Case of the Pilfered Pooches

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Nearly a half dozen different conversations immediately broke out. I noticed one woman, with what looked like a purple sombrero on her head, look around at her companions. She must have decided her group was taking a break, ‘cause she pulled one of her water bottles out of its ‘holster’ and practically drained it.

  Apparently, that was all it took. Within moments, the entire group was reaching for their water bottles and were quickly draining them. Judging from the way these ladies were guzzling their water, you’d think we had just interrupted a twenty-mile marathon. I waited a few moments before I gave the women what I hoped was my most disarming smile.

  “You ladies are obviously very observant,” I continued, as I smiled at their spokeswoman, “so I’m hoping you might have seen something that could help us? Maybe you’ve seen a small dog wandering the area? Perhaps you’ve seen someone lurking in the trees? Have you seen any wheelbarrows? Although, in this case, beagles aren’t that big. He might not have needed one.”

  “You’re looking for a sea gull?” one of the women asked in a rather loud voice as she looked up. She clutched the brim of her purple mini top hat fearfully, as if expecting to get hit with an avian aerial bomb.

  Another woman, wearing a large brim purple Kentucky Derby hat, groaned aloud, “No, Milly. They’re looking for a beagle. For Heaven’s sake, check your batteries.”

  Milly frowned and then started fiddling with her hearing aid, presently visible resting on the upper part of her ear.

  The group spokesman, er, spokeswoman, selected one of the women standing quietly nearby, and pulled the left-hand bottle free of the fanny pack. She took a small sip and immediately held it out behind her. There was a mad rush as the ladies all clamored to retrieve the bottle first. A few minutes later, after the bottle had passed through the hands of all the ladies present, it was returned to its owner. Completely empty.

  Concerned that the women were dehydrated, and needed water, I pointed back towards the park. The last thing I wanted to do was perform CPR on an elderly woman.

  “There are some vending machines back there,” I helpfully suggested. “Several of them have bottled water. Would you like me to fetch a couple?”

  One of the women giggled hysterically while yet another snorted with laughter.

  “Water? Heavens no. Edith filled her bottle with coconut rum. Didn’t you, dearie?”

  Edith blushed and stared at her feet, “Well, I did mix it with diet Coke. I used a 10:1 ratio.”

  “Ten parts soda to one part rum?” I chuckled. “That’s not too bad, I suppose.”

  The women fell silent. I couldn’t help it. I cracked a smile.

  “Or would that be one part soda to ten parts rum?”

  Now there were affirmative nods from all around.

  Vance shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. Right about then, Edith looked down and spotted my dogs. She clapped her hands together and squealed with excitement, which, if you recall, was corgi-speak for ‘let’s be friends’. Then I noticed a few disapproving frowns from several of her companions. They caught me giving them a quizzical look and before you can say ‘Aren’t they cute?’ the friendly grandmother personas appeared once more. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered anyone who didn’t adore the corgis on first sight.

  “Now, don’t you worry about us,” the first woman confided with a sheepish smile. She had noticed me staring at the women near the back of the group. “Between you and me, I think a few of the girls forgot to take their bran this morning.”

  I heard several grumbles coming from behind me.

  “See what I mean?”

  “You’d better not be talking about me,” the same woman who thought we were looking for sea gulls said.

  “I’m not, Milly. Although, I should mention, I saw you had some of the rum. We all know you can’t hold your liquor.”

  “I can drink you under the table any day of the week,” Milly challenged, as she turned to regard her friend.

  One of the women with a stroller pushed through to the front of the line.

  “Ladies. There will be a time and place for everything. And, I will say for the record, Milliford has challenged Mary in front of everyone. So, that means that next week’s meeting will be held at Red Barn Tavern. Drinks will be on the loser. All in favor?”

  “Aye!” the women chorused.

  “The motion is carried. Now, in the meantime, lieutenant…”

  “Detective Vance Samuelson,” Vance interrupted. “And you are?”

  “Winnifred Silversmith. I am the president of ELLA. I trust you’ve heard of our noble organization.”

