Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear (11 page)

The boardwalk brimmed with people sauntering past the shimmering lake. This was the last place she had held Phoebe. An orange cat scampered to the Dumpster behind the Little Italy restaurant. Phoebe wasn’t in the habit of hanging out with other cats, but maybe hunger had overridden her antisocial tendencies. Since the cat refused to wear a collar or tags, she would blend right in with the other alley cats. The orange cat sat atop the closed half of the Dumpster. The animal meowed plaintively when she saw Ginger.

“Have you seen my Phoebe?” Ginger stiffened and shook her head. She had to stop talking to cats or she would be a candidate for membership in the nutty old lady club.

The alley smelled of rotting things, dirt, and spicy tomato sauce. Ginger placed a protective hand over her nose and peered inside the Dumpster. The orange cat leaned in as well. Something furry, gray, and motionless was buried beneath the refuse. Her heart pounded. She pushed cardboard and noodles out of the way and tugged.

Not Phoebe
. She exhaled. The fur was artificial. The bear suit was the one Xabier had worn, the one Dustin had died in. Someone had taken a knife or scissors and shredded the suit, revealing three layers of fabric. These things were well made. She turned the suit to its satiny lining. Lasagna fell on the concrete.

Her fingers touched something hard, bumpy. She slipped her hands into a pocket and pulled out two necklaces. Near as she could tell, diamond necklaces. Had someone shredded the suit looking for these? That didn’t make sense. She’d found them in ten seconds. Certainly the person who shredded the suit would have found the necklaces. They must have been looking for something else. In any case, this could mean that Dustin was the jewel thief. It was the bargaining chip she needed in order to talk to that lady detective.

She hung the suit over her arm and clicked open her purse to put the necklaces in. Feet padded on concrete behind her. She turned slightly. Something hard made contact with the side of her head. Sunspot sparks crowded her field of vision. But this was no migraine. She swayed.

Her view dimmed to blackness.

Cynthia Mallory wiped
the sweat from her brow as she and Jacobson walked down the stairs of the Little Italy Hotel to the Mermaid restaurant. The cool of the basement was a welcome change. Outside, late-afternoon temperatures had pushed into the low one hundreds. Even though she had long since shed her blazer, her sleeveless button-down was soaked. Jacobson’s face wasn’t even glistening. What kind of a person didn’t sweat when it was over a hundred? She toyed with the idea that Jacobson was a robot. That had to be it. She was a part of some wild police experiment to reduce costs by replacing people with machines.

Jacobson veered her eyes over to her partner after taking a sip of her iced tea. “What are you staring at?” She held up the glass bottle. “It’s diet iced tea. I can’t do any better than that.”

Mallory shook her head. “It’s not that.” This heat was getting to her. Of course her partner wasn’t a robot. “I’m sorry I was such a diet nazi. You can eat whatever you want.”

They walked under a flashing neon mermaid into the restaurant where the primary feature was an aquarium that occupied a whole wall. A small shark swam in circles around fish of assorted colors. Restaurant booths featured blue vinyl seats and pink tablecloths. An abundance of plants, in the corners and hanging from the ceiling, flourished. Bright lighting revealed three patrons in the restaurant and only one who matched the description of Gloria Clydell.

The first Mrs. Clydell rose from the booth as they approached. The thick cardigan and floral print dress didn’t hide her thinness.

Mallory leaned close to Jacobson and spoke under her breath. “Wish we knew the contents of Clydell’s will for sure. Give us more leverage to get her to tell us where the kid is.”

Jacobson whispered, “A secretary is a pretty reliable source. She remembers the day Clydell came in and signed on the dotted line.”

Gloria moved within a few feet of them. Simultaneously, they lifted their heads and smiled at Dustin’s first wife.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Gloria held out a hand to Mallory. “I have sun and cold sensitivities. This place makes me feel like I’m outside.”

The haunting impression of Gloria’s hand lingered on Mallory’s palm, like touching carved wood.

“We can understand that.” Jacobson had already pulled her notebook from her purse.

