By JANE LOTTER

It was late on a Friday afternoon in December when my editor called me into his office. Or maybe he e-mailed me. I don't know. All I really remember is suddenly I was standing there.

"Happy holidays, dollface," growled Clayton Park.

"And many more on Channel 4," chimed in his co-editor and lovely wife, Susan. She was hanging brightly colored balls on a tabletop Christmas tree.

"We've got a story for you," Clayton said.

"Swell," I said, putting on my raincoat. "Print whatever you want and sign my name to it."

"Ixnay," said Clayton. "It's a story we want you to write."

I knew there'd be a catch.

"Something's going on at the Honey Bear Bakery near Green Lake," Susan purred.

"Brother, that (italics) is (end italics) news," I said, my interest piqued. "Most of the same customers have been sitting at those same tables since 1986."

"No, no," Clayton said. "You don't get it. Honey Bear himself disappeared last year and now they're going to bulldoze the building. Something's not kosher. We want you to leg on over there and get the scoop. Nose around a little, eat some pastry, get the straight dope."

"Come again?"

"Find out what happened to the bear."

I took the RTA (ha-ha) to the Honey Bear Bakery. I figured I'd start by grilling some of Honey's pals.

"Is Winnie around?" I queried the counterman. "Nah. Pooh Bear split for the holidays." "Darn," I said. "I was hoping to talk to him. I guess he knew Honey Bear pretty well."

He snorted. "Honey knew everybody, and everybody knew Honey. Winnie the Pooh, Paddington Bear, Yogi Bear, Smokey the Bear, you name it. Even that bear that sells fabric softener. What's his name?"

"Snuggle?"

"No, thanks. I'm married."

He scratched his chin. "So what was it you wanted to ask Pooh, anyways?"

"Not much," I said. "Why Honey Bear disappeared, why the building's coming down, how come I-695 passed. Stuff like that."

"I like you kid," the counterman said. "What the heck, I'm out of a job here soon enough. I'll answer your questions. But first, let me ask (italics) you (end italics) one: Any idea how many real estate ads have used the phrase 'Close to Honey Bear' to attract buyers?"

"Three? Possibly four?" I ventured.

"More like a gazillion."

"I don't follow."

"Get wise, kiddo. Without the Honey Bear near Green Lake, the real estate market in Seattle collapses. The whole economy is tied to it. And the bear knew it. He was about to tip off the authorities when he conveniently 'disappeared.' Of course, he'll show up eventually. At the bottom of Green Lake is my guess, wearing lead pajamas."

"Wowsa," I said. "Why haven't the dailies reported this?"

He shrugged. "Jean Godden at the (italics) Times (end italics) was going to do an exposé. But when she found out it wouldn't fit on a license plate, she lost interest. Ever see that movie (italics) Chinatown (end italics)?"

"Sure," I said. "But I don't get the connection."

"There isn't one. But that theme music really sticks with you."

A light rain was falling when I left the Honey Bear. I couldn't get the theme from (italics)Chinatown(end italics) out of my head. If I hurried, perhaps I could get a glass of holiday cheer at Mona's. Maybe even a drink. Oh, heck, maybe I could get a double vodka martini with three olives. I'd toast Honey Bear - and all the other poor woodland creatures who come to this crazy, mixed-up town with stardust in their eyes only to end up being thrown aside like so much faux fur. Then I'd get the guy at the piano to play that song. You know the one.

"Cut the Christmas carols," I'd say to him. "Here's a McDonald's gift certificate in the amount of 50 cents, good anywhere, anytime. You know what I wanna hear. Go on, play it. Play it sad and slow. Play, (italics) Teddy Bear's Picnic (end italics)."

Jane Lotter lives in Maple Leaf. She is a lifelong arctophile (lover of bears).