Case of the Pilfered Pooches

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Anything else we should know about?” I asked.

  “I suspect they’re just as guilty as the rest of these damn clubs,” Vance grumbled as he slid his wallet in his jeans pocket. “Nothing stood out, though.”

  I shrugged, “All right. Hopefully we can get something useful from the Mini Me’s tomorrow morning.”

  “Did I say ‘we’?” Vance mischievously asked. “I meant, ‘you’. It’s going to be just you tomorrow. I have to be in Medford until at least noon.”

  “Swell,” I grumbled.

  “Just try to contain yourself around her,” Harry chuckled and he gave Vance a wink. “Everyone knows how much Zack favors older women.”

  “Dude, kiss my a-, er, butt.”

  “There really isn’t much to say,” Mrs. Gertrude Barterson was saying, as she set a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table before Vance and myself.

  Thankfully, Vance’s meeting in Medford had been rescheduled. He had glumly admitted that he’d be able to accompany me to interview our argument instigator. I personally think the schmuck wanted me to talk to Mrs. Barterson all by myself. I knew within five seconds of walking inside Mrs. Barterson’s home that I wasn’t going to have any problems with her. She was calm, reserved, and didn’t try to dress like she was half a century younger. In fact, she did remind me of a stereotypical grandmother. I couldn’t even begin to imagine this sweet old lady picking a fight.

  Mrs. Barterson gave Sherlock and Watson an affectionate pat on the head and then set down a bowl of water for the two of them.

  “I really don’t know why I lost my temper like that. I can only assume it’s because Mr. Kirkman is such an irritating man.”

  “What did he say that set you off?” I asked. I kept an eye on Sherlock, who had a propensity of dunking his entire snout into the water dish just to take a drink of water. And, just as I had predicted, a tri-colored nose surreptitiously dipped itself into the water. “That’s far enough, pal. This is not our house. No making any messes in here.”

  “Oh, it’s quite all right,” our gracious host informed us. “I love dogs. I would never chastise a dog just because they wanted to have a little fun.”

  Both Sherlock and Watson turned to look at me as if to say, ‘There? You see? At least someone out there loves us.’

  “You two had better behave yourselves,” I warned again, dropping my voice so that Mrs. Barterson wouldn’t overhear. I caught a nervous fluttering of hands out of my peripheral vision and looked over at our host. “Mrs. Barterson, do I know you from somewhere? Have we met before? You seem awfully familiar to me.”

  I had seen her before from somewhere, I just didn’t know where. It was bugging the hell out of me, and if I didn’t figure it out soon, then it was probably going to drive me insane. Mrs. Barterson simply shrugged off the query.

  “I’ve lived in this town for many years, Mr. Anderson. I’m always out and about, doing something. I refuse to be one of those fuddy-duddies who never leave their house. I detest boredom, so I volunteer at a lot of events.”

  I nodded. That had to be it. I had been going to a lot of events myself. With Jillian. She always loved to do things outside and interact with other people. As a result, I usually accompanied her and had met more people than I was ever going to remember.

  “To answer your first question, Mr. Anderson,” Gertrude began, “Mr. Kirkman insinuated I was a poor mommy for my little Carlos. I can take a lot of criticism, and have been known to turn my cheek about a great many things, but one thing I won’t stand for is anyone trying to tell me I’m a poor mother for my little baby. Especially when the poor excuse of a dog he had with him was misbehaving just as badly as his owner.”

  “Good,” I quietly muttered. “So we are talking about dogs.”

  Vance nudged my arm, indicating I needed to shut up.

  “So, if you’re looking for an unscrupulous character that, in my opinion, is capable of absconding with someone else’s dog, then I’d be looking at him, not me.”

  “I would think a dog owner would refrain from wanting to harm another dog,” I said, as I looked at Vance. A quick nod from my friend confirmed he agreed with me. “We’re under the assumption that whoever is responsible for these dog thefts must not be a dog owner. At least, that’s the general consensus.”

