Case of the Great Cranberry Caper

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Oregon is one of the five states which produces cranberries,” Jillian said, as she directed me to push our cart toward the first aisle of canned goods. “As for the cranberries themselves? They’re grown on neither bush nor tree.”

  “Alrighty, Ms. Botanist Extraordinaire. What are they grown on?”

  Jillian swatted my arm. “Plants. Low-growing plants, and if you ever see an actual cranberry plant in person, you’ll see that they grow horizontal stems, or runners, which can get up to six feet in length.”

  “Damn,” I whistled. “Still, we have plenty of room, so we could …”

  “The problem comes from the harvest,” Jillian interrupted. A few jars of various flavors of bouillon made their way into our cart, followed by several cartons of chicken stock. “You’ve seen how they do it, haven’t you? Farmers typically flood the fields. The berries have four air pockets in them, so they’ll float to the surface when they’re picked.”

  “The harvest,” I moaned. “I forgot about the ‘wet method’ of harvesting. Very well. Scratch that idea. I’m not flooding the winery. Hey, here’s a thought. Could you use canned cranberries?”

  “I’m going to buy a few, just to be certain we have some,” Jillian told me, as we proceeded to the next aisle, which the hanging overhead sign identified as having Canned Fruit. “If we can get some … Zachary! They’re out of canned cranberry sauce, too! This is getting frustrating.”

  That’s just great. I could see what was brewing in my immediate future: a road trip to find some cranberries. As much as I didn’t want to have to traipse all over town to track down a bag of those tart-as-hell red berries, I also didn’t want Jillian to fret.

  Swell.

  Coming to the end of this particular aisle, we approached a large, open-air freezer which was stuffed to the brim with frozen turkeys. Now, let’s see. Believe it or not, I actually knew the formula you’re supposed to use in order to figure out what size of a bird you’re going to need. Last time I checked, you needed a half pound of bird for each guest. Well, we were going to have eight people around our table, so that meant … wait. That couldn’t be right. We needed a four pound turkey? They didn’t even make ’em that small, did they?

  All right, Einstein. Let’s check that math again.

  Eight people, at half a pound each, would get you … four pounds. Clearly, I had something wrong. Maybe it was a pound of bird for each guest? That would bring the total weight up to eight pounds, and for eight people, that still sounded like it’d be way too small.

  So, where the hell was I screwing up?

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Jillian sweetly asked me. “You seemed to be concentrating pretty heavily there. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “What size of bird are we going to need?” I asked, as I pointed at the frozen turkeysicles. “Isn’t it half a pound of turkey for each person?”

  Jillian shook her head. “Well, don’t you like leftovers?”

  “I love leftovers,” I confirmed. “Turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches? At all hours of the day? Hoo, boy. I think I just gained five pounds thinking about it.”

  “No cranberry sauce,” Jillian reminded me.

  “Yet,” I softly murmured.

  “I usually will go for a pound-and-a-half for each person. So, if we have eight people, then we should be looking for a twelve-pound bird.”

  I checked the tags. The weights of these birds seemingly started at 16 pounds, and went up from there.

  “These are some big birds. This one is 16.25. This one is 17.5. Holy moly, this one is over 20. You don’t want one that big, do you?”

  “To cook something that large, for as long as it needs, usually results in a dry turkey. I’d like to keep it as close to 12 as possible.”

  Some rapid rearrangement of turkeys in the freezer resulted in me finding a 14.9 pound bird.

  “Close enough,” Jillian decided. “If you would do the honors, kind sir.”

  “But of course, m’lady,” I drawled, as I lifted the frozen turkey into the cart.

  Just then, my cell began to ring, and based on the ringtone, which was You Can Fly, from Peter Pan (check my adventure with that blasted Egyptian mummy from a few years ago for an explanation), I knew it was Vance.

  “Hey, Vance. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Zack. Are you busy?”

  “I’m just helping Jillian at the grocery store. It’s a mad-house in here. Seriously, Turkey Day is still …”

  “Zack! Sorry to interrupt you, buddy, but I need you.”

