“Is he gone?” I quietly asked as I saw Mr. Ginormous staring intently at the quiet street outside. I was trying to remain as quiet as possible, because, after all, the front door was wide open.
The big man grunted, “Yup. He’s on the other side of Main now. You ought to see him. He’s frantic. He doesn’t look happy that he lost you.”
I slowly stood and put Sherlock on the ground. The corgi sank down on his butt and looked up at the newcomer. Much to his credit, Sherlock didn’t bark once at him, not even when the big man came around the display and held out a hand to me in greeting.
Before I go any farther I should describe the guy to you. Remember, I said I was six feet tall. Let’s just say I couldn’t see over the racks. This guy could. He had to be at least 6’8” and close to 350 lbs. He also could have been a contestant on one of those Strongest Man in the World shows I enjoyed watching as a kid.
He had short white hair that was spiked straight up. He also had sideburns that practically covered his entire face. His biceps had to be bigger than my thighs and his hands… Holy shit. I’ve never seen hands that big. You could fit a dinner plate on those things and his fingers would still be visible.
The strangest thing about him, in my opinion, was his attire. With a build like that, looking as intimidating as he did, I had expected him to be wearing something you’d normally find on a biker. Like I said, I didn’t realize I was this judgmental, and I felt bad for it.
The store owner was wearing a dark green buttoned down short sleeve shirt and a pair of khakis. I could see some type of tribal tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his right arm, as well as a second tattoo on his forearm. Same arm.
I extended my hand and shook his.
“Burt Johnson,” the big man said, giving my hand a shake.
I tried not to shudder as I felt most of my fingers fuse together.
“Zack Anderson.”
“Ah. So you’re the guy.”
“I’m the guy what?” I asked.
“You’re the guy the cops think killed Zora’s assistant.”
“I didn’t do it,” I insisted.
“That also explains why the Wilson kid has been following you.”
“The Wilson kid?” I repeated with a frown. “How do you know him?”
“He’s a cop.”
Well, duh. Why else would someone be following me?
“He didn’t look like a cop.”
Burt gave me a look that suggested he believed I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
“They wouldn’t be able to discreetly follow someone dressed in their street blues, would they?”
I shrugged. He had me there.
“True.”
“How long was he on your tail?” Burt asked.
“I really don’t know. I just noticed him about five minutes ago.”
Burt finally noticed Sherlock.
“That’s a good lookin’ dog you got there. Hold on a sec. I think I have something for him. Or is it a her?”
“You had it right the first time. This is Sherlock and he’s a he.”
“Sherlock? You named your dog ‘Sherlock’?”
“I didn’t name him. He was already named when I got him.”
Burt shrugged. He moved back behind his counter, stooped to reach something down low where I couldn’t see, and came back up holding a clear plastic baggie. I really couldn’t make out what it was but I did figure it was some type of doggie treat.
Sherlock’s ears jumped straight up as he watched the big man take a couple out and hold them out in his hand. He stooped down low so that Sherlock could eat them out of his hand.
“Umm, I don’t know if he’ll do that,” I warned.
“Do what?” Burt asked as he stretched out his hand towards Sherlock.
“He hasn’t met you yet so I don’t think that…”
I trailed off as Sherlock practically pounced toward Burt. Half a heartbeat later the corgi was licking his chops and crunching away on whatever it was Burt had offered him.
“They’re little bits of bread,” Burt explained, holding the baggie out to me. “Not only are they great to snack on but they also make perfect treats for those customers who like to bring their dogs in here.”
I studied the bag with the dried round pieces of dough in them. The label identified them as ‘Bagel Bits’.
“Where’d you get them?”
“Farmhouse Bakery. They’re right over –”
“I’ll be damned,” I interrupted, throwing Burt a smile. “I finally hear a name that I’ve heard before. I know where they’re at. It’s across the street from Cookbook Nook, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right. We always try to help out each other by cross promoting products.” Burt retrieved the baggie and tossed it up on the counter. Sherlock watched him like a hawk. “They have the best bakery in town.”
I snorted. “Are they the only bakery in town?”
Burt laughed, dispelling most of my uneasiness with him.
