The Crafty Teddy Read Online Free
Tina and I were both wrong about the size of the bullet that made the hole in our wall. It was a .41 caliber magnum hollow-point and was fired from the sort of large-bore revolver popular with police agencies back in the 1970s. Since it was a seldom-used type of ammunition, Tina followed up on the clue, checking gun and hunting shops throughout Massanutten and adjoining Rockingham County to see if anyone had recently bought a box of mini-artillery shells, but she came up dry.
Worst of all, there was no sign of the stolen Farnell Alpha Bear. Tina sent crime bulletins to law enforcement agencies throughout Virginia containing a digital photograph of the bear that we’d taken when it was insured. At the same time, I searched the online auction websites daily to see if it would show up for sale and contacted teddy bear shops all over the Mid-Atlantic region, asking the merchants to be on the lookout for a hot stuffed animal. I also posted messages on several Internet communities catering to teddy bear enthusiasts, telling of how we’d been burglarized and asking collectors to be on the lookout for a Farnell offered for sale by anyone who seemed especially vague as to how it came into their possession. Yet our work didn’t produce a single useful lead.
Once we accepted the bitter fact that the bear was probably gone for good, our life slowly returned to normal. Ash did an amazing job repairing the damaged teddy bears and, unless you knew where to look, you couldn’t see where she’d whipstitched the pieces back together. Meanwhile, I put in a claim to our insurance company, patched the bullet hole in the wall, and resumed work on my newest stuffed animal.
It’s still a little hard for me to believe that after all those years of investigating murders I now spend my days making teddy bears with my wife. Some of my old friends from the PD think I’ve lost my marbles, but I have a great life. Creating teddy bears is a lot more fun than homicide work and there’s the added bonus that nobody calls at two-thirty in the morning to have me come look at a corpse.
I officially unveiled the new bear for Ash one Saturday morning in mid-June. Marginally dressed in a gauzy white cotton nightgown, Ash was curled up on the quilt-covered sofa. She held her morning mug of hot cocoa and was faced toward the window, watching the birds gathered around the hanging feeder in our front yard. Kitch lay sprawled at her feet, which provided me with an excuse to keep my distance, because I really didn’t want to breathe in any of the tendrils of steam rising from Ash’s mug. I don’t usually keep secrets from my wife, but I’ve never told her that the smell of chocolate invariably causes a teeth-gritting jolt of pain through the bone and titanium hardware of my left shin.
The pain is a psychosomatic effect of my having been shot in front of the chocolate factory and shop in Ghirardelli Square a couple of years ago. My old partner, Gregg Mauel, and I had been in foot pursuit of a murder suspect when he opened fire on us. I went down and Gregg smoked the guy. Now, my mind automatically links the agony of the crippling wound with the aroma of chocolate and although I understand it’s a Pavlovian response, I can’t control it. However, I’m not going to let my malfunctioning brain interfere with Ash’s morning cup of cocoa.
Limping down the stairs and into our tiny living room, I lowered my voice a half octave and solemnly announced, “The bear you’re about to see is new. Only the name has been changed to protect myself from a copyright infringement lawsuit.” Then I whistled the famous nine-note fanfare that opened the old cop television program, Dragnet.
She looked up and gave me an excited smile. “He’s done?”
“I finished him last night. That’s why I was so late getting into bed.” I held up the twenty-inch-tall teddy bear I’d been slaving over for nearly two months. Doing my best Jack Webb impression, I then began a
Worst of all, there was no sign of the stolen Farnell Alpha Bear. Tina sent crime bulletins to law enforcement agencies throughout Virginia containing a digital photograph of the bear that we’d taken when it was insured. At the same time, I searched the online auction websites daily to see if it would show up for sale and contacted teddy bear shops all over the Mid-Atlantic region, asking the merchants to be on the lookout for a hot stuffed animal. I also posted messages on several Internet communities catering to teddy bear enthusiasts, telling of how we’d been burglarized and asking collectors to be on the lookout for a Farnell offered for sale by anyone who seemed especially vague as to how it came into their possession. Yet our work didn’t produce a single useful lead.
Once we accepted the bitter fact that the bear was probably gone for good, our life slowly returned to normal. Ash did an amazing job repairing the damaged teddy bears and, unless you knew where to look, you couldn’t see where she’d whipstitched the pieces back together. Meanwhile, I put in a claim to our insurance company, patched the bullet hole in the wall, and resumed work on my newest stuffed animal.
It’s still a little hard for me to believe that after all those years of investigating murders I now spend my days making teddy bears with my wife. Some of my old friends from the PD think I’ve lost my marbles, but I have a great life. Creating teddy bears is a lot more fun than homicide work and there’s the added bonus that nobody calls at two-thirty in the morning to have me come look at a corpse.
I officially unveiled the new bear for Ash one Saturday morning in mid-June. Marginally dressed in a gauzy white cotton nightgown, Ash was curled up on the quilt-covered sofa. She held her morning mug of hot cocoa and was faced toward the window, watching the birds gathered around the hanging feeder in our front yard. Kitch lay sprawled at her feet, which provided me with an excuse to keep my distance, because I really didn’t want to breathe in any of the tendrils of steam rising from Ash’s mug. I don’t usually keep secrets from my wife, but I’ve never told her that the smell of chocolate invariably causes a teeth-gritting jolt of pain through the bone and titanium hardware of my left shin.
The pain is a psychosomatic effect of my having been shot in front of the chocolate factory and shop in Ghirardelli Square a couple of years ago. My old partner, Gregg Mauel, and I had been in foot pursuit of a murder suspect when he opened fire on us. I went down and Gregg smoked the guy. Now, my mind automatically links the agony of the crippling wound with the aroma of chocolate and although I understand it’s a Pavlovian response, I can’t control it. However, I’m not going to let my malfunctioning brain interfere with Ash’s morning cup of cocoa.
Limping down the stairs and into our tiny living room, I lowered my voice a half octave and solemnly announced, “The bear you’re about to see is new. Only the name has been changed to protect myself from a copyright infringement lawsuit.” Then I whistled the famous nine-note fanfare that opened the old cop television program, Dragnet.
She looked up and gave me an excited smile. “He’s done?”
“I finished him last night. That’s why I was so late getting into bed.” I held up the twenty-inch-tall teddy bear I’d been slaving over for nearly two months. Doing my best Jack Webb impression, I then began a
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