  “And you think I might have something to do with this?” Mrs. Barterson asked. A frown slowly spread across her sweet, wrinkled face. “Is that why you’re here? I hate to disappoint you, but I am a dog owner myself, as you may recall.”

  “We’re here because we want to find out why one dog owner would shamelessly pick a fight with another,” Vance coolly clarified. “We know you had an altercation last month, so we’re asking a few questions. We also know of several other small breed owners that were, shall we say, picking fights with other dog owners. So, all we were looking to do is to find out why one owner would think their dog is better than another.”

  Mrs. Barterson’s nose lifted.

  “Well, everyone knows that dogs in the toy group make the best pets.”

  Vance and I shared a glance.

  “And why’s that?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? You two said you were dog owners, correct?”

  Vance and I both nodded.

  “Then you’ll know that people in general, who own pets, lead longer, fuller lives?” Gertrude asked. When no one said anything, she continued. “Single people – especially widowers – find much needed companionship with small pets. The smaller breed dogs are perfect for this. We seniors don’t have a lot of strength in our hands. Therefore, it’s easier for us to control a small dog than a larger one.”

  I shrugged, “Makes sense.”

  “Plus, small dogs have the best temperaments. They’re perfect for houses with small children.”

  I frowned and held up a hand.

  “Umm, excuse me? That isn’t necessarily true.”

  Gertrude immediately frowned at me, “Of course it is.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I argued. “I had an aunt who had one of those small little Chihuahuas. That was the meanest damn dog I think I had ever seen. He only allowed his owner to hold him. Everyone else ran the risk of being bitten if we so much as tried to touch him.”

  “There are always extremes in every situation,” Gertrude said with a sigh.

  “I had a cousin who had a Yorkie who yapped constantly and peed on everything,” Vance added.

  “And my father had a Dalmatian who liked to chew up anything that was leather,” Gertrude snapped, allowing her matronly demeanor to slip. “What’s your point?”

  My eyebrows shot up. This woman, who could be easily mistaken for anyone’s grandmother, had just rolled her eyes like a petulant teenager. I glanced over at Vance to see him frowning at Mrs. Barterson, too.

  “Let’s forget about that for now,” I interjected, hoping to take the chill out of the air. “Can I ask you something? Are all the Mini Me’s senior citizens?”

  The firm lines set into the corners of Gertrude’s mouth softened somewhat, “Most are, but not all.”

  “How many aren’t?” Zack asked. “In fact, how many members are there in the Mini Me’s?”

  Mrs. Barterson sank down into an old-fashioned wooden rocking chair and picked up a half-done knitted blanket. Within moments, we heard the clickety-clack of knitting needles clicking together. She was silent for a few moments as she considered.

  “Goodness, let me think. There’s Mary and Bridget, who are in their late 50s. Don’t ever tell them I talked with you about their ages. They would never forgive me. Oh! There’s also Amanda. She’s under 60. The rest of us, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed, are old farts.”

  The crude, vulgar language was so unexpected that I burst out laughing, earning myself a scowl from Vance. Thankfully, Gertrude was laughing, too. She shook her head and clucked her tongue, like a disapproving mother.

  “You want to know how many of us there are. Well, the answer
to that is 37. The Mini Me’s are the largest club here in PV. That can only mean small dogs are the most popular, correct?”

  I looked at Vance, who shrugged. Neither one of us cared to turn her back into a bitter old woman. Therefore, we each let the matter drop.

  “You say the club you belong to has over 35 members,” Vance was saying, as he flipped through his notebook. “Why is that important?”

  “Well, as you already know, there are four clubs here in PV. I will admit there is a competitive streak amongst the four to see who can lay claim to the title of most members.”

  I nodded as I recalled Willard Olson’s insistence that Sherlock and Watson join his club.

