The Treacherous Teddy Page 5

  “Is that a John Wayne movie?”

  “Yeah. It’s a classic guy film from an era when that didn’t mean it was full of car crashes, naked bimbos, and jokes about flatulence.”

  “Well, John Wayne definitely sounds more like the sort of movie Everett would watch.” Ash looked thoughtful. “So, we’ve probably narrowed down the time of death to between five-forty-five and sometime before the movie ended at seven P.M.”

  “Yep.” I leaned over to press the mute button on the TV remote. “Do you see anything else significant?”

  “The unfinished dinner . . . if you can call a beer and canned chili a dinner. Poor Everett. He probably never learned to cook, and with Lois gone . . .”

  “He made whatever was easiest. This guy was living my worst nightmare,” I sighed, suddenly recalling how close I’d come to losing Ash back in September when we were visiting California. “Anyway, something made him get up and leave his meal to go outside.”

  “Maybe he saw Chet’s headlights up on the ridge.”

  “From this chair?” I sat down in the recliner and craned my neck to look out the adjoining window. “You might be able to see the bottom of the hill from here, but not the upper part. The porch roof is in the way.”

  Ash turned and headed for the kitchen. “Maybe there’s another explanation.” I pushed myself up from the chair and followed her. “What have you got?”

  “Take a look at this.” Ash pointed to some items on the white tile counter. “The kitchen is pretty clean. Yet we’ve got a crumpled-up, chili-stained paper napkin and an unopened bottle of beer.”

  “Which might mean he was in the kitchen getting another bottle of liquid bread when things went south. Good obs.”

  Ash leaned over the counter to look out the window. “Maybe not. You can’t see the upper part of the hill from here either. The porch roof is still in the way. Could that mean Everett saw someone in his yard?”

  “And that person ran to the hill? That fits the evidence we have right now, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “If you’re going to ambush someone, do you make a point of ensuring that your victim sees you before you spring the trap?”

  “Brad, honey, none of this adds up.”

  “I know, so we keeping digging until it does. Now, if you’ll move, I’ll get some pictures of the kitchen.”

  I completed the photos, and then we moved on to the dining room, the laundry room, and then what looked to be Rawlins’s office at the back of the house. Unlike the kitchen, the office wasn’t tidy. Paperwork was piled in haphazard stacks on the desk and chairs and in front of the dark computer monitor.

  “Ransacking?” Ash asked.

  “No, it’s too neat for that. It looks more as if he was trying to find some kind of document.” I pointed to the open drawer on an old metal filing cabinet.

  “I’ll bet Lois handled all the bills and paperwork.”

  “Which probably meant he didn’t know where anything was.”

  I photographed the office, and then we started upstairs. I don’t move fast under the best of circumstances, and stairs slow me down to the speed of a DMV clerk. Ash took my cane and I kept a death grip on the banister as I carefully mounted each step. The slow journey to the second floor afforded me a glimpse of the Rawlins family’s life in an array of framed photos on the wall. There was a faded color portrait of Everett and Lois’s wedding, a picture of a much younger Everett wearing a navy uniform, a shot of a grinning Lois holding an enormous pumpkin, and several photos of a boy I assumed was their son, Kurt, as he grew up.

  Upstairs, we checked the master bedroom, the bathroom, and Kurt’s boyhood bedroom. We didn’t find anything that qualified as murder evidence, but we did locate a .357 magnum revolver in Rawlins’s nightstand drawer. However, the handgun was unloaded, which suggested Rawlins hadn’t considered himself in any sort of danger.

  There was a buzz of static, and then Tina’s voice sounded from Ash’s portable radio. “Mike-One to Mike-Eleven, can you come out? The ME just arrived.”

  Ash keyed the mike and said, “We’re on our way out.”

  We went downstairs and out into the yard, where the commonwealth’s medical examiner’s van was now parked behind Ash’s patrol car. Tina and another dark-haired woman were standing in the gentle rain beside the van. As we got closer, I recognized the ME as Dr. Dolly Grice, whom we’d met the previous year when I’d discovered a murder victim at the local history museum. Grice had impressed me as intelligent, observant, and prone to the macabre humor common among those who routinely deal with the dead. We shook hands with the ME and then went over to Rawlins’s body.