“Maybe. If you go, you should…”
I had been studying a large glass contraption, which looked like an oversized Mason jar with a strange, mechanical lid, when I noticed Burt had trailed off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Grab the dog and hide. Hurry!”
I quickly pulled Sherlock to me and crouched back behind the display rack. I gave the corgi a gentle hug and held him close. Sherlock panted contentedly, unconcerned about losing contact with the ground once more.
“What is it?” I quietly asked, looking up at Burt.
“Shhh. Don’t say a word,” Burt whispered. Then, in a louder voice, “Good afternoon. How are you today?”
“I’m fine,” a new voice announced.
I held my breath. The speaker was close. Whoever it was must have just stepped foot inside the store.
“Can I help you find something?” Burt asked in a friendly tone.
“Yeah. Have you seen a guy with a dog around here?”
Burt nodded, “Several. Can you describe him?”
“He’s tall and has brown hair. The dog was short, with black, orange, and white fur.”
“Yeah, I have seen him. Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes,” I heard the new voice huff out in exasperation. “He’s late. We’re supposed to grab a bite to eat but I haven’t been able to find him. Do you know where he went?”
I bit my tongue. All Burt would have to do is simply look down at me and he’d give away my presence.
Burt moved out and away from the counter, towards the front door. I heard a second set of footsteps grow fainter, as though the person was walking away. I smiled. This second person, whoever he was, must have wanted to keep his distance from Burt. I couldn’t blame him. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more intimidating person in my life.
“Sure I do. He asked me where the closest pet store was. Said something about buying a few things for his dog.”
“That’s right,” the voice agreed. “He just adopted his dog and probably doesn’t have much for him.”
I almost snorted with disbelief from my position behind the rack. How the hell did he know I had just adopted Sherlock? Who the hell was talking, anyway? It couldn’t be the Wilson kid. Burt had said that he knew him. Who, then?
“Do you know where the pet store is?” Burt was asking. “That’s where he’s headed. Head east, down Main, and turn right on 5th. It’ll be the second store on your left.”
“You’re sure?” the voice asked. I could detect a trace of skepticism.
“Unless you know of any other pet stores that are closer?” Burt casually asked.
“None come to mind,” the voice said. “Thanks. I’ll see if I can catch up to my friend there. Thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it,” Burt called out. After a few moments he reappeared in front of me and grinned. “You had a second tai
l. Did you know that?”
I hurried by Burt, pulling my cell out of my pocket.
“What was he wearing?” I anxiously asked. I wanted a picture of this guy.
“He’s the dude wearing black. Black shirt and black pants.”
I brought my phone up and readied my thumb over the button. All I had to do was get him to turn around, but how? He was already 20 feet away. Whatever I was gonna do I had to do it quickly.
“What is it?” Burt asked, coming up behind me.
“I need him to turn around, before he gets too much farther away.”
“Be ready. I’ll get him to turn around.”
“How?” I asked.
In the blink of an eye Burt rushed straight at me, hands outstretched as though he wanted to throttle me. Sherlock, who had been sitting by my feet, sprang up and instantly started barking at Burt.
Right on cue the mystery man, who was now about thirty feet down the sidewalk, whipped his head around to look my way. I snapped the picture just as he made eye contact with me. As you have probably already surmised, it was my “friend”, the one responsible for giving the newspaper all my details. His eyes widened with surprise. I smiled, waved, held up my phone, and gave him a thumbs up. He waved back, only with a different digit extended. He bolted across the street and disappeared from sight.
“A friend of yours?” Burt asked from behind me.
“He’s the guy who gave the newspaper a picture of me and all the details of my inheritance after my wife died. I wanted to find him but I never imagined I’d find him that fast.” I squatted down to throw a reassuring arm around Sherlock. “It’s okay, pal. He wasn’t going to hurt me.”
Sherlock woofed a warning as Burt squatted down next to me. He held out a hand to the corgi, who cautiously sniffed it.
“I’m sorry,” the big man apologized. “I wasn’t gonna hurt your daddy. I had to make you bark.”
