The Treacherous Teddy Read online

  I was terrified, but only for a moment. Then I realized the bear was swiftly lumbering on all fours toward the stream. He—well, I guess it was a he, and I wasn’t going to get closer to check—seemed more frightened of me than I was of him. That was only natural, I suppose. Bears don’t hunt humans and cut out their gallbladders. Anyway, I watched in rapt fascination as the bear splashed through the brook and vanished into the woods. It was a bright and life-affirming moment in an otherwise grim morning spent investigating a violent death.

  I was still staring across the stream when Ash returned from the trail. She asked, “Brad, honey, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. No, I’m great. I just saw a black bear,” I replied.

  “What?”

  “I guess I spooked it.” I pointed toward the foliage where I’d first seen the bear. “It was hiding over there and then it ran across the stream. My God, he was magnificent.”

  Ash peered into the forest in the same direction I’d been looking a moment before. “I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “So am I. And you know something? I’ve never been interested in making a realistic-looking teddy bear, but now . . .”

  “I understand exactly what you mean,” said Ash. Years ago, she’d been inspired to create soft-sculpture big cats after we’d spent the better part of two hours in the Tiger River exhibit at the San Diego Zoo.

  “So, what happened with the ATV tracks?” I asked.

  “The trail dead-ends at a gravel road up on the ridge, and there’s no way to tell which direction the ATV went after that. But I found something else that was a little interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ash glanced back up at the hill. “Someone recently marked what I think is the property line.”

  “How can you tell it’s recent?”

  “The markers are wooden pegs with strips of pink plastic ribbon tied around them. The wood still looks brand-new and the ribbon isn’t frayed or sun-faded.”

  “Good obs. Is it possible the guy riding the ATV was marking the property line?”

  Ash shook her head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. There are some places where the wooden markers have been snapped off and it’s obvious how it happened. The ATV drove right over them.”

  “Sending a message, you think? I mean, why do you mark a property line?”

  “If you’re going to build a fence?”

  “Exactly. And it looks as if the guy on the ATV was annoyed over that prospect.” I looked toward the spot where the bear had vanished. “I wonder if that bear is living on borrowed time, because it appears Chet wasn’t the only one poaching on Everett Rawlins’s land.”

  Seven

  We started back to the farmhouse and met the sheriff as she came up the road. Ash and I took turns briefing her on what little we’d actually learned.

  When we finished, Tina asked, “So, if those property line markers weren’t placed by the guy on the ATV, did Mr. Rawlins do it?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “But I don’t remember seeing any wooden pegs or plastic tape in the house or barn.”

  “One man couldn’t install a fence on that hill. That’s a big job. I’ll bet Everett contacted a fencing company,” said Ash.

  “But I don’t see that as something we need to track down right this minute,” said Tina.

  “I agree,” I said.

  Ash checked her watch. “Brad, honey, I have to go. I need to take a shower before I leave for Dulles to pick up Martha.”

  “And lucky you, you’ll get a sneak peek at that Woodland Father Christmas bear of hers that you saw on her website,” Tina said enviously. “I’d love to add him to my collection, but with Christmas coming I don’t see how I can get him for myself.”

  I knew the bear she was referring to; Ash had shown me the photo the last time she’d visited Martha Burch’s website. The Woodland Father Christmas, about two feet tall, was attired in a gorgeous embroidered cloak and trousers, had miniature snowshoes, and carried a Christmas tree slung over his shoulder. I’d have ordered it that instant for Ash, but she informed me that she’d already engaged in a little tactical hinting and that it was going to be Sergei’s Christmas gift to Tina.

  Ash said, “I wouldn’t worry about it. A certain Russian Santa has already marked you down as a very good girl this year.”

  The sheriff beamed, and I asked, “Tina, can I catch a ride back to the station with you?”

  “Of course.”

  We walked back to Rawlins’s house, where I handed Ash our car keys, gave her a kiss, and told her to be careful. High-speed vehicle pursuits and handling savage dogs were child’s play when compared to contending with the kamikaze-like traffic in the D.C. metro area, particularly around the airport.

  As Ash drove off, I said to Tina, “I know you’ve got to leave for the autopsy in Roanoke soon, which will leave me without any transport. If you want me to keep working this case while you’re gone, I’m going to need some wheels.”

  “The only car I have available is the Cannabis Comet.” Tina gave me a sly grin.

  She was referring to the sheriff department’s “new” unmarked car, a silver-colored 2001 Pontiac Aztek. The ugly hunchbacked SUV was what was known as a “drug asset vehicle,” which meant that a dope dealer had owned it before it was converted to law enforcement use. Clearly, the former owner had used the vehicle to transport loads of marijuana. The one time I’d driven the Aztek, I’d almost gotten a contact high from the persistent scent of ganja; hence the vehicle’s nickname.

  I said, “You’ve got to have something else.”

  “Sorry, but with Ash’s patrol car at the crime lab, we’re down to a bare minimum of vehicles.”

  “Fine. I’ll drive it, but you’ll have to explain to Ash why I came home smelling like a Grateful Dead concert.”