  Dr. Grice did a double take when she saw the murder victim. “Whoa! So, where is the rest of the Seventh Cavalry?”

  “I take it you haven’t seen many people killed this way?” Tina asked.

  “Actually, I’ve handled a couple deaths where arrows were the COD, but I’ve never seen one where the arrow was still sticking out of the body. The other hunters always yank it out and try to stop the bleeding.” Dolly pulled out a camera and snapped two photos.

  “Which brings up something we hadn’t considered,” I said. “Even if this began as an accident, it turned into a crime when whoever shot the arrow didn’t render first aid or call for the paramedics.”

  “And that makes it manslaughter,” said Tina.

  Dr. Grice put her camera back into her satchel and then knelt to examine the body. “I’m just speculating, but this looks like a Cupid-from-hell shot, right into the base of the heart. The victim was probably dead within a few seconds.”

  “If he was shot in the heart, how come there isn’t much blood?” Ash asked.

  “It’s probably all still in his chest cavity. Internal exsanguination.” The ME shifted her position and began pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Can someone give me a hand here?”

  I began to clap, but stopped when Ash gave me an I-can’t-believe-you’re-doing-that look. She said, “How can we help?”

  “You can start by telling your husband to behave,” Dr. Grice said with a chuckle.

  “I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

  The ME tossed Ash a pair of latex gloves. “Then help me roll our victim over a little. I want to see if we’ve got a through-and-through wound.”

  Ash immediately knelt on the gravel near the corpse. It was a rewarding moment for me. The last time we’d processed a murder scene, she’d been somewhat squeamish about touching the dead body. It was a natural reaction, but Ash obviously intended to conquer that weakness. The two women carefully rolled Rawlins over onto his left side, revealing the dead man’s back. There was no sign of blood or of the arrowhead protruding from the shirt. Ash continued to hold the body on its side until Dr. Grice and I finished our photographs.

  “That’s kind of strange.” Dolly sounded thoughtful. “In every other case I’ve worked like this, there was evidence that the arrow made at least a partial exit from the opposite side of the body.”

  “What would account for this one not going through?” Tina asked.

  Dr. Grice shrugged. “The only thing that makes sense to me is that maybe the arrow was fired from a significant distance, which would cause it to lose velocity.”

  “Less force equals less penetration,” I agreed.

  “Hopefully, we’ll know more tomorrow morning, after the autopsy,” said Dr. Grice, waving for her two attendants to come and prepare the body for transportation to the regional ME’s office.

  “It’s going to be a little difficult getting him into a body bag,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to remove the arrow now?” Ash asked Dolly.

  “No. I don’t have the equipment to do it, and we might lose trace evidence. It’s better for us to wait until the autopsy,” the ME replied. “Oh, and Brad?”

  “Yes, Dr. Grice?”

  “I noticed that you didn’t torture us with any of your usual bad puns. Are you running out of material?”

 
“No . . . no,” I said pensively. “I just stopped because I thought it made me look like I was overconfident and full of myself. You know . . . arrow-gant.”

  Five

  The two morgue techs swiftly manhandled the cadaver into the vinyl body bag, but the protruding arrow prevented them from zipping the bag shut. Then Dr. Grice came up with the clever idea of using the arrow as a support pole and draping a second body bag over Rawlins. The final result was grotesquely suggestive of a pup tent. It was a good thing I remembered the victim had been one of Ash’s childhood friends before I wisecracked that Rawlins sure didn’t look like a happy camper.

  The attendants shifted the body onto a gurney and then lugged the stretcher to the van. Meanwhile, Dolly consulted her PDA and then told Tina the autopsy would be at 10:30 the following morning. Tina jotted the information down in her notebook.

  Dr. Grice said, “Do we have contact info on next of kin?”