Gloria’s hand fluttered to her neck. “Do you two want anything?” She sat down in front of a piece of blueberry pie and a glass of milk. “They have really good desserts.”

Both detectives shook their heads. Mallory’s mouth watered. The pie did look yummy.

“You said you were supposed to meet your husband the night he died. You weren’t in his Day-Timer.”

“It was a last-minute thing. He said he had another appointment out on the pier and that he could meet me right after that.”

“That must have been Edward Mastive. Do you know who he is or why they were meeting?”

Gloria shook her head. “He just told me to meet him outside.”

Jacobson took a seat in the booth opposite Gloria while Mallory remained standing. “Nothing is official yet. Mr. Clydell’s assets will probably be frozen until the investigation is concluded.”

Jacobson leaned a little closer to Gloria. “The rumor, though, is that your son inherits the hotel.”

Gloria exhaled. “Dustin was full of surprises.” She tilted her head. Her face paled. “I suppose this makes things look pretty bad for my son.”

“No one can find your son, Mrs. Clydell. Do you know where he is?” Mallory loomed over her.

Gloria’s hand trembled when she patted her hair. The trembling might be health related, and it might be nervousness.

Gloria shook her head. “I am not hiding my Xabier. He hasn’t been in touch with me. He doesn’t own a cell phone.” She placed one swollen hand on top of the other. “I’m worried.”

Nothing in Gloria’s Clydell’s mannerisms suggested she was lying.

“What prompted your visit with Dustin?” Mallory leaned against the booth.

“I’ve been divorced from Dustin for fourteen years. This is the first time in six years that I’ve seen him. I send him a card at Christmas with a current picture of Xabier, and he sends, I mean sent, me, a card on my birthday. That was the extent of our communication.”

Jacobson tapped her pen on her notebook. “Did he say something to you about Xabier, inheriting?”

“He never mentioned his will. Tiffany is under the impression that she gets the hotel. I should have guessed Dustin was playing her.”

“So why now, after six years, do you decide to make a visit?” Mallory shifted her weight so she could lean against the booth.

Gloria pushed a piece of pie crust across her plate. “Xabier graduated from drama college. He told me that he thought his dad could get him some acting opportunities. I think, though, that Xabier’s real motive was that he wanted to connect with his father.” She cut a very small piece of pie and scooped it onto her fork. She chewed slowly. The area around her mouth seemed immobile, stiff. “All of my health problems made me realize I may not … be here for long. I wanted Xabier to have someone. I may have encouraged him against my better judgment.”

Jacobson flipped a page in her notebook. “Did Xabier find what he was looking for with his father?”

Gloria sat up, resting her arms against the back of the booth. “Nobody ever got what they were looking for with Dustin. He has … had a way of stringing you along, making you think it was just around the corner.” She traced the rim of the glass of milk with a puffy finger. “Dustin told Xabier he was going to set up a theater troupe for him. It wasn’t my son’s dream to be a dancing bear. The last time I talked to him, I think he felt degraded by his dad.”

“Hotel records show that you checked in two days ago. Xabier’s been here for a month.” Mallory sat down next to Jacobson.

“Things between my son and Dustin had gone downhill. I still have a little clout with my ex-husband. I thought I could patch things up.”

“What was the attraction between you and Dustin?” Mallory realized the question had nothing to do with the investigation. She just couldn’t figure out how two very different people had gotten together.

“When I met Dustin, he was different, beautiful and simple and poor. He pulled me out of a biker bar and drug addiction, introduced me to the Lord.” Gloria lifted her head, causing the dark circles under her eyes to intensify. “You feel a debt to the person who saved your life.”

Jacobson stopped writing in her notebook long enough to ask, “What changed him?”