Sherlock finally fell silent but continued to watch the huge storekeeper, in case he tried to rush me again. I patted my dog a few times on the head before turning to my new friend.
“How did you know he was looking for me?”
“The Wilson kid had just driven off. This new guy had an angry look on his face. I think the second guy was trailing the Wilson kid.”
“He had to have been following me,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t think he’d have any reason to follow the cop who was following me.”
Burt shrugged. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say the second dude was following the first dude. You know, letting him do all the work.”
“Ah. Got it. So, are you going to make me buy something, Burt?”
The huge shopkeeper smiled at me.
“No. I promised my parole officer I’d stop hassling people just to make a buck. It’s okay. I just hope the soup kitchen is still open by the time I get there tonight.”
I had turned around to head for the door when I stopped dead in my tracks. I sighed, spun around, and pointed at the glass contraption with the mechanical lid.
“Fine. I’ll take whatever that is.”
Burt picked up the antique and began wrapping it up.
“A fine choice. You never know when you’ll run out of butter.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is an antique butter churner,” Burt explained. He pointed at the paddles that were visible inside the jar. “You turn this handle up here, which turns the gears you see there, which, in turn, spins the paddle. After you fill the jar with milk, that is.”
“An antique butter maker,” I groaned.
“What did you think it was?” Burt asked, confused.
“Not a clue. I probably don’t know what half the stuff is in here.”
I paid for my purchase, thanked Burt for the use of his store, and stepped outside. Sherlock instantly looked up and down the street before turning to look up at me.
“What?” I asked. I looked around. “If you see someone following us you be sure to let me know, okay?”
Sherlock pulled on his leash, leading me straight back to where I had parked my Jeep a block away. I had just pulled away from the curb when Vance called.
“Zack. Where are you?”
“In my Jeep, heading home. Why?”
“I need to talk to you. Oh, about the picture you sent? It made it through.”
“You mean you got it? Awesome. Wasn’t sure if I did that right. I don’t text many people. In fact, I think I’ve only sent out two pictures, tops.”
If only Samantha could see me now. She had been a pro on her phone and could make it do things I don’t think even a normal computer could do.
“I have some information for you. Is this a bad time?”
“My stereo has the hands free option for my phone. I can talk and drive at the same time, in case you were wondering. What’s up?”
“While we have yet to figure out his identity, I can tell you that our John Doe died two nights ago and was most assuredly placed in your winery after he died. We also know what killed him.”
“You do? Wow, that was quick. What was it?”
“As you might have guessed, our ME doesn’t have much to do around here. He’s already finished the autopsy. Anyway, he found high concentrations of strychnine in his blood.”
“Strychnine? What the hell is that? I’m guessing that’s bad?”
“It’s an odorless poison in the alkaloid family. A small amount would be lethal to just about anything that lives. It’s odorless, can be absorbed by inhalation, ingestion, or injection, and has some particularly graphic symptoms.”
“Ouch. Poison, huh? I wouldn’t have called that one. This is good news! It’s not like you can pick up a bottle of strychnine down at the local pharmacy, right?”
“It comes in powder form, not liquid. And yes, pharmacies do not carry strychnine.”
“It’s a powder? Did you say this stuff can be inhaled?”
“Inhaled, taken orally, or injected.”
“Is there such thing as a strychnine detector? How would you know if you were being poisoned?”
“By the symptoms. If you start exhibiting any signs then it’d be time to clear out.”
I swallowed nervously.
“You can become poisoned by inhaling it? That doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m halfway tempted to check us into a hotel.”
“Us? Is there someone there with you?”
“Yeah. His name is Sherlock. You’ve met him.”
“Oh, right. The dog. Listen, if you were exposed to strychnine you’d know it. And I already told you that this guy was dumped in Lentari Cellars after he was dead, so I think you and your dog will be fine. Zack, did you catch that? Our John Doe was placed in your winery after his death, which the ME puts at around 11pm the night before last.”
“Wait, are you telling me that I’m no longer a suspect?” I incredulously asked. There’s no way my luck could be that good. “I’ll bet Chief Nelson just loved to hear that.”