  Detecting the seriousness of my friend’s tone, I sobered. Jillian, catching the rapid change of expressions on my face, pulled the cart to the side to allow other shoppers around us.

  “You have my attention. What’s going on?”

  “Care to go on a road trip?”

  “What? To where?”

  “Grants Pass.”

  As I mentioned earlier, Grants Pass is about 45 minutes away, due west. What could have happened where Vance would want a chaperone?

  “Finish your shopping, go home, and grab the dogs. We’re needed in Grants Pass.”

  “Is this for a case?” I asked. “Don’t they have their own police force?”

  “They do, but they’re short-staffed. We’re helping them out. Hurry, would you? A small grocery store over there has been vandalized. Their pharmacy was hit, but there’s something about this case which doesn’t sit right with me.”

  TWO

  The distance from PV to Grants Pass could be covered in half an hour, provided you opened up the throttle once you were out on the freeway. And, don’t get me wrong, there was a time when I would have done just that. However, those reckless, carefree days were long behind me, especially when I had my two dogs with me.

  Obeying the rules of the road might be considered lame, and you were going to open yourself up to some serious ridiculing by your friends, but it was something I was unwilling to compromise. So, long story short, the dogs and I arrived in Grants Pass in just under an hour. The entire time I was driving, I kept asking myself, why this store? I’ve already passed nearly half a dozen different stores which could pass for grocery stores. Plus, I even passed a full-sized Safeway, something even PV doesn’t have. So, what was so special about this one?

  Spotting Vance’s Oldsmobile sedan parked near the front of Vicki’s Grab & Go, I took the empty spot next to his and, making sure the leashes were wrapped tightly around my hand, we approached the front entrance. However, I could see a long strip of yellow crime scene tape stretched across the glass double-doors. A uniformed officer stepped up to intercept us, but before he could say anything, the glass doors whooshed open and Vance stuck out his head.

  “Zack! There you are. I was starting to worry you got lost, pal.”

  I waggled my cell phone. “Not likely. My phone walked me through all the way here. It gave perfect directions.”

  “Nice. You should be doing that all the time. Your sense of direction is so lousy that I’m sure you’ve probably misplaced your house a few times.”

  “Oh, hardy har har. I have not.”

  Well, okay, it might’ve happened once or twice, but I was never going to admit that to my police detective friend. Thankfully, I’m getting better with directions in the greater PV area, which might have something to do with me mastering the navigation system on my phone. I haven’t been lost in a long while, which was a record for me, and I certainly didn’t want to jinx myself now. When Vance wasn’t looking, I quickly knocked on the side of my head, which had Sherlock head-tilting me.

  “Welcome to Vicki’s Grab & Go,” my friend announced, as we all stepped into the store. “We need to …”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. I then pointed at a display rack of fresh French bread. “This is a grocery store. There’s food in there. I don’t think we’re supposed to be here. I mean, they aren’t.”

  Vance turned to point at an older, middle-aged brunette, who was chatting with several police officers.
/>
  “That’s Vicki. She’s the owner of this place. She’s already given me permission to… scratch that. Hey, Vicki? Er, Ms. Doyle? Could I borrow you for just a moment?”

  The woman in question turned at the sound of her name and smiled at Vance. Just then, Sherlock decided to give himself a good shaking, and I watched a frown immediately appear on Ms. Doyle’s face. Then again, I also watched her drop her gaze to the ground and, after locating the source of the jingling collar, instead of ordering us out of her store, her eyes lit up. She hurried over to us.

  “Oooo, tell me this is the famous Sherlock and Watson I’ve heard so much about!”

  I pointed each of them out. “This is Sherlock. He’s the one with black on his coat. Watson is over there, with the red and white fur. Sounds like you already know my dogs, huh?”

  Even though Ms. Doyle was wearing a very tight, knee-length skirt, she managed to squat down next to the dogs to give each of them a friendly scratching behind the ears. Both corgis, I might add, immediately rolled onto their backs. I swear, neither of them had a shred of dignity between them.

