Case of the Ostentatious Otters

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Just like that, every single otter in the raft had discarded their meals and were floating upright in the water. I heard several hisses, and then, the otters dove out of sight. Confused, I looked at my girlfriend.

  “What just happened? What spooked them?”

  Jillian pointed at the dogs, “Zachary, look! Whatever spooked the otters has spooked them, too!”

  Sure enough, Sherlock’s hackles were raised, and he was letting off several warning woofs. Watson scooted closer to Jillian’s side and whined. A split second later, I slapped a hand over my nose.

  “Damn, Watson. You haven’t done that in a while. Whew. I’m glad we’re outside.”

  For those who may not be familiar with my little girl, or have experienced it but may have forgotten, Watson has been known to be a little gassy at times. Don’t get me wrong, she’s much better than she has been. Hell, right after I got her, the stench was so bad, and was happening so frequently, that I had to seek advice from Harry. He explained that some dogs fart because they take in air when they’re eating. It can happen if the dog eats too fast. Well, Watson could empty her bowl in less than 20 seconds. And that, I’m sorry to say, caused her to inadvertently gulp air, and… well, the air has to go somewhere.

  “Dude, what the hell are you feeding her?” Harry exclaimed, as he fanned the air. “I thought you told me she wasn’t farting as much.”

  “She wasn’t. Isn’t. This is the first in a few months.”

  “Maybe the poor thing is scared,” Jillian suggested, as she squatted low to put an arm around the red and white corgi.

  I looked back at Sherlock and narrowed my eyes. He was staring straight at a row of waist-high shrubs. Was an otter hiding back there? Or, worse yet, was there something else hiding back there?

  I handed Sherlock’s leash back to Jillian and motioned for Harry to join me. For once, he didn’t put up any arguments. Together, we carefully skirted around the bushes and, on the count of three, made a loud, whooping noise.

  “Aaauuugh!!”

  A wild-eyed, young woman popped up in the middle of the bushes and then smiled sheepishly when she realized the four of us were staring at her. She looked to be in her early twenties, had short, curly black hair, and was tall, around 5’10”. She was wearing a dark green t-shirt, with some type of white logo on the upper left breast pocket, khaki shorts, and white shoes.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Why were you hiding from us?”

  “I wasn’t!” the girl protested.

  “You’re standing in the middle of a bush,” Jillian pointed out, using a neutral voice.

  At this point, I caught Harry’s eyes and nodded back in the direction we had come from. My friend nodded knowingly, and hurried off.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Were you spying on us?”

  “No!” the woman indignantly cried.

  “Then explain yourself,” I continued. “What were you doing here?”

  Jillian suddenly took a step closer and stared hard at the woman’s face.

  “Excuse me, have you been crying?”

  The woman automatically wiped her face with her hands.

  “Of course not. Why would you say that?”

  “Because you have,” Julie said, as she joined Jillian. “Your eyes are swollen, your nose is red, and you have bags under your eyes. What… the diver! You know about the diver, don’t you?”

  A fresh tear streaked down the woman’s face before she could wipe it away with her hand.

  “Did you know him?” Jillian gently asked.

  The woman nodded, and then started sobbing.

  Jillian pulled a tissue from her purse and offered it to the woman.

  “Who was he? Was he someone close to you?”

  I caught Jillian and Julie’s eyes and indicated we should head back toward the scene of the crime. Jillian nodded and held out a hand. The woman in the green shirt took it and carefully stepped out of the bush.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” the woman began.

  I nodded, “I hope so, because it looks like you were relieving yourself in there.”

  Jillian smacked me on the arm, “Zachary! This woman’s upset. Now’s not the time for jokes.”

  “I thought it was funny,” Julie quietly confided to me.

  I grinned at her. “Thanks.”