“Dustin discovered his gift. People rallied around him and whatever cause he championed. They were drawn to him. He wanted to build a material empire under the guise of building it for God. I just couldn’t go there. Just because you put the God sticker on your greed doesn’t make it right.” Gloria fingered a crocheted shawl on the seat beside her. “He honored my wishes and took God out of his sales pitch. Watching my husband be consumed by his desire to be the next Donald Trump was like watching someone with a meth addiction. Suddenly the man I fell in love with was not there, not inside that body anymore.” Gloria rubbed her arms as though she were cold.

Mallory waited a suitable interval before getting back on task. “Please let us know if your son gets in touch with you.”

Gloria nodded and stared at the tabletop. The first Mrs. Clydell seemed to be working through some deep pain.

“Why does your son have a different last name than you and your husband?”

“Knight is his stage name. I don’t think he was fond of Clydell, didn’t want that identity. I wanted him to use my maiden name. He would have been Xabier Espina.” She shrugged. “Kind of like Antonio Banderas.”

Jacobson leaned a little closer to Gloria. “You’re aware that your son was seen arguing with Dustin?”

Mallory cringed at the question. Gloria was cooperative. They needed to keep it that way. Implying any guilt where Xabier was concerned was a bad idea.

Gloria looked at Mallory, then at Jacobson. “I didn’t raise my son to be a murderer, but I—” She shuddered and drew the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ve just never seen him so angry. I’m sure all this will make sense when he comes forward.”

The honesty of the answer took Mallory by surprise. This woman wasn’t hiding anything. She pulled out of her pocket the note that accused Walt Disney. “Do you know what this means?”

Jacobson sat up a little straighter and spun the salt shaker. It was her partner’s turn to be unhappy with the line of questioning. Jacobson must really hate it when she whipped out the Disney note. They needed to talk.

Gloria shrugged. “When Dustin was trying to work through something, he would write the same thing over and over.” She held the note, turned it slightly. “I don’t know. Walt Disney was an empire builder too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clydell. You’ve been very helpful.”

Ginger opened her eyes. She lay motionless, hands folded on her stomach. A canvas roof hung above her, and a light breeze stroked her cheeks. Thoughts leapfrogged over each other. Her senses scrambled to absorb something familiar.

In the distance, she heard the bubbling roar of a river. The aroma of coffee and bacon hung in the air. There were noises. People noises. Someone spoke in Spanish. A car caromed to life. A car door slammed. A moth flitted by beneath the canvas roof above her. Someone shouted in English about a broken drive shaft. The reply came in a language she couldn’t identify, maybe Japanese.

The throbbing at the back of her head intensified when she turned on her side. Tents, lots of tents. Different colors, different sizes. A forest of evergreens circled the tents. Given the international flavor of the conversation, her first thought was that she had been kidnapped by circus performers. Although she saw a woman in a sparkly leotard who could have passed for a trapeze artist, the other people didn’t look like performers. Some wore what looked like blue mechanics uniforms. A woman in brown slacks and shirt and checked apron sauntered through the camp.

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty woke up,” a bodiless voice, female, said.

Ginger saw legs, old legs, spider-webbed with varicose veins and wearing men’s trouser socks that were rolled down on the top. Chunky white shoes, the kind that nurses wear, covered the feet.

“Where am I?” Ginger lifted her head slightly. A hot lead weight seared the back of her head.

The legs sat down on a bench underneath the same canvas Ginger was under. A tinkling sound, someone stirring a liquid inside a mug, filled the air.

The headless voice spoke again. “You might want to rest awhile. You’ve had a pretty nasty blow to your head.”

Ginger closed her eyes. She did remember that part. Someone had hit her just as she was about to put the jewelry in her purse.

She heard footsteps and another voice, this one male and younger. “What shift they got you on today, Ida Mae?”

Ida Mae laughed. “That sounds like a song I might have learned on the piano when I was girl.” She sang, “What shift they got you on today, Ida Mae, Ida Mae.”

The man slapped his hands on his thighs and tapped his foot in rhythm to Ida Mae’s singing.

She continued her tune. “Mr. Fredricks wants me to clean the offices, downtown, downtown. I’ll be there from ten to four, ten to four, then I’ll collapse on the floor, on the floor.”