  “Are you going to help me find out who did this? I’ll bet you could figure this out with your eyes closed, couldn’t you, my handsome little boys?”

  “Uh, Watson is a girl,” I quietly corrected.

  “Oh, you are? What kind of name is that for such a pretty little girl like you?” Vicki all but cooed.

  I noticed the smirk forming on Vance’s face, who had long maintained that I had picked a lousy name for my female corgi. Scowling, I cocked my arm back, as if I was ready to throw a punch. And, let’s face it. I was.

  Vance took a few steps away from me. “Ms. Doyle, may I present Zack Anderson, and his two dogs, Sherlock and Watson. They are official police consultants, and they are …”

  “I know why they’re here,” Vicki smoothly interrupted. “Mr. Anderson? I don’t normally allow animals in my store, but you and your dogs have my full blessing to check wherever you’d like. Find the bastards who did this.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I promised.

  Vance tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the opposite end of the store, where the tiny pharmacy was situated. We could see a metal gate had been lowered, to securely prevent anyone from gaining access after hours. However, we could both see that the gate had been ripped from the wall, as though someone had hooked a chain to the gate and then sped off. In a semi.

  I whistled as we examined the destruction. “Someone really wanted in there, didn’t they?”

  Vance leaned over the counter to see for himself what had happened to the pharmacy. What he saw had him cringing. Me, too, for that matter.

  Racks were destroyed. Shelves were broken. Several cabinet doors were open. One was even hanging off of its one good hinge. But the most alarming thing we discovered? A severe lack of pills. Practically all the pill bottles had been taken. I couldn’t even begin to fathom what that might have been worth. Sure, the pharmacy was small, as pharmacies go, but come on. You know as well I do how much those pills are generally worth.

  “I’m hoping everything is insured,” I quietly murmured.

  Vance eyed me with an unreadable expression. “Right? Okay, let’s get to work. Why don’t you walk the dogs around and see if they can pick up anything.”

  “You got it.”

  Gathering up the leashes, I walked around the small area behind the pharmacy counter, but neither dog, I could tell, was interested in the slightest. Sherlock sniffed once at a discarded pill bottle, but that was the only reaction I could get out of them. Growing frustrated, I decided to walk around the perimeter of the store and see if there might be something, anything, that was worth investigating.

  We started on the eastern side of the store, which was where you’d find produce. Now, I realize I have never worked in the produce department at a grocery store, and therefore didn’t really know what I was looking for, but everything appeared normal to me. Displays of avocados, tomatoes, and bananas were stacked neatly on tables. Oranges and kiwis shared a corner display, and several varieties of apples were layered in makeshift pyramids here and there.

  Catching sight of a swinging double door just to my left, I poked my head in to see what must be the area where the produce clerk would unbox the fruit and veggies and dispose of the packaging. Both Sherlock and Watson jammed their heads through the flap, too, and studied the scene before them, and then—disinterested—moved on.

  We swung around the back of the store, where the deli and butcher block were located. The dogs only stopped at the deli after detecting I had stopped first. Whatever they were cooking smelled fantastic. Roast chicken, maybe? Barbecue sausage? Whatever it was, it had the effect of reminding me it was close to dinnertime.

  We hit the dairy, walked up and down the fourteen aisles that comprised the store, but all without a hit. That is, until we hit the far back corner, which revealed another set of double doors, this time leading to the grocery store’s back storeroom. I took a quick look back there, too, only I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Sherlock wanted to look, and after allowing him and Watson a few moments to peruse the scene, I pulled them back out and headed toward the front of the store.

  Sherlock, the little booger, resisted.

  “Stop stopping, Sherlock. There’s nothing to see back there. We’re going this way, okay? Now, stop resisting and …”

  Just like that, the two corgis dropped their objections and, suddenly, I was the one being pulled along. Curious as to where we were going, I tried to see around the dogs, but didn’t have much luck, since they were first pulling to the left, then to the right, and finally, back to the left.