  I’d just opened the door to get into Tina’s police cruiser when a fire engine-red Lexus SC coupe sped down the driveway and skidded to a stop near the house. A large man in his late twenties jumped from the high-end sports car, and I recognized him from the pictures inside the house. It was Kurt Rawlins, and I didn’t need any great deductive skills to realize that the medical examiner’s office had already notified him of his father’s death.

  His clothing was as upscale as his car. Kurt wore an obviously expensive camel’s-hair sports jacket over an oxford cloth twill shirt. Even his slacks looked pricey, and his shoes had that unmistakable buttery look of fine leather. You could take it to the bank that he hadn’t bought those shoes in a discount department store.

  I didn’t notice much of a facial resemblance between Kurt and his father, but that might have been because Mr. Rawlins had been clean-shaven, while his son sported a full goatee. His sunglasses further concealed his facial features, but from the bulldog set of his jaw, I could tell that he was a man who was used to having things his way.

  Yanking his sunglasses off, Kurt demanded of Tina, “Are you in charge here?”

  “I’m Sheriff Tina Barron. You’re Kurt Rawlins, aren’t you? I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Who killed my dad?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Kurt scanned the yard. “Where are the state police detectives? Have they already finished?”

  “We didn’t call for the state police. My department is investigating your father’s death.”

  “Your department? I don’t mean to be rude, Sheriff, but I grew up here, and as I recall the only thing your department was good at was running an illegal speed trap on Coggins Spring Road.”

  Tina stiffened a little. “Things have changed a lot since then.”

  “Maybe, but I want an experienced detective on the case,” said Kurt as he pulled off his brown leather driving gloves.

  “And you’ve got one.” Tina inclined her head in my direction. “This is Brad Lyon. He used to be a homicide inspector with the San Francisco Police Department and has worked hundreds of murders. Now he works for me as an investigative con
sultant.”

  I said, “And I promise you, we are going to find out who did this to your father.”

  Kurt suddenly hung his head, and his chin began to quiver slightly. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Look, I’m sorry if I came across as a flaming jerk. It’s just that I’ve been beating myself up all the way over here. I kept promising Dad that I’d be out next weekend, but something always got in the way.”

  “It’s pretty common for people to react that way. We didn’t take it personally,” I said, and Tina nodded.

  “And then I get a call from some woman at five-thirty in the morning, telling me he’s dead. I still can’t make myself believe it.” Kurt looked up at me. “How did Dad die?”

  I glanced at Tina, who nodded at me to continue. I said, “We found him out here in the yard. He was shot in the chest with an arrow.”

  “What kind of arrow?”

  “According to the game warden who was here, it was a hunting arrow.”

  In a flash, Kurt’s face was contorted with rage. “That son of a bitch! That scum-sucking, mother—”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “That white trash bastard, Wade Tice! He owns the next farm over.” Kurt jabbed a meaty hand southward and in the general direction of the sand quarry.

  I was surprised and felt a little chastened. We’d been focusing exclusively on Chet Lincoln and the driver of the Saab as potential suspects and in doing so had overlooked the fact that murder victims often know their assailant. I’d jumped to conclusions without adequate information and investigation. It was mortifying.

  “Why do you think it was Mr. Tice?” Tina asked.

  “I know it was him. He’s been a bow hunter for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re going to need a little bit more than that to charge him. Why would he kill your dad?” I asked.

  “Because they’ve been feuding. Earlier this year, our old water well went dry, and Dad had to have a new one drilled. It was damned expensive.”

  Tina turned to me to explain. “Depending on how deep the drillers have to go, it can cost thousands.”

  “Which is exactly what happened,” said Kurt. “Then, about a month or so ago, Wade showed up at the house saying that his well was going dry and that it was Dad’s fault.”

  “I don’t know much about wells, but I’m guessing Mr. Tice thought the new one had caused his to dry up?”

  “That’s right, but there’s no way to prove that. Anyway, Wade said that he was going to have to drill a new well and then had the nerve to say he expected Dad to foot half the bill.”

  “What did your dad say?” Tina asked.

  “He told Wade to go to hell. They were never what you’d call friends, but after that, things really went downhill.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “They stopped talking and then, a couple of weeks ago, Dad bumped into Wade at the Food Lion in Elkton. Dad said that Wade had been drinking and that he started to yell. He called Dad a liar and a back-stabbing thief.” Kurt’s jaw tightened with the memory.

  “So what happened then?”

  “Nobody talks that way to my dad, especially in front of his friends and neighbors. He punched Wade right in the face and knocked him on his butt. Then Dad dared Wade to step outside and say those things again.”

  “Did Mr. Tice accept?”

  Kurt made a dismissive sound. “Of course not. He knew my dad could whip his ass in a fair fight.”

  “So what did happen?”

  “Dad told me that Wade just kept lying there and moaning about how badly he was hurt. But when Dad went to go pay for his groceries, Wade started yelling about how he was going to get even.”