  We arrived back at the crime scene and saw Harry talking to the same two cops. Catching sight of us, he said something and then pointed at us. The senior cop glanced over, saw the woman walking with us, and his face became grim. He said something to Mary, which resulted in Officer Adolphson hurrying over to intercept us.

  “Officer Marianne Adolphson,” Mary announced, as we arrived. “Monterey Police Department. And who might you be?”

  “Sh-Sherry. Sherry VanZanten.”

  “Is it true? Were you caught hiding in the bushes?”

  “I wasn’t hiding in the bushes,” Sherry protested again. “I was simply collecting my thoughts. I heard a body had been discovered, and when I went to see for myself who it was, I saw that it was Jack. I clearly didn’t handle the news well.”

  “Jack?” Mary repeated, as she pulled out a small notebook. “Jack who?”

  “Jack Carlton. He’s an aquarist for Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

  “And how did you hear Mr. Carlton had passed away?” Mary asked, frowning. “His body was only discovered less than 30 minutes ago.”

  Sherry turned to point at a series of buildings a half mile away.

  “I work right over there. Do you see those buildings? They’re part of MBA. Whenever I have a break, I like to walk along the beach.”

  “Where the body of a deceased diver just happened to turn up,” Officer Lewis’ voice suddenly said, making us all jump. Sherlock woofed a warning at the unfriendly policeman.

  “We work in the same department,” Sherry told us. “Our paths are bound to cross, which they do, dozens of times each day. What’s your point? Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Take down Ms. VanZanten’s statement,” Officer Lewis said,

  Mary nodded, and turned back to Sherry as the senior officer pulled out his cell and made a few calls. “What can you tell us about the deceased? Where does he live? What type of work does he do?”

  “Who, Jack? Well, he has an apartment here, in Monterey, but he also kept apartments in New York City, London, and Wellington.”

  “Wellington?” Mary repeated, as she questioningly looked up.

  “New Zealand,” I answered.

  Mary nodded, “Thanks. He has apartments all around the globe, huh? He must be paid very well.”

  “He was,” Sherry confirmed, “but not just from MBA. He was an on-call diver for National Geographic. They sent him all over the world.”

  “To do what?” I curiously asked.

  “To dive, to capture underwater shots, to check census checks of certain species. You name it, he did it. And NGC had him doing practically everything.”

  “This guy sounded like he enjoyed his adventures,” Jillian remarked.

  “Jack may not have been at MBA full-time, but he had more volunteers than anyone. Everyone wanted a chance to work with him.”

  “What was he like?” Julie asked. “Did he get along with everybody? Could someone have done this to him?”

  Sherry shook her head, “Oh, heavens no. Everyone loved him. He was, far and away, the most popular aquarist at MBA. They are going to be devastated by his loss.”

  “Someone that popular usually has people who are jealous of them,” I idly commented.

  Sherry shrugged, “Possibly, but not around here.”

  Harry suddenly raised a hand, “I have a question. Based on what you’re telling us, would you say this Jack guy was an experienced diver?”

  “One of the best in the world,” Sherry confirmed.

  “So, where was his diving partner?”

  Sherry shrugged, “I really don’t know. I can only assume they were somehow separated. You’d have to
look at his dive log to know for sure. He keeps meticulous records.”

  “And where would we find this dive log?” Mary wanted to know.

  Sherry pointed at the buildings in the distance.

  “In his office, of course.”

  Officer Lewis finished his call and joined Mary.

  “What do you have? Do we have anything to go on?”

  “His name is Jack Carlton, and he’s a world famous diver and explorer,” Mary answered. “And, we should probably check his diving log. Mr. Carlton wouldn’t have gone SCUBA diving alone, and right now, we’re missing a diver.”

  THREE

  Monterey bay is known for its spectacular diving locales, its picturesque beaches, and abundant wildlife. Also on that list is the historic Cannery Row, a waterfront street in the New Monterey section of town. Lining the street are defunct sardine canneries, with several of them now housing hotels and restaurants. The popularity of Cannery Row continues to grow each year, due to the availability of extensive public fishing amenities.

