare you a full description of the unpleasant details, but suffice it to say that delivering real chest compressions isn’t like what they show on television. If you’re doing it right, more often than not you fracture some of your patient’s ribs. I don’t know how long we were at it, but at last I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

  Looking up, I saw a Baltimore City paramedic. She said, “Any response?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We’ll take over now. Good job.”

  I pushed myself to my feet and someone handed me my cane. Ash moved out of the way as another paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over Jennifer’s nose and mouth. Tony stood opposite us. His face was pale and his jaw slack, as he watched the paramedics attach the EKG sensor pads to his wife’s motionless chest. The diagnostic device’s tiny screen told the entire story: Jennifer was flatline. The medics tried to jump-start her once with the defibrillation paddles and when that didn’t work, they quickly loaded her onto a gurney.

  Tony yelled, “Where are you taking her?”

  “Mercy Medical Center.”

  “I’m coming, too!”

  “There’s no room for you in the ambulance. You’ll have to follow in your car,” the woman paramedic called over her shoulder as they began to push the gurney rapidly toward the door.

  “But my car keys are upstairs and I can’t follow you! How do I get there? I don’t know my way around Baltimore!”

  I grabbed the big man’s wrist and was surprised he didn’t resist. I said, “They’ve got no time to talk. Go up and get your keys and I’m certain the hotel concierge can give you a map to the hospital.”

  Tony watched the paramedics and gurney disappear around the corner and nodded. Then, he seemed to suddenly realize who I was and shook his hand free as his face contorted with rage. “You didn’t know what you were doing. If my wife dies, I’m going to sue you for every penny you own.”

  I was about to tell him what part of my anatomy he could kiss when Ash pushed past me, her eyes incandescent with wrath. “You’re a real piece of manhood, Tony. Your wife could be dying and you’re standing here trying to figure out a way to make some money from it? You have exactly five seconds to shut your cake-hole and get the hell out of this room before I do a clog dance on your skull. Now, git!”

  Tony was about to deliver a spiteful reply when he saw something in Ash’s gaze that obviously caused him to conclude that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. He turned and scuttled through the door. Meanwhile, the room was in an uproar and the old lady was at the podium frantically shouting into the microphone that everyone should calm down, but all she accomplished was adding one more amplified voice to the tumult.

  Ash leaned close and whispered in a troubled voice, “This is going to sound crazy, but I think Jennifer was…oh, I don’t know. Never mind.”

  “Does this have something to do with that face you made when you gave her the rescue breaths?”

  Ash nodded. “I smelled the fumes of something coming out of her lungs and it definitely wasn’t medication. Mama has asthma and I know what the inhaler stuff smells like.”

  “So, what did it smell like?”

  “I don’t know. It had a kind of weird chemical aroma…like solvent or something.”

  “So what you started to say was, that you think Jennifer may have been poisoned.”

  “Do I sound completely fifty-one fifty?” Ash asked, using the California cop slang she’d picked up from me over the years to describe someone crazy enough to be committed to a mental institution.

  “No, and just to make certain, I think we’d better find the inhaler.”

  We looked on the floor around the VIP table but couldn’t find the cylinder. Then, speculating that someone might have kicked the inhaler, we expanded our search area but still met with negative results. The inhaler was gone.

  I went up to the podium and asked the old lady to give me a shot at restoring order. She gestured helplessly at the microphone as if to say, “It’s all yours.” It’s a paradox, but one of the ways to settle down a noisy crowd is to begin speaking in a low but authoritative tone, which is what I did. After only a few seconds, people began to quiet in order to hear what I had to say and once the room was silent, I said, “Folks, there’s been a medical emergency and we need to help the paramedics. We can’t find Jennifer’s inhaler and they’re going to need it at the hospital to figure out how best to treat her. Did anyone pick it up?”

  I heard some scattered “no’s” and saw people shaking their heads. From the back I heard a woman ask, “Is Jennifer going to be all right?”

  “We don’t know,” I replied, which was crowding the truth a bit. The fact was that unless they had some sort of miraculous “Lazarus-come-forth” quality treatment at Mercy Medical Center, Jennifer was going
to be DOA. However, no good could come from telling the crowd that and we needed to find a vital piece of potential evidence. I continued, “That’s why this is so important. Did anyone see someone pick up the inhaler?”

  Again, no one knew anything. I handed the microphone to the old lady and said, “Thanks. You can take it from here.”

  The organizer told everyone to resume their seats so that breakfast could be served and many of the artisans complied. After all, as far as they knew, Jennifer had simply succumbed to a particularly violent asthma attack. However, Ash and I strongly suspected otherwise.

  I noticed the security guard standing near the door and waved him over. When he arrived, I pointed at the wireless phone in the pouch on his belt. “Do you have the number for the Baltimore City police preprogrammed into that thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then press it and give me the phone.”

  Five minutes later, a uniformed Baltimore cop arrived. Showing him my SFPD “retired” badge and giving him a very brief synopsis of what had just happened, I quietly told the officer that he needed to get some homicide detectives to the hotel and Mercy Medical Center immediately.

  Six

  I swear I wasn’t trying to get us involved in another murder investigation. The last time I’d done that, Ash and I had been almost killed twice in less than six hours, so I’d learned my lesson. I only wanted to discharge my citizen’s duty to make the Baltimore cops aware that this incident might deserve closer scrutiny…but at the same time, I’ll admit I was very intrigued by the possibility that Jennifer had been poisoned. It was only natural that I’d be interested; I’d spent most of my adult life investigating murders, and poisoning is an extremely unusual crime.

  Most people are shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. During my career I’d only worked one killing caused by the deliberate use of a toxin, a case where a disgruntled wife mixed a massive dose of arsenic-laced grain into her philandering husband’s morning bowl of granola. His name was Jason and so, naturally, I christened the investigation, “Arsenic and Cold Jace.”