  “Mr. Rawlins had a son named Kurt, who I think lives in northern Virginia. I want to say in Fairfax, but I can’t be sure,” said Tina.

  “There was an address book near the phone. You want me to go in and look?” Ash suggested. Tina nodded, and Ash jogged inside, then returned a minute later. Tearing a sheet from her notebook, she said, “Kurt lives in Merrifield.”

  Dr. Grice took the sheet from Ash. “That should be everything I need for now. We’ll see you tomorrow, Sheriff.”

  As the ME van departed, Tina looked toward the expanse of blackness where the hill stood. “So we can’t say for sure if we actually have a murder here.”

  “That’s true, but we have to process the scene as if it were,” I said.

  “I know, but if the arrow was fired from a long way off, the hunter might not even have been aware he hit Mr. Rawlins.” Tina turned to face us. “Maybe this was an accident.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why the Saab was here and then took off,” said Ash.

  “Or what made him go out into his front yard at the precise moment some supposedly booze-soaked bow hunter let an arrow rip,” I added. “Bottom line: It’s too early for any conclusions. There’s just way too much we don’t know yet.”

  A cell phone began to trill, and Tina pulled the device from her coat pocket. She squinted at the tiny screen and then shyly said, “Let me take this call. I’ll only be a second.”

  She took several steps toward the barn and quietly answered the phone. I glanced at my watch. It was slightly after nine, which meant Sergei had probably just arrived home after closing his restaurant for the night. She snapped the phone shut about a half minute later and rejoined us, looking pleased.

  “That was Sergei,” said Tina.

  “From that happy look on your face, I’d have never guessed. So . . . what did you guys talk about?” I said teasingly.

  “None of your business.” Tina cheerfully replied. “But he wanted me to pass along a message to you, Ash. He needs a final count by tomorrow afternoon on the number of box lunches you’re going to want for the teddy bear show.”

  It was Ash’s idea to provide lunches for the artists participating in Saturday’s Massanutten Mountain Teddy Jubilee, which was going to be held in her hometown of Remmelkemp Mill. It had been tough luring well-known bear makers to a newly established teddy bear festival, especially when travel expenses were so high. So Ash had offered incentives such as low table fees and a free meal. It was a good plan, but I believe that most of the artists who’d decided to participate did so just because they liked Ash. Whatever their reasons for coming, the Teddy Jubilee was going to feature an impressive roster of attendees, including the award-winning Martha Burch, Donna Nielsen, Pam Kisner, and Darlene Allen.

  Ash gently popped her forehead with her palm. “I meant to go by the restaurant and talk to Sergei earlier this evening.”

  “I told him that you’d been a little busy tonight,” said Tina. “So, when do our out-of-state bear artists begin to arrive?”

  Ash said, “I’m picking up Martha Burch at Dulles in the morning at eleven-thirty. That means I can only work a couple of hours tomorrow before I have to go.”

  “I’m assuming I’ll have Brad, so it isn’t a problem. Besides, I can’t wait to meet Martha. The Ice King is just amazing.”

  Tina was referring to one of the stuffed animals in our collection. The Ice King was an exquisitely handsome polar bear dressed in blue regal clothing and wearing a sparkling crown made from faux ice crystals. We’d always loved and admired Martha’s work, so I’d asked her to create the Ice King as a Christmas present for Ash. The bear instantly became one of the most cherished pieces in our collection, and it grew even more precious in the following months, when the Ice King had been nominated for both major American awards for teddy bear artists: the TOBY (Teddy Bear of the Year) and the Golden Teddy.

  I said, “Yeah, I’m available almost all day. The only thing we have pending is an appointment at four with the real estate agent to look at that house again.”

  “God, I hope I’m back from the airport by then.” Ash was becoming stressed.

  “It’s going be okay, honey.”

  Tina knew of our interest in the Victorian home and said, “It would be the perfect location for your shop.”

  I nodded. “We think so, too. But the price is still a little high. What’s more, the place is going to require a huge amount of refurbishing, and I’m not exactly a handyman.”

  “Sergei and I will help.”

  “Thanks, Tina. That’s good to know.”