  Seeing how we weren’t invited to try and hunt down this missing diver, and after the local police department assured us that they had things well in hand, we took some time to explore Cannery Row the following day. The four of us… damn. I keep doing that. With the dogs, there are six of us.

  Okay. Let’s try that again.

  Today, the six of us are walking through Cannery Row, stopping at gift shops, attractions, and pretty much anything that had caught our eye. Some of the stores allowed dogs. Others didn’t. For those that didn’t, I volunteered to wait outside while Jillian and Julie perused the wares. Harry, more often than not, elected to wait outside with me. We had just left one little boutique, which specialized in socks, of all things, when we stepped across a cross-street and came face to face with another shop. Jillian immediately came to a stop and I saw that her face had lit up.

  It was a Thomas Kinkade gallery.

  “Ooo, let’s go inside. Do you think they allow dogs?”

  “We most certainly do,” the female clerk assured us as she held the door open.

  Since the weather was a beautiful 72°F, the shop’s front door was wide open and the female attendant was standing outside, hoping to entice customers to venture inside. The woman squatted next to the corgis and stroked the fur on the top of their heads.

  “My, aren’t you two some of the cutest dogs I’ve seen in a while? What are their names?”

  “That’s Sherlock,” I answered, pointing at the corgi who was sniffing the attendant’s pockets in the hopes she might be hiding a biscuit. “And that’s Watson, on your left.”

  “Sherlock and Watson. That’s adorable!”

  “We think so,” Jillian added, as she gave the woman a friendly smile.

  “Wow, these things are pricey!” I heard Harry exclaim, as he stopped to read the price tag of the first painting we passed. “$720? Is that for real?”

  The woman nodded, “That’s actually one of the least expensive pieces we have here. That one is Carmel Mission, and is 16” by 20”. It’s framed in a dark pewter molding and, personally, I think it’s a steal.”

  “For $700, it had better be personally signed,” Harry argued.

  The attendant shook her head, “It isn’t. But, we do have some which are. We do not have many left, I’m afraid, since Mr. Kinkade died in 2012.”

  “Ooo, look at this one, Zachary,” Jillian exclaimed.

  Turning, I saw my girlfriend staring at 24” by 36” print that had a very familiar landmark, namely, the covered walkway with ‘Cannery Row’ emblazoned across the front of it. It clearly depicted the local area, which explained why this particular shop had it for sale. Leaning close, I studied the illustration.

  The vehicles in the illustration looked older, which, if I had to guess the year, would place somewhere in the 1960s. It looked as though it had just rained, since I could see reflections of lights on the streets and the sidewalks. Then I read the display card that had been placed next to the painting and nodded. The picture, the artist explained, had been to commemorate Cannery Row’s 50th Anniversary. Apparently, Mr. Kinkade had loved the feel of the area, with its ‘coastal air, saturated with mists’, and painted that into the picture.

  “It’s nice,” I agreed.

  “You haven’t looked at the price yet,” Jillian said, with a smile on her face.

  “Why? Is it high?”

  “That painting,” the attendant hastily interrupted, “has been reprinted on premium canvas, hand-stretched across the wooden stretcher bars, and has been highlighted by a very skilled team of artisans. Do you see the ‘PP’ next to the title?”

  I sighed when I heard Harry snicker.

  “I do. What’s it stand for?”

  “Publisher Proof. Only a small number of prints are created with such detail.”

  “You’re blocking the price,” I said, as I looked at the female attendant. “Wow. Is it that bad?”

  “I was just trying to explain why the price might be higher than you expect.”

  For the record, it was high, but surprisingly, it was lower than I had anticipated. I had thought the price would be in the neighborhood of at least ten grand. It was actually a shade below five. Grand, that is.

  “Is this one signed?” I asked.

  The attendant turned to the painting and pointed to the lower right corner.