  Tina and I exchanged meaningful glances. Given the fact that Wade Tice already had a grudge against Everett Rawlins and that he’d just been humiliated in front of a bunch of local townsfolk, the threat to “get even” might have been more than mere bluster. If so, it might explain some of our anomalous evidence.

  I asked, “Mr. Rawlins, do you know if Mr. Tice owns an ATV?”

  “He used to. I don’t know if he still does now. Why?”

  “We found what look like some quad-runner tracks in the mud. But it’s too early to tell if they mean anything.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  I pointed toward the quarry road. “Back that way.”

  Kurt’s hands tightened into fists. “Which is how you’d get to Wade’s farm. I swear to God, I’ll—”

  Tina cut him off. “You’re not going to do anything, Mr. Rawlins, because you might be jumping the gun. We have reason to believe that at least two other people were on your dad’s property last night.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Did your dad ever mention having problems with a poacher trespassing on his land?”

  Kurt took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. Dad said the guy’s name was Chuck Lincoln.”

  “Could that have been Chet?” Tina asked.

  “Maybe. Dad said he swore out a criminal complaint against the guy. Was he here?”

  “We can’t place him here in the yard, but we do know he was up on the hill.”

  “What? You think this poacher killed my dad?”

  “We don’t know,” I said. “He took off and we haven’t been able to find him.”

  “I can’t believe this!” Kurt threw his hands skyward.

  Making a conscious effort to keep my tone congenial, I continued, “What happened was that a deputy was responding to help apprehend Chet Lincoln for that criminal complaint your dad swore out, but as she was passing your dad’s farm, a stolen car came blasting out of the driveway and sideswiped her patrol car.”

  “A stolen car? What the hell was going on here?” Kurt cried.

  “That’s precisely what we’re trying to find out. The car was stolen from the Massanutten Crest Lodge last night.”

  “None of this makes any sense to me. I can’t think of a reason in the world why someone would bring a stolen car here.” Kurt turned to give Tina an imploring look. “You knew my dad, right? He was as honest as the day is long.”

  “That’s true,” Tina replied. “So maybe you’ll understand why we’re having such a hard time figuring out what happened.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A new Saab. We don’t know who was driving it, and unfortunately it got away.”

  “You mean the cop let it escape.” Kurt was scornful.

  Tina jumped in before I could retort. “Mr. Rawlins, the deputy didn’t know that your father was dead. She believed she was chasing a low-level offender. But when the Saab almost crashed into another car, the deputy made a good decision and ended the pursuit. Then she came back here and found your dad.”

  “And if she hadn’t gone that extra yard, your dad might have lain out here for days and Longstreet could have starved to death,” I added.

  “God, I completely forgot about the dog. Where is Longstreet?” asked Kurt.

  “At the animal shelter. You can take him home with you, if you’d like,” said Tina.

  Kurt shook his head. “That’s impossible. I live in a townhouse. There isn’t room and I’m almost never home.”

  “So you’re just going to leave him in doggie Gitmo until someone adopts him or they put him to sleep?” I blurted.

  “I don’t have any other options,” Kurt mumbled.

  “Well, if you decide to do that, you’ll have to go to the animal shelter and fill out some paperwork.” Tina made no effort to conceal the disapproval in her voice.

  Maybe it was wrong for me to sit in judgment of Kurt. He’d just lost his father, and for all I knew, he really didn’t have any other options. But his decision to abandon Longstreet to his fate impressed me as being utterly selfish. I decided to drop the subject, however. There was no point in aggravating him and running the risk of derailing the rest of the interview.

  I asked, “When was the
last time you were out here to see your dad?”

  “Three . . . no, four weeks ago,” said Kurt.

  “Did he mention if he was having problems with anyone besides Mr. Tice and Mr. Lincoln?”

  “No.”

  “And can you think of anyone else who might have a grudge against him?”

  “No. He was a good man and didn’t deserve to die with a freaking arrow in his chest.”

  Tina pulled her notebook from her pocket. “Mr. Rawlins, I have your home address, but can I get your work contact information?”

  “Why?”

  “Just in case I need to call you during the day.”

  Kurt removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to Tina. “I’m usually on the road, so call me at the number in the lower right-hand corner.”

  Tina’s eyebrows arched. “You’re an executive with Chunky Chuck’s Burgers? I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks. I’m the regional manager for northern Virginia. I supervise twenty-seven stores. I started flipping burgers for them at the Harrisonburg store back when I was sixteen.” Kurt looked over at the house and then sighed. “It was tough for Dad when I told him that I wanted to make a career in the restaurant industry. He always thought I’d take over the farm, and I guess I’ve got to now, but . . . damn, I hate this place.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “This is going to sound stupid, but sometimes I think it’s cursed. My mom died over there.” Kurt pointed to the tree. “And now someone has murdered my dad.”

  In a slightly hesitant voice, I said, “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but there is a possibility this was a hunting accident.”

  Kurt seemed to shake himself from his gloomy daze and gave me a steely gaze. “My dad was murdered. You understand? The sheriff says you’re a good detective, but I sure haven’t seen any proof of that. Why don’t you get to work and find out who killed my dad?”