  “All of our members are fine, upstanding citizens in Pomme Valley,” Gertrude was saying. “These women hold places of honor. Former –”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted as I held up a hand. “Did you say all your members are women? There are no male Mini Me’s?”

  Gertrude nodded, “That’s correct.”

  “Why are there no men?” Vance curiously asked as he looked up from his notebook.

  When it looked as though Mrs. Barterson was taking a few moments to collect her thoughts, I added another question.

  “Have there been no men who have applied to join your club?”

  Mrs. Barterson fidgeted uncomfortably on her chair. Her knitting needles slipped out of her hands and fell onto her lap. It was a sight not lost to either Vance or myself.

  “No, there are no male members. That’s because no men have ever expressed interest in joining.”

  Vance nodded, “That reminds me about something. Speaking of applying for your club, how do you recruit new members? Zack and I found your webpage, only there was no contact information on it.”

  Mrs. Barterson proudly lifted her chin and stared directly at Vance.

  “That’s because only existing members can nominate prospective candidates.”

  “That sounds an awful lot like a fraternity,” I decided. “Or a sorority, as it would be in this case.”

  Surprisingly, Gertrude nodded encouragingly, “Yes! Exactly! Our club has become so popular that we need to take steps to ensure only the right people were invited to join the Mini Me’s.”

  “The right people?” Vance slowly asked as a frown appeared on his face.

  Gertrude nodded, “Precisely.”

  “Do the other dog clubs take such measures when trying to get new people to sign up?” I asked. This meeting had taken a definite turn for the worse, and now, all I wanted to do was get Sherlock and Watson away from this screwball.

  “No. We’re the only club to have enacted such measures to protect our club.”

  “Do you know which club is the smallest?” Vance asked. He looked at me and shrugged. “I might as well ask, right?”

  “The Nippers are the smallest,” Gertrude promptly answered. “Would you like to know why? It’s because their president, one Mr. Willard Olson, is too eccentric; too weird.”

  I snorted with laughter, which drew a smile from the old woman.

  “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

  I pointed down at the corgis, “He’s trying to get me to enroll those two in his club.”

  Gertrude laid a motherly hand over my own, “By all means, don’t do it, young man. Mr. Olson is several sandwiches short of a picnic, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Let’s go back to your new members,” Vance decided as he gave me a neutral look. “You said that new recruits need sponsors? Where do they meet?”

  “The library,” Gertrude answered. “Many clubs meet there.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “This month’s meeting was actually the last one to be held there,” Gertrude confided with a smile.

  “Why’s that?” Vance wanted to know.

  “Our club has grown too large for the library to accommodate our recruiting parties. We have one every time we’re ready to induct new members.”

  “How often is that?” I asked. I glanced down to check on the dogs. Both Sherlock and Watson were resting their heads on their front paws. They each had their eyes closed, yet both sets of ears were aimed directly at us.

  “Once we have enough recruits, we’ll – and forgive me for saying this – get the party started. We typically only hold one recruiting party a year.”

  “And you’re saying that this year’s party will be happening next month?”

  “We’ve reserved the rec center three weeks from today,” Gertrude confirmed.

  Vance rose to his feet. The corgis were on their feet in a flash. Correctly guessing that it was time to go, I rose to mine, somewhat irked that my dogs hadn’t waited for me to get to my feet first.

  “Mrs. Barterson, I think we have all we need to know for now,” Vance formally announced. “If something comes up, may we contact you again?”

  Gertrude nodded, “Of course. Feel free to stop by anytime. Let me know in advance and I’ll make you a fresh batch of cookies, Detective.”

  Vance nodded, “You can count on it, ma’am. Zack? It’s time to go.”

  Mrs. Barterson led us towards the kitchen and a side door, which would put us closer to our parked car. Just as we reached the door, I noticed an old-fashioned chalk board sitting next to the kitchen table. It was situated on a bamboo A-frame and had a small shelf under the board which connected all four legs together. Visible on the shelf was a wide variety of colored chalk, along with one black marker.