  “That’s his signature, right there.”

  I squinted at the tiny, elegant script and, puzzled, looked up at the clerk.

  “That’s his signature? It looks like a stamp.”

  “That’s because that is a stamp,” the attendant clarified. She then tapped an area of the print about an inch or two north of the stamp. “His signature is here. He signed his name with a black pen. Does that help?”

  I nodded, “I see it now. Thanks.”

  I glanced over at Jillian and saw her gazing admiringly at the print before moving off, heading deeper into the gallery. Once I was sure she was out of earshot, I moved closer to the attendant.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The attendant blinked her eyes a few times and stared at me.

  “That,” I said, pointing at the picture. “I said I’ll take it. I mean, it is for sale, isn’t it?”

  Overhearing, Harry wandered closer. I noticed his presence and automatically handed him the leashes to the dogs.

  “Well, yes, but… wow. Okay, I don’t think I’ve sold a print valued that high before.”

  I handed her a credit card and scribbled my home address on the back of one of Lentari Cellars’ business cards.

  “Please have it shipped here. It’s a surprise for her. I don’t want her knowing I’ve bought it, okay?”

  The attendant took the card and turned it over. She read the name of my winery and her eyes lit up.

  “Are you the owner of…?”

  “Yes,” I hastily interrupted, “and please keep your voice down. It’s a surprise, remember?”

  “Zachary?” Jillian called, from within the racks behind me, “you should see this one. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be right there,” I called back, while looking at the attendant. Nodding, she hurriedly completed the transaction, swiped my card, and then printed out the receipt. I scribbled my name, took the receipt, and gave her my thanks.

  “Where are you?” I called, as I moved deeper within the gallery.

  “We’re back here. There are some fantastic prints back here, and they’re way more reasonable than the framed prints up front. Would you like to pick one out with me? If we buy two, then they’ll throw in a free Thomas Kinkade blanket.”

  “Sure! I’m on my way.”

  “Dude, you already bought something,” Harry whispered. “And, I can’t believe you paid that much for a picture, man!”

  “Quiet,” I ordered. “Jillian loves art, and I, well, I love Jillian. I can afford it, so why not? What about Julie? Does she like art?”

  Harry shook his head, “Nah. She never
really got into this stuff, thank God.”

  “Ooo, look at this one!” I suddenly heard Julie exclaim. “It’s gorgeous! We have a blank wall in our master bedroom that this would look fantastic on!”

  Giving my friend a sly smile, and a nudge on his shoulder, we rounded the corner and rejoined the girls. Jillian was already halfway through one large bin full of plastic-encased prints. There were two other bins nearby. Smiling, I started flipping through prints as though I was looking through a box of vinyl records.

  “I like this one,” I said, as I pulled out a print.

  There were small mountains covered by forests, a large, placid lake, and trees everywhere. I noticed that the trees were just starting to turn yellow, which meant the print depicted my favorite time of year: autumn.

  “Coeur d’Alene,” the attendant’s voice said, from behind me. “That’s one of my favorites, too. It’s in northern Idaho. Have you ever been?”

  The corners of my mouth turned upwards in a smile, “Once or twice. Jillian, what have you picked out?”

  “Well, I’m trying to decide which one is my favorite between these two.”

  “Get them both,” I suggested.

  “Oh, I don’t need to overindulge. Just one will do for me. I’ll take this one.”

  I took the print Jillian pulled out and studied the scene. It was a picture-perfect setting, with a small stone cabin on the right, a smooth-as-glass river, and there was a canoe, pulled up onto the riverbank. A thin tendril of smoke could be seen, escaping the gray chimney. Directly in front of the small cabin was a fire pit, with a wooden bench nearby. Completing the image were several snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  I nodded, “I like this one, too. Very nice.”

  “Evening Majesty,” the attendant gushed. “That one is my absolute favorite. I have a signed print back home.”