  Vance shook his head, “Nope, I’m sorry.”

  “We are the Esteemed Lavender Ladies Assemblage of Pomme Valley,” Winnifred explained. “There will be chapters popping up all across the country, you mark my words. We’ll be as popular as the BPO Elks.”

  “And the Lions,” Edith proudly added.

  “As I was saying, detective,” Winnifred continued, “you can rest assured that if myself or any of my ladies notice anything out of the ordinary, you will be the first to know.”

  “Ask him for a business card,” one of the women whispered as she leaned close to the club president. “He’s awfully cute!”

  “Hush, Teri,” a yet-to-be-named lady scolded. “He’ll hear you.”

  My eyebrows shot up and I eyed my friend. It was Vance’s turn to blush, and trust me, he did. I snickered, but managed to turn it into a cough.

  “Bite me, pal,” I heard Vance whisper.

  Teri held a hand up to her mouth, “Oh, my! Did I say that too loud?”

  The ELLA ladies giggled uncontrollably, thus proving that everyone had heard Teri’s comment. Smiling at the two of us, they continued by. I looked down at the dogs. Already disinterested, Sherlock was ready to continue on. Giving the inquisitive corgi all the slack that I could on the leash, we moved off.

  “That was something,” I casually remarked, as soon as I was sure we were out of earshot. “Did you like those hats? And that one lady. Teri, was it? She liked you.”

  “Drop it, amigo,” Vance warned, “or I’ll bring up Clara Hanson again.”

  My face paled and I immediately touched three fingers to my brow.

  “Consider it dropped. Scout’s honor.”

  Allow me to shed a little context here. Clara Hanson is the owner of A Lazy Afternoon, PV’s one and only bookstore. She is also the owner of a little African gray parrot named Ruby, who for some inexplicable reason, was infatuated with both me and Sherlock. And, unfortunately, so was Clara.

  I fought to suppress a shudder.

  “Moving on, do you really think there’s still a trail to follow? There was, what, close to a dozen ladies in that purple hat group? I’m not sure what Sherlock is going to be able to find.”

  We both looked down at the dogs. Sherlock had his nose to the ground and was continuing to tug on his leash. For all intents and purposes, he looked as though he still had the scent.

  The route we were following didn’t appear to be a path, but it could have doubled as one. We were following a three foot wide discoloration of earth, which signified a shift in the natural vegetation. I knelt down to inspect our ‘path’, only to discover there was no point in looking for tracks. The discoloration was where the dirt had changed into solid rock.

  “This is wide enough for a wheelbarrow,” Vance quietly observed as he knelt down beside me.

  “Only it wouldn’t be needed,” I reminded him. “We’re talking about a beagle. They aren’t that big.”

  Vance nodded his head, “True.”

  I felt a tug on the leash. Sherlock wanted to keep going.

  Ten minutes later, our luck held out. Or, I suppose you could say that Sherlock’s reputation continued to remain untarnished. The natural rock line abruptly ended and the dirt resumed. The three foot wide path easily doubled in width and stretched away, to the south. I looked down at the ground and saw a very welcoming sign: so
ft dirt.

  There, clearly discernible in the earth, were two thin tire tracks, which we followed for nearly twenty-five feet. Then we saw a very welcoming sight: tire tracks! Someone had brought a car in here! How? Where the hell was the road?

  “Whatcha got there?” Vance asked as he came up behind me.

  I pointed at the ground, “Those thin tire tracks just switched to big ones. Either those skinny tires suddenly tripled in size, or else we’re now looking at tire tracks!”

  Vance let out a whoop and dropped down to a knee. He whipped his cell out and snapped a few pictures. I could see that he was bringing up his message app on his phone and sending the pictures off to someone.

  “I’ve asked the boys at the lab to take a look at these,” Vance told me. “I kinda think we might have an answer in remarkable time.”

  “Really? How can you be so sure?”

  Vance shrugged, “Call it a hunch. In fact, I’ll bet you lunch that we’ll have a positive match for those tires in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Make it twenty minutes,” I countered.

  Vance thrust out a hand, “Deal.”