  “And Daddy will lend us any kind of power tools we need,” Ash added. Ash’s parents live on the farm just to the west of our house. Her dad is Laurence AKA “Lolly” Remmelkemp—yep, the town is named after my wife’s family—and he owns an amazing collection of power tools. Some are almost older than I am, but they all work.

  “Since I’m not exactly a Tool Time sort of guy, I hope he hangs around to give me some pointers in their use,” I said.

  “Daddy will be happy to help. We won’t need a stud finder, though.” Ash gave me a sweet and chaste smile. “I’m already pretty good at that.”

  Usually, I’m the one delivering the double entendres, so it took a second or two for Ash’s comment to register. I gave her a look of mock disapproval. “You have been hanging around me way too much.”

  “I’ll say.” Tina tried to sound scandalized, but the effect was spoiled by a giggle. “Now, I think we’d better get back to work. Is there evidence in the house that we need to collect?”

  “Some, but nothing that looks really useful.”

  “We’ll go get the evidence storage bags,” said Ash.

  We went back inside the house and I began by offering Tina our interpretation of the scene, including the apparent inconsistency of Rawlins being unable to see the upper slope of the hill from inside the home. Tina couldn’t make any more sense of it than we could as she walked from window to window peering out. After that, we collected the shotgun and ammunition from the closet as well as Rawlins’s half-empty dinner bowl, the used paper napkin, and both beer bottles.

  Ash said, “I realize why we want the shotgun, but does this other stuff have any evidentiary value?”

  “Based on what we know right now, probably not. But it’s better to be safe than sorry,” I said.

  We next went back to Everett Rawlins’s office. Feeling my leg beginning to stiffen up and ache in the cool damp weather, I asked Ash to go beneath the desk to unplug the computer and unhook all the cables. She agreed and suggested I sit in the office chair for a few minutes. It was wise advice, but my first reaction was to put on a brave face and insist that I was fine. I’m a vain man and hate feeling as if I’m being a wimp. However, I also knew that if I pushed my leg tonight, I’d be in no shape to tackle our search of the hill the following morning. I sat down, reflecting yet again that being crippled sucks.

  Tina gestured toward the piles of paperwork. “What about all this stuff? Should we bother collecting it?”

  I swiveled
the chair to face her. “It’s your case and your call, but I think it’s obvious that Mr. Rawlins was searching for something. If this does turn out to be a murder, our motive might be hiding in one of those stacks.”

  “Agreed. Let’s collect it.”

  As Tina and Ash loaded the documents into a pair of cardboard boxes, I grabbed the computer and followed the two women as they lugged the boxes outside. The rain seemed to have all but stopped, and off to the west, a few glittering stars were visible through a gap in the clouds. It looked as if the modest storm was already clearing out.

  Once we’d secured the evidence in the trunk of Tina’s patrol car, Ash turned to me and said, “Honey, there isn’t any point in you going up and down those stairs again. Why don’t you stay here and photograph the damage to my car, while Tina and I go upstairs and get the gun?”

  “I don’t like admitting it, but that’s a good idea. My shin is really beginning to ache,” I said mournfully.

  “I can tell. Sometimes you just push yourself too hard.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to be mature about it.”

  Ash patted my arm. “That’s my Brad.”

  Tina and Ash went back into the house, and I began taking orientation photographs of my wife’s patrol car. I moved to the right front fender and took some close-up shots of the comet-shaped dent. The police cruiser was predominantly white in color, which made it easy to see the dark blue paint transfers from the Saab. I decided to let the crime lab worry about collecting some of the tiny paint chips.

  While examining the dented fender, I suddenly realized that I’d overlooked something. The angle of collision suggested that the left front part of the Saab had collided with Ash’s unit. If so, there was a good chance that the Saab’s headlight or running light might have been broken. Yet I hadn’t even bothered to look for glass shards in the road when I’d arrived, even though I knew a crash had occurred there. Irritated that I’d violated my own maxim of never underestimating the size of the crime scene, I smacked my palm with my cane.