“Off the record, he knows you’re innocent,” Vance admitted. “However, until the case is solved and the perpetrator is behind bars, he’s going to keep an eye on you.”
“What about Debbie Jacobs?” I asked. “Do you guys still think I had something to do with her death?”
“Same situation. I think the chief knows you didn’t do it, and would very much like to find concrete proof that you didn’t, but until such time you are still our number one suspect.”
“What about you?” I asked. “What do you think?”
“I’ll be honest. I thought you were guilty. At first.”
“Understandable. And now?”
“I’m not so sure,” Vance admitted.
“Hey, you know that picture of the blonde guy I sent you?”
“I’ve got it running through every database I can think of. There’s no hits anywhere yet.”
I took a deep breath and slowly let it ou
t. “He’s still in town.”
Several seconds of silence passed before I heard Vance clear his throat.
“Would you care to run that by me again?”
“I caught him following me earlier. Well, Burt from the antique store noticed him first.”
“When was this?”
“After I ditched the Wilson kid.”
Several more seconds passed in silence.
“Zack?”
“Yeah?”
“May I make a recommendation?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t try to actively lose a police tail. It kinda makes you look guilty, you know?”
“Point taken,” I laughed. “Burt said that the second guy was tailing the first guy.”
“Are you sure Eric wasn’t the one following your mystery guy?”
“Eric?”
“He’s the ‘Wilson kid’, as you so eloquently called him.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m positive. He came into the antique store and talked to Burt.”
“He did? What’d he say?”
“He wanted to know if Burt had seen a guy with a dog. Burt pointed him in the opposite direction.”
“Burt Johnson was actively helping you out?” Vance asked. I got the feeling that the detective was impressed. “He’s former military. A Ranger, I think. Trust doesn’t come easily to him. Most people are scared of him even though he’s harmless.”
“I can see that. The guy is huge. Anyway, Burt told the guy that I needed something for Sherlock and pointed him towards the pet store. Blondie wanted to act like he knew where it was but I think we could both tell that he didn’t know. Burt made some offside comment about the other pet stores in town, which the guy didn’t know about, and…”
“Smart move, Burt,” Vance interrupted. “Smart.”
“What is?”
“It was a trick question. Burt must’ve been suspicious of the guy and asked a question that confirmed he wasn’t a local. The pet store on 5th is the only pet store in town.”
“Ah. Makes sense. Hey, get this. Blondie knew I had recently adopted Sherlock.”
“How the hell did he know that?” Vance asked, confused. “You adopted your dog, what, yesterday, right?”
“Right,” I confirmed. “How could he know that? Does that mean he’s been watching me since yesterday?”
“It sure sounds like it. If this is the same guy that was from the picture you sent me then I’d say it’s clear he’s been in town for a little while now. He probably knows the area better than you, just not enough to know there is only one pet store in town. I’d be careful if I were you.”
“I am so getting an alarm system for the house tomorrow.”
“That’s a good idea,” Vance agreed. “I don’t like knowing this guy is somewhere out there. For all we know he could be the guy that’s the mastermind behind this whole Bengál theft. I’ll put an APB out on him. If he’s still in town we’ll find him.”
I turned right onto Reservoir Road, on my way to Forest Park Dr.
“Vance, if the guy in the picture does turn out to be the mastermind in all of this, meaning he’s the one who dumped the body I found in the winery, would that imply the tiger is hidden somewhere in Lentari Cellars?”
“I doubt it. Why would he draw attention to the tiger’s hiding spot by dumping a body there?”
“Good point.”
I was approaching the front driveway to my new house. I pulled the Jeep over to the mailbox and checked for mail, all without getting out of the car. I tossed a few credit card offers onto my dash and drove towards the house.
“I’m guessing you finally made it back to your house?” Vance casually asked.
“Just got here,” I confirmed. “Wait a minute. How’d you know that? Do you have my Jeep bugged? Wait. You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if you do.”
Vance laughed and hung up.
I dropped my keys and my wallet down on the kitchen counter. I pulled one of the ugly orange chairs out from the dinner table and sat down, sighing as I did. Sherlock settled to the ground and watched me. I pulled out my phone, called up the picture Taylor had saved for me, and studied it.