  Yep. I lost. It only took ten.

  “How did you know you’d get a response so fast?”

  Vance shot me a sidelong look, “‘Cause I dropped Captain Nelson’s name and said this is about his granddaughter’s missing dog.”

  “Cheater.”

  “I’m thinking Casa de Joe’s sounds good.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So, spill. What’d you find out?”

  “They’re 215/70R/15s. They even found the exact make and model.”

  I had to admit, I was impressed.

  “Okay. What about those thin tracks?”

  “Same generic track like the wheelbarrow from before, only narrower.”

  “Damn. Okay, so what about the tire tracks? Get anything good?”

  “They’re Nexen N’Priz AH5s. It’s a standard touring tire.”

  “Standard? Oh. That sucks. That probably means they’re fairly common, right?”

  Vance clapped me on the shoulder, “Zack, are you kidding me? I can actually show my face before the captain ‘cause I have something to report. We have a lead! Way to go, Sherlock! You, too, Watson! You saved my ass, little buddies.”

  SIX

  Two days passed without any real progress in the investigation. Thanks to the techs at the crime lab, and the help of ye Almighty Internet, I learned that those Nexen N’Priz tires were just as standard as they sounded. Between Pomme Valley and Medford, there are fifteen different tire stores which carry the Nexen brand. I should also mention that Medford has two warehouse stores and they each have an automotive department that services cars and trucks. They carry the tires, too.

  So much for that lead.

  While Vance continued to pore through the backlog of case files from Medford, and at his express urging to leave him alone for the day, I decided to spend my free time catching up on all the paperwork around the winery. First on my To Do list required the use of my cell. Who was I calling? Well, let’s just say that I was about to make Caden’s day.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this the Parson residence? Could I speak to Tim, please?”

  The person who had answered the phone sounded like he could’ve been my age. I had hoped it would have been old man Parson himself, since he and I have a casual friendship. Being the neighborly type, I have passed him several bottles of wine from time to time. In return, he’d give me more apples and nectarines than I would know what to do with. Thankfully, Jillian knew all about canning and preserving fruit. My basement – and hers, for that matter – were filled with dozens of jars of various goodies.

  Sorry, random thought: why do they call it ‘canning’ when you’re filling up glass jars? I’ll let that one slide for now.

  Now, back to the issue at hand. If there was a chance in hell that the Parson family was thinking about selling a piece of their farm off, then I had to at least try to put in a good offer. What harm was there in trying to broker a deal?

  “Yes, this is the Parson residence. Who is this?”

  “My name is Zachary Anderson. I own…”

  “Mister Anderson!” the speaker all but shouted at me. “You’re the owner of Lentari Cellars, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty,” I confirmed with a chuckle.

  “And… and you are the owner of those two little dogs who solve crimes, aren’t you?”

  I felt my face go slack. Why did I continue to get surprised? It was a well-known fact that my dogs were more popular than I was.

  “I, er, umm… sorry. You caught me off guard. I do own two little dogs.”

  “Yes! I knew it! You’re the owner of those two corgis!”

  I wasn’t too sure how to take this.

  “Well, yeah. That’s me. Sherlock and Watson are my dogs.”

  “I’m Jason Parson. I’m Tim’s son. I’m the one who just took over the family farm. Pleased to meet you, Zachary!”

  “Call me Zack. It’s nice to meet you, too, Jason. Listen, the reason I’m calling is that my winemaster mentioned to me that you might be interested in selling some of your acreage off. I thought it’d make a great investment in the winery.”

  “Are you looking to expand Lentari Cellars?”

  “Not at the present moment. However, when we’re ready to expand, it’d be nice to already have the land. What do you say? Are you interested in selling?”

  “Not only am I interested in selling, but I think it’s safe to say that my entire family would love to hear that Lentari Cellars is interested in buying it. In fact, I’ll personally guarantee that I’ll make you a deal so good that you won’t be able to refuse it.”

  I laughed. I was really starting to like Jason. He had an easy-going, personable attitude. I had already decided to accept whatever offer he was willing to give me when he hit me with…

  “How does 35 acres sound?”

