Free Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear by Sharon Dunn

report earlier. How hard can it be to find a squirrel? My money is on the little critter having escaped and this all being nothing.”
“I say it was Colonel Ketchup in the library with a toaster oven.”
“Miss Chartreuse in the sauna with a towel.” Mallory drew her hand back from the door. She closed her eyes.
“What are you thinking?”
Again, she appreciated that Jacobson could almost read her thoughts. “I know this is funny to us. But the man cared about the squirrel enough to phone it in. For his sake, we need to take this seriously.”
Jacobson nodded.
Mallory rapped hard on the door of 515. A man with fuzzy hair and whitish skin opened the door. The rims of his eyes were red. Mallory put him in his midfifties. Not terribly muscular. Little guy. “Mr. Simpson? You phoned in a report about a missing squirrel?”
“A kidnapped squirrel.” Simpson nodded, causing the excess skin on his face to shake.
Mallory held out a hand. “I’m Detective Mallory. This is my partner, Detective Jacobson.” She noted that Simpson had no calluses on his hand. Probably worked in an office. Unless, of course, a performing squirrel provided enough income to live on.
The door swung open wider to reveal a woman hunched over the table by the window. The bright floral-print muumuu cascaded down her large body in an explosion of color. Long, lackluster hair framed a round face. Plastic-frame glasses nearly consumed a small nose.
“This is Martha Hillstrong. She’s the organizer and keynote speaker for the convention.” Simpson sniffled.
Martha rose to her feet and held out a hand to Cynthia Mallory. “I’m here to offer support to Alex … Mr. Simpson. Binky meant a lot to all the squirrel lovers.”
Mallory took note of the I heart Squirrels button pinned to Martha’s chest. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Simpson, why don’t you tell us exactly what happened, and we’ll see if we can find that squirrel for you?”
Jacobson took out a notebook and pen. That her partner was willing to be the silent detail-taker while Mallory focused on reading the body language of the person she interviewed was one of the reasons they worked so well together. Mallory nodded and listened to Mr. Simpson’s woeful tale. He’d been taking a shower. Binky was exercising in his ball.
“Do you have that exercise ball?”
Simpson shook his head. “It was taken too. It has his name on it.”
Martha Hillstrong scooted to the bed where Mr. Simpson slumped. She patted his back while he recalled the details of the kidnapping.
Mallory continued to nod and listen, moving about the room taking mental snapshots. The oddest thing in the room was the excessive amount of ice buckets, all in various stages of melting. She counted five in all. She scanned the bureau for liquor bottles. No signs of Mr. Simpson being a heavy drinker. She’d like to get a peek in his minifridge. Maybe he had a more sedate party of root beer and Sprite planned.
Jacobson coughed and patted her chest. “May I have some water? That doughnut seems to have caught in my throat.”
It was nice to have a partner who read your mind. Simpson retrieved a paper cup, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the faucet.
“Do you have some ice to go with it?” Jacobson took two steps toward the bathroom, a move that put her in full view of the refrigerator.
Simpson returned. “I know, it’s hot in here.”
Sure enough, Simpson ignored the buckets of ice, opened the fridge, and pulled ice out of the little freezer.
Jacobson thanked him for the water and sipped.
Mallory asked the question of the hour. “So what do you think the motive for taking Binky would be?”
Simpson rested his face in his hands. “Do you know how long it takes to train a squirrel? Binky was valuable. He had lots of bookings.”
Martha Hillstrong straightened her back. “Maybe someone who didn’t like squirrels took him. There are people like that … squirrel haters.”
Simpson gripped Martha Hillstrong’s flabby arm.