Free The Crafty Teddy by John J. Lamb

also smelled like an ashtray.
    As he mounted the steps, I said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in.”
    “But I work here.”
    “Really? And you are?”
    “Hey, how about you tell me who you are first.” The man put his hands on his hips.
    “My name is Bradley Lyon and I’m here as an authorized representative of the Massanutten County Sheriff’s Office.”
    “You don’t look like a deputy.”
    “I’m not. I’m a civilian consultant for the department. Sheriff Barron will be here in a few minutes and then she’ll decide whether or not you can go in.”
    His head dipped for a second and I could tell he was looking at my cane. “Now I know who you are. You’re that retired California cop that married Lolly’s daughter.”
    Ash’s dad was Laurence Remmelkemp, but he was known universally as Lolly. Lolly and Ash’s mom, Irene, live just over the hill from us.
    I nodded. “Correct. But I still don’t know who you are.”
    “Neil Gage. I’m the museum’s curator, and these days, the janitor, and groundskeeper.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. Gage glanced over at Merrit’s Toyota. “Frank’s car is here. Is he okay?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    Gage yanked his sunglasses off. “What’s wrong?”
    “Mr. Merrit appears to have suffered an accident. I found him.”
    “Did you call the—oh, my God. Is he dead?”
    “I’m sorry to say he is.”
    “How did it happen?”
    “It’s still a little early to tell.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “That it could have been an accident, but Sheriff Barron has to make sure.”
    “But I can’t even go in and see him?”
    “Were you a friend?”
    “Yeah. He was a good guy.”
    “Then, believe me, you don’t want to see him the way he is now.”
    Gage appeared pale beneath his tan. “I can’t believe this. He left a message on my answering machine a little while ago. That’s why I’m here.”
    “He asked you to come here?”
    “Yeah, he said there was some sort of problem at the museum and that I should get over here right away.” He looked down at the floor of the porch. “Nothing else. I was out mowing my yard when the call came in.”
    “How long ago did he leave the message?”
    “I don’t know. An hour ago…maybe forty-five minutes.”
    Right about the time the Yakuza would have been here, I thought. “And he wanted you to come right over. Did he sound stressed or upset?”
    “Maybe a little annoyed. So I jumped in the truck and came here.”
    I’d already fumbled the ball big time once this morning, so maybe that made me overly suspicious, but Gage didn’t look to me as if he’d just been mowing the lawn in the summer heat. He wasn’t sweaty and his socks were pristine white, when his shoes and shins should have been covered with fragments of grass. Then again, he might have gotten cleaned up before responding to Merrit’s summons.
    “You live far from here?” I asked casually.
    “A couple of miles. I live up by Port Republic,” Gage replied.
    Port Republic was a small community south of the museum, so Gage’s use of the word up told me he was a Shenandoah Valley native. The valley runs downhill from the southwest to the northeast, so locals refer to any trip southward as going up .
    “So, did Mr. Merrit have a family?”
    “A wife and a son. The kid might miss him, but the only thing she’ll be crying about is that there won’t be any more paychecks.”
    “That sounds kind of cold.”
    “You’ve obviously never met his wife. Frank was a fulltime history professor up at the community college in Waynesboro, but that didn’t pay enough as far as she was concerned. That’s why he took a second job as the museum director.”
    “Considering the way the county slashed the museum’s funding, it can’t have paid much either.”
    “No, but I guess every penny counted. And it did get him away from Marie.”
    “He told you about all this?”
    Gage gave me a sad smile and waved at the almost empty