  “35? Seriously? Wow. I thought Caden said you were only interested in selling 20 acres.”

  “20 would be the number I’d be willing to sell a stranger. Now that I know you’re interested in the land, I’d much rather you have it. I know my father would agree. He’s always been fond of your wines.”

  “I’m not sure I was looking to purchase that many acres, Jason. I haven’t even heard what you’re asking for the lot of 20 acres, let alone 35.”

  The number Jason gave me had both my eyebrows jumping straight up.

  “Are you sure? I’m willing to bet that you could easily get five times that amount.”

  “I know I could. We don’t need the money, Zack. When dad gave control of the farm to me, he literally told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. He and mom are buying a house in Florida right on Lake Okeechobee. You see, he loves to fish for big bass. What better way to do that by fishing right off your front porch?”

  “With that said, you’re probably looking at getting rid of the farm as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s right. I have a second buyer interested in the 50 acre plot to the west. I’m sure I can get him to take the second 50 acre plot sitting adjacent to it.”

  “If you offer him a deal like mine, then I’m sure he won’t be able to say no.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on. What do you say, Zack? Will you buy it?”

  “Jason, it’s a deal. Hey, I don’t suppose you guys have any tractors for sale, do you?”

  “We had several, only all three have been sold. Sorry, buddy.”

  “It’s okay. It’s probably for the best. Caden said something about a buying a specialty tractor, one that’s made narrower than most so that it’ll fit between rows of vines.”

  “That’s right. I know exactly what you’re talking about. My buddy runs the John Deere dealership in Medford. I’ve heard him mention the special orchard tractors once or twice. Want me to make a call and see if he has any available?”

  I fought to suppress a smile. If I managed to pull off buying a
tractor after sealing the deal for the additional 35 acres, then Caden was gonna positively shit bricks. And yes, as morbid as it sounds, that was something I had to see.

  “Jason, that’d be awesome. I don’t need anything fancy, or too big. It’s just for day-to-day use around here in the winery.”

  “What do you need it for? What type of work do you need to do? I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be nosy. I know Alan – my friend – will ask.”

  “You know what? I really don’t have a clue. I don’t know the first thing about farming, or growing plants. I let Caden handle all aspects of handling the grapes. What I can tell you is that, right now, Lentari Cellars has 10 planted acres, with an additional five ready to go.”

  “You had 15 acres set aside for grape production?”

  “No, we have 15 acres for grape production. No need to use the past tense there.”

  “No, you now have 50 acres for grape production.”

  A smile formed on my face.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Wow. That’ll take some getting used to.”

  “Let me make a call. Alan will contact you if there’s anything he can do for you.”

  “Sounds great, Jason. Thanks again! For everything. I mean it.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Just do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Bring the dogs by before the end of the month, okay? That’s when mom and dad will be officially moved out of the house.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  I ended the call and looked down at the dogs.

  “You guys now have a lot more room to run around. What do you say to that?”

  Both corgis were up on the couch in the living room. Watson rose to her feet, circled three times, and then sank into a ‘flying squirrel’. Now, an explanation may be required for you non-corgi owners. A ‘flying squirrel’ – for a corgi – was where the dog would stretch out their two stumpy front legs in front of them and do the same for the back legs. It certainly didn’t look comfortable to me, but it must’ve been perfectly satisfactory for a dog ‘cause Watson always slept in that position.

  Sherlock preferred ‘Dead Roach’. Hey, you can’t make shit like this up. Google it. As I was saying, Sherlock sleeps on his back with all four paws in the air, much like how you’d find a dead roach in your house - upside down with all its legs sticking straight up. On a whim, I searched online several months ago to find out why certain dogs preferred different sleeping positions. Flying Squirrel is considered a very restful position, but also allows the dog to resume movement should the need arise. As for Dead Roach… well, this is where I’m quite proud. Only a confident, secure indoor dog would choose to sleep in such a supremely vulnerable position. Clearly, Sherlock trusted me and felt completely safe in his home environment.