I was confident that prior to today I had never laid eyes on this guy in my life. I held the phone down to show Sherlock. The corgi sniffed once and then looked up at me as though it was up to me to make the next move.
“What do you think? Do you know who this is? Someone’s gotta know him. Hopefully Vance will be able to…”
I trailed off as I watched Sherlock rise to his feet and trot out of the room, as though he had someplace to be. Bemused, I set out after him. I found him settling down onto the bed in the master bedroom. He wasn’t acting tired, nor was he acting like he was planning on taking a doggie nap, but he was lying down. In fact, his head was resting on his two front paws as he returned my stare.
“What are we in here for, pal? Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap?”
I kicked my shoes off and moved to the dresser. I slipped my wedding band off and set it in the box Samantha had originally presented it to me in. For some reason I couldn’t bring myself to not wear my ring. I had tried for a few days but my left hand had ended up feeling bare; naked. I couldn’t do it. Not only that, I had felt supremely guilty the entire time, like I had been unfaithful. I know I shouldn’t be. Samantha was dead and gone. I couldn’t – and shouldn’t – keep dwelling on the past. Nevertheless, until I could feel comfortable taking the ring off and not break out in a cold sweat, the ring would stay where it belonged, which was on my finger. However, once I was home, the ring belonged in its holder on my dresser, plain and simple.
I was heading back around the bed when one of my feet collided with a corner of the heavy wood bed frame that constituted my bed. The pain was so bad that I think I literally saw stars. I dropped to my knees and stayed there for at least five minutes, massaging my foot and cursing like a sailor. Only when I was able to see straight did I work up the nerve to look. I halfway expected to find a toe jammed all way back inside my foot, like you’d see in the cartoons. Or else sticking out at a grotesque angle.
Thankfully neither was the case. Oh, it throbbed, don’t get me wrong, but at least it didn’t look broken. Man alive, had that hurt. Why couldn’t that have happened while I had still been wearing my shoes?
But, as I was slowly regaining my feet, I saw something that made me forget my pain. There was something hanging on the wall behind the large table lamp. It was an older picture, judging by the graininess of the image and the yellowing of the paper. And the hair.
Oh, that hair! Fluffy, feathery hairdos that must have required hours of primping and preening were found on both the men and the women. Many of the men’s hair were just as long, if not longer, than the women’s. I knew with utter certainty that the photo was from the 80s. Now, in case you do the math, yes, that was pretty much my decade. It’s when I graduated high school, got my first car, my first job, and so on. And before you ask, NO, I never had my hair looking like that.
I plucked the picture from the wall and studied it. It was a group shot, with at least twenty people – including kids – crammed into the picture. There, standing just behind the woman seated on a chair in the middle, was Abigail Lawson. She may have been young, well, young-ish, but even at that age she had that same scowl plastered across her face. I focused on the seated woman. That had to be Aunt Bonnie. She was sitting, prim and proper, on her seat and had neither smile nor scowl on her face. It looked as if she just wanted to get the experience of taking the picture over with.
I started to put the picture back on the wall when one of the children sitting in front of Bonnie caught my eye. It was a boy with fair skin and blond hair. Could it be? I pulled out my cell and pulled up the picture of my elusive secret admirer.
It was him! They had the same nose, the same forehead, and had the same guarded look on
their face. Who was he? Could he be Bonnie’s grandson? Was I being tailed by Abigail’s son?
Everything started to fall into place. This guy had to be Abigail’s son. He was probably reporting everything I had been doing back to his overbearing mother. My theories had been right all along. Abigail Lawson had been behind the whole thing! Clearly she had wanted Lentari Cellars bad enough to kill for it.
I looked over at Sherlock and vowed again not to let the dog out of my sight. Not until this whole mess had blown over. It had surprised me to learn how much I enjoyed caring for the little corgi. It had given me something to do, someone to care for, and apparently that was something I sorely needed.
I headed/limped back to the bed, intent on jumping up with Sherlock, when the little corgi casually rose to his feet, jumped down to the ground and trotted away. I slid the cell into my pants pocket and followