Gary shook his head. “There’s not, unfortunately.”
“Bend is over 170 miles north from here,” Vance told me. “Zack? I think I know why these three stores were targeted.”
“No, we don’t,” I argued. “Nobody could want cranberries that badly, not when there are other stores more readily available than the offerings we have in our small towns.”
Vance was already on his cell.
“This is Detective Samuelson. I need a records check of a company called ‘MDC’, short for Medford Distribution Center. I need to know … what’s that? No, it’s a supplier. It’s … I’m sorry? No, it’s the company who supplies our grocery store with their inventory. Yes, we’re guessing they were the suppliers to the other two stores who were hit, too. Yes, I’ll hold.”
“What’s going on?” Gary quietly asked me. “Was there something on my shipping invoice that shed some light on who was responsible for this?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “What I can tell you is that we think we finally know how your store, and the two who were previously hit, are linked.”
“We have the same supplier,” Gary softly guessed.
“That’s right.”
Gary looked at the two dogs, who had now settled down onto the back seat of my Jeep.
“How did they know?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” I admitted.
I heard Vance’s conversation start up again, but before I knew what was going on, he was thanking the person on the phone and hanging up.
“Zack, get this. MDC? You’re right. They’re the supplier for the other two stores as well.”
“Which we figured,” I said.
“Right. Now, all we gotta do is figure out what’s so important about those stupid cranberries. I’m with you. I think there’s something up with those berries. Someone doesn’t want anyone to have any. I want to know why.”
We thanked Gary and, again, headed to our cars.
“What’s our next play?” I wanted to know.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to call MDC and find out why someone wants to get their hands on every last bag of cranberries. Plus, I want to find out how many other small grocery stores MDC supplies. I also want to find out more about MDC’s supplier. I mean, there’s gotta be something up with that processing plant. I’m hoping we can … what’s wrong?”
“What processing plant?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Apparently, MDC gets their cranberries from some plant in Washington. In case you’re wondering, it was listed on MDC’s official website.”
“So, they get their cranberries from Washington State. How does that help us?”
“No clue, pal. We’re going to have to wait until we can call them tomorrow.”
SEVEN
The following morning, the dogs and I were in a small room to the right of my kitchen, affectionately named the breakfast nook, having a bite to eat. This small-ish room had bench seating and overlooked a bay window, which faced out onto my winery. Frankly, it was my favorite room in the house, and unless Jillian was here, this was where you’d typically find me. The caveat to that would be if I happened to be writing. Then, I’d be sequestered upstairs, in my study, which was simply one of my spare rooms.
It was early, much earlier than I would have liked, seeing how the corgis roused themselves a good hour before sunrise. Why, might you ask? Well, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they were doing. They were hungry. So, that meant that they needed to wake Yours Truly up. How did they decide to accomplish that feat? Well, for whatever reason, Sherlock and Watson decided to play a noisy game of tag, followed by a ferocious battle of keep-away, and finish the play session with several rounds of tug-of-war. All of this, mind you, just so happened to take place on my bed, with me in it. I knew exactly what the dogs were trying to do the moment the first corgi drive-by happened. They clearly wanted their breakfast and they were inviting me, in their own way, of course, to join them. Typically, they woke with me and we all had breakfast together. Not today, unfortunately. The little boogers decided to take it upon themselves to get themselves fed. I personally tried to hold out as long as I could by pretending to be asleep, but Watson took care of that for me. Once it became clear that Operation Wake Daddy had failed, my cute little girl took it upon herself to go undercover.
And I mean that literally.
Watson squirmed under the covers, nestled herself against my chest, and then … let one go. Now, I’m hoping I don’t have to go into detail with that one, because holy cow, did it have the desired effect. My little girl has been known, from time to time, to eat a little too fast, and therefore ingest some air along with her kibble. Well, the excess air had to go somewhere. In Watson’s case, she could clear out a hotel lobby in less time than it takes to pinch your nose shut. The worst part was the fact that I felt a brief burst of warmth on my leg, right about where her rump would have been.
“Give me some warning, would you?” I demanded, as I practically leapt out of bed and fanned the covers in an attempt to remove the noxious brown clouds that were undoubtedly working their way up, through the bedding. “If you wanted me up that badly, then you should have just said so. Holy cow, Watson. What the heck have you been eating? You’d think your owner has never been responsible for feeding a corgi before.”
Sherlock leapt on the bed, stretched out into the famous corgi ‘sploot’, and regarded me with a smug expression.
“Don’t even think you won, sport. I got up because I wanted to, all right?”
Fast forward to the present time. I had just finished munching on my croissant and reached for a banana from the bowl of fruit I keep on the table in here. Just like that, I felt two pairs of canine eyes boring into the back of my skull. Grinning at my two dogs, I peeled the banana and offered each of them a small piece of the fruit. I don’t know about your dogs, but mine? They love bananas so much that they’ve learned to recognize the sound of a single banana being broken off from a cluster.
Wandering into the living room, I turned on a local news channel and sank down into my favorite recliner to read through the local paper. However, right about that time, my cell started to ring. Glancing at the display had me automatically looking through the front window, to see if he was lurking on my front doorstep.
It was Caden, and thankfully, no, he wasn’t waiting to ambush me outside my front door. There’d be no nasty taste tests for me first thing this morning, thank you very much. What did all of that mean for me? Easy. It was safe to take the call.
“Hey, Caden. How’s it goin’?”
“Zack, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal! How are you doing this fine, lovely day?”
Every alarm I had just went off. This was worse than putting in an appearance on my front porch. He was schmoozing me, which meant he wanted me to buy something. I could only hope it didn’t have a comma in the price tag.
“Who is it for, and how much does it cost?” I automatically asked, and because I knew it’d make my winemaster laugh, I threw in a very loud sigh.
“Oh, hear me out, would you?” Caden said. “Besides, somehow I think you’ll be on board this time.”
“Willingly?” I asked.
“Willingly,” Caden confirmed.
“Fine. Hit me with your best shot.”
“As you know, it’s harvest time,” Caden began. “I think I told you that this will be our largest harvest to date, right?”
Forgetting that Caden couldn’t see me, I nodded. “That’s right. What about it?”
“Well, our storage boxes are all full.”
This got my attention. We were out of room? Those storage boxes were full? I may not have been paying full attention to Caden as he explained the size of a standard storage box, which was 48” x 40” x 31”, but I was certain that I remembered his claims that we had plenty for this harvest. Each container, I had been told, would accommodate somewhere around 100 lbs. of the harvested grapes. How had my master vintner been off
on his estimates? My poor brain stumbled at the math involved. Uncertain how my silence should be interpreted, Caden continued on.
“I’ve even showed the workers how to pack around 125 pounds in the boxes, with a few approaching 150. You don’t want to go over 150 pounds for any container.”
“Uh, sure. How do I fit in to all of this?”
“We need more containers, and I think we’re going to need more storage vats. I’m not sure where I screwed up with my estimates, but I clearly didn’t carry a number somewhere on my equations.”
“Sure, whatever you need,” I decided. “If the winery needs it, then go ahead and order it.”
“Awesome. Thanks, Zack.”
Assuming this was the end of the call, I started to move my phone away from my face when I noticed that the call was still connected. Curious, the phone was returned to my ear.
“Is there something else?”
“I, uh, yeah, there’s something else.”
Yep, there they go. Once more, my red flags started popping up, one after the other. He was reluctant to tell me something, so it had to be bad news, didn’t it?
“Out with it, amigo. What’s up?”
“I know how much you like to avoid the winery, whenever I hold classes, that is.”
“No worries. If you need me to be scarce for a bit, then it won’t be a problem. I can head over to Jillian’s for the day. Plus, I really do need to get with Vance over this latest case of ours.”
“That’s good to hear. The number of students around here is about to increase for the next couple of weeks, and I don’t want them to get in your way.”
“Oh? How many are we talking about?”
“The last time I looked, nearly 30 had signed up, and for the first time ever, I had to put a cap on the total number of students: 35. Zack, I think I’m gonna hit that number.”
“Is that a good thing?” I wanted to know.
“It shows you how many families are schooling their kids in the fine art of making wine,” Caden proudly informed me. “Plus, the students get legitimate, hands-on experience here, at Lentari Cellars. You can’t beat that anywhere.”
“That sounded like a jab at Professor What’s-his-face.”
Professor Ferris, current head of the Oenology Department at the community college, in Medford, was Caden’s old boss after he had left his position at the winery. Who knew? Anyway, Caden had bailed on the winery when there was a better than average chance Abigail Lawson would be able to wrest control of the business away from her mother. Thankfully, she was unsuccessful, and the winery passed to me. I tracked down Caden, offered him his old job back and the rest, as they say, is history. But, with Caden Burne back at the helm, we’ve been flourishing.
Expanded acreage, added equipment to make day-to-day operations easier, and having full control over all decisions, Caden was having the time of his life. Additionally, even though he made plenty of money at his regular job, he still taught at the college; however, the classes he taught were all held here at Lentari Cellars. Having met Professor Grump only the one time, I can only imagine Caden kept his part-time teaching gig just to annoy Professor Ferris. After all, Caden received much higher ratings from the students than did the Grouch, and the aforementioned Grouch was supremely ticked off at having one of his underlings be more favored than he was.
Pompous jerk.
“Did I tell you he’s retiring?” Caden cut in.
This was news to me.
“No, you didn’t. That’s great, right? Let the old sourpuss return to whatever rock he crawled out from.”
“It’s good, yeah, but the college wants me to take on his classes.”
“I realize I don’t have any set hours for you,” I cautiously began, “but every time I see you, you always seem to have a million things on your plate. Are you going to have time to do that?”
“Not a chance,” Caden laughed. “I told them thanks, but no thanks. My life is full enough.”
“Good. Glad to hear it, amigo.”
“Thanks for the support, Zack. I’ll get those containers ordered.”
“Send me the bill.”
“I always do.”
Setting my phone down, I glanced over at the dogs. Both had jumped up onto my recliner and settled on either side of me. Sherlock turned to regard me for a few moments.
“He thinks I’m a walking ATM,” I tried to explain.
Sherlock snorted, and was about to return to his nap, when he glanced over at the television. I may have had the volume muted, but the channel was still on, which was currently tuned to one of those 24-hour news channels. This particular one was showing me headlines for the past twenty minutes. Disinterested, I returned to my paper.
Watson chose that time to wake up and change positions on my lap. She snuggled up against my chest and, while I was stroking her fur with my left hand, settled back down. At this time, the news program switched stories, and was now talking about some type of space program, I think.
I returned to the comics section. Laughing through the antics of an orange and black-colored tabby cat, I felt Sherlock shift positions next. Glancing over at him, I could see that he was now laying, Sphinx-like, on my right leg.
“Could your Royal Canineships stop fidgeting? It’s very distracting. May I offer a pillow?”
I was ignored. Whatever. My eyes returned to my paper, but not before I glanced up at the TV. The story was still about space. It was probably to let us know of some impending eclipse, or possibly the arrival of a meteor shower.
I still wasn’t paying too much attention to the television. And, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I really should have. But, even though I had lost my attention, I was about to get it back.
The picture on the television shifted to an interview, and as a result, the screen brightened considerably, which is what caused me to look up again. Now, I feel I should tell you my TV was currently set to display closed captions whenever the mute button was pressed. Since I had automatically muted the TV when Caden called, the scrolling captions had instantly appeared. As I sat there, feeling both of my legs going numb thanks to the dead weight of the dogs, I started skimming through the scrolling text.
I still wasn’t paying too much attention.
The video shifted again. This time, I was looking at a 15” refracting telescope, housed in a building that had been constructed in 1895. The captions mentioned something about celestial views and wonders of the universe.
Having had an interest in astronomy for quite some time now, I was now watching the program, but I still wasn’t paying too close attention. The scene shifted to an exterior shot once more, which was back on the reporter standing outside the observatory’s front entrance. The guy was yammering again, and I’m sorry to say, I was about to lose interest when Sherlock fidgeted, but this time, the little snot stepped on the remote, which had the unfortunate effect of unmuting the program and cranking the volume up to a level hitherto only found in rock-n-roll concerts.
Watson and I nearly jumped out of our skins. Sherlock, the smug little booger, stepped off the volume and settled back in the (now vacant) recliner. Snatching the remote and hammering away at the volume down button, I glared at Sherlock’s smug visage when I heard the words ‘University of Washington’ come out of the reporter’s mouth.
Suddenly, I was paying attention. This observatory was part of the University of Washington? They were located, unsurprisingly enough, in Washington State, which is our northern neighbor. Didn’t Vance tell me the processing plant he was going to research was somewhere in the Evergreen State? What were the chances that a news story associated with Washington State would appear on television today? And not to mention, both corgis had been watching it? Was that a coincidence?
At that exact moment, in the background, a semi-truck hauling an open trailer, drove by. The diesel engine was loud, and the reporter had to pause as the truck passed, but I didn’t care about any of that. Both dogs had perked up, and I’m ashamed
to say, so had I, as though the three of us had suddenly heard a strange noise. Together, Sherlock, Watson, and I stared at the truck as it drove past, on the video. Why?
The truck was hauling a huge load of cranberries.
Apparently, my luck ran out. The report about the observatory was over, and the news program moved to its next story. As for me, however, I was sprinting for my laptop. A news story just happens to be on television, with both dogs watching? And Sherlock unmutes the channel and scares ten years of life off me to get my attention? Well, I might’ve lost my attention for the past fifteen minutes, but I certainly had it back now.
There it was. A quick search for cranberry processing plants in Washington State only yielded one, and it was near the University of Washington campus. That was clearly the right one. This had to be the plant supplying MDC with its berries. After all, there were no other candidates in the entire state. Best to be sure, though.
I expanded my search and discovered the answer: yes. That one plant processed every berry harvested in Washington and Oregon. Therefore, it had to be connected. Why would Sherlock want me to notice it? I mean, a simple internet search would have yielded the same results, and I’m positive I would have done that exact search the following day. Why now?
I thought back to the observatory and the reporter. What was the, er, story there? Obviously, the processing plant was next door to the University of Washington’s campus, so could the two events have been related? Had something happened that would tie the two facilities together?
Let me pause here, for a moment, to gloat. Yes, I know it’s not very becoming, but it’s not often that Yours Truly stumbles across the key to cracking the current case we were working on wide open. As luck would have it, this particular observatory, the only one available for the University of Washington’s students, had been studying the asteroid belt. It’s also when I learned about ET.
No, it’s not what you think. Allow me to elucidate.
The asteroid belt is a torus-shaped band of an inordinate amount of solid objects, varying in size from grains of rice all the way up to something called ‘minor planets’. For the record, this huge collection of objects is located between Jupiter and Mars, and in case I’ve inadvertently freaked you out, the combined mass of all the varying sizes of asteroids is only about 3% of our moon.
Case of the Great Cranberry Caper Page 11