  “Are you looking for the door?” I finally asked. I pointed out the one we had come in. “Look, there’s one over there. Now, would you please pick a direction? Left or right, I don’t care.”

  Watson chose right. Sherlock chose left. My arms were yanked in both directions, effectively turning me into a human-shaped T.

  “Ouch,” I complained to the dogs. “Thanks for that. You want to go outside? Fine. Watson, come with me. We’re going to follow Sherlock.”

  Once outside, both corgis shook themselves, looked up at the bright, blue sky, and headed off. At least it was in the same direction this time.

  “Are you guys heading somewhere?” I heard Vance inquire.

  He clearly had followed us outside and was now slowly walking behind us.

  “Beats me. I have no idea where they’re planning on going. They may not have found anything inside, but it looks like we’re on the trail of something out here.”

  I watched Vance have an internal argument with himself as he debated whether or not he should follow us. Looking at the two corgis staring up at him, expectantly, turned the tide in their favor.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  I gave the dogs some slack in their leashes and decided to see where they’d lead us. The dogs promptly took us over to the sidewalk and, as though they were out for a walk in the park, strutted along the street like AKC champions who had just won Best in Show. We watched quite a few people slow their cars and watch the dogs go by. Not one of them, I’d like to add, bothered to look our way, namely myself and Vance.

  “They love the attention, don’t they?” Vance quietly observed.

  “That they do. Where are we headed? What’s down this way?”

  “More storefronts,” Vance said, as he looked off in the distance. “We’re just about to hit downtown. Goes to show you how small this town really is.”

  “PV is way smaller,” I argued.

  “True. Maybe they caught the scent of the burglar and are following him to his hideout? Maybe Vicki has a few enemies who might … Zack? Where are they going now?”

  Sherlock and Watson had veered the moment the road forked. It looked as though we were headed for an alley that ran between two of the busiest streets in downtown Grants Pass. Skeptical, I glanced at my dogs, who were pulling at their leashes, anxiou
sly awaiting permission to resume walking. Shrugging, I gave them slack and followed them into the alley.

  Barely wide enough to fit a garbage truck, this alley was one-way, had small green dumpsters on either side for each of the merchants, and didn’t smell that great. Then again, what would you expect if you had that many dumpsters in such close proximity? Exasperated, I looked over at Vance, who was moments away from pulling up his shirt to cover his nose.

  “Well, that’s an attractive smell,” my detective friend decided. “Sherlock? Watson? What’s in here you want us to see? Or smell? The sooner we find what you want, the sooner we can get out of here.”

  “Agreed. Come on, guys. What do you…”

  I trailed off as Sherlock suddenly angled for the closest dumpster and then sniffed along the bottom of it once we neared. The little corgi turned to look up at me, glanced once at the dirty, crud-covered asphalt, and whined. Thankful he wasn’t trying to sit, which is what he usually did when he found something worth checking out, I handed the leashes to Vance and hurried over to the dumpster.

  “Be careful,” Vance warned. “We don’t know what’s in there. For all we know, it could be some high-as-a-kite junkie.”

  I carefully lifted the lid and peered inside. Surprised, I pushed the lid off the dumpster, allowing it to smack noisily against the cinderblock wall behind it. I held a hand out to Vance.

  “Gloves.”

  Vance reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Snapping them on, I gingerly started to reach inside when I thought better of it. Cursing to myself, I pulled out my phone and clumsily activated the camera app. Holding it up and over the rim of the dumpster, I took a few photos.

  “Whatcha got?” Vance asked. “What’s in there?”

  Putting my phone away, I reached inside the dumpster and pulled out a dark green duffel bag. This had to be what the dogs wanted. After all, there was nothing else in the dumpster but bags of garbage.

  “What do you have there?” Vance wanted to know.

  I let the duffel bag plop to the ground, but not before each of us noticed the telltale rattle from what sounded like hundreds of small objects striking one another. Like … pills?