  A glance at the board had me hesitating. I gently pulled the dogs to a stop. Sherlock immediately turned to see what the holdup was. When he noticed I was no longer walking, he looked up at Vance, then at Watson, and then proceeded to give an exasperated snort as he slid to the ground.

  Vance noticed I had stopped and turned to see what I was staring at.

  “It’s a blackboard, pal. Nothing more. Now, shall we?”

  “Look at the equation,” I said, as I pointed at the formula written on the board.

  Vance looked at the board and shrugged, “What about it?”

  In case you’re wondering, written in elegant handwriting across the top of the board was the following equation:

  Vance shuddered, “Does that ever bring back nightmares. I hated math in school.”

  I looked over at Mrs. Barterson with admiration written all over my face.

  “You know about quadratic equations?” I asked, with unfeigned surprise.

  The septuagenarian returned my surprised look.

  “You knew what it was? Good for you, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Would someone care to translate?” Vance requested. “What’s so significant about that gibberish?”

  “It’s not gibberish,” Mrs. Barterson clucked. “It’s a higher form of algebraic equation. I was a high school math teacher for years in California. Several of my friends let it slip to their grandchildren that I was a math major, and now I tutor them in math. Really, I can’t believe what passes for arithmetic nowadays. It would never have been deemed acceptable back when I was teaching. That’s why I end up spending most of my time trying to translate the kids’ math problems into something they can understand.”

  A look of disbelief spread over Vance’s features as he hooked a thumb at the chalkboard.

  “One of the students asked me if I knew anything about quadratic equations,” Mrs. Barterson explained. Then she gave each of us a coy smile. “I don’t suppose either of you could tell me what the root equation of that formula is, could you?”

  I glanced over at Vance to see if he knew. Based on his previous outbursts, I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. Vance looked helplessly at me and shook his head. As for me, I had seen that particular equation before and knew what she was looking for.

  “It’s ‘’,” I immediately answered, which earned me an incredulous stare from Vance. I shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? I enjoyed math in school. I took math all four years in high school and throughout college as well.”

  Vance shoved his hands in his p
ocket and approached the board. He whistled with amazement.

  “You understand all this, huh? Wow. Are you taking more students? I have a daughter who has taken after me in the math department.”

  Gertrude shook her head, “I have all I can handle at the moment, thank you.”

  Being this close to the board, I was able to see all the different colors of chalk Mrs. Barterson had at her disposal when she was tutoring the kids. My eye then caught sight of the one and only marker on the tray. I frowned at it. It looked like a black permanent marker, only it had a neon yellow cap. What was that doing there? She wasn’t using that on her board, was she?

  Gertrude saw me staring at the marker and instantly rushed over to push the chalk board out of the way. With each of the wooden legs resting on casters, the board smoothly sailed across the kitchen and bumped into the counter just in front of the sink. Then I noticed something that really made me sit up and take notice. However, my instinct was screaming at me not to say anything until we were well away from the house.

  Only when we were headed back to the police station did I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding.

  “There’s definitely something odd about her,” Vance decided as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He punched in a number and waited for the call to connect.

  “Who are you calling?” I quietly asked.

  “Captain Nelson. I want a search warrant. There’s something fishy going on in that house.”

  Surprised, I gave Vance an affirmative nod, “So, you noticed it, too?”

  Vance looked questioningly at me, “Noticed what?”

  “The reflection.”

  “What reflection? Oh, hi, Jules. I need to speak with the captain. Is he there? No problem. I’ll hold.”

  “When she pushed that chalk board across her kitchen,” I continued, “it ended up by her sink. She has a window there. Sunlight hit the back of that chalk board and made a large reflection on the ceiling. I’m glad Sherlock didn’t notice it. He usually barks at them back home.”

  “So, you saw some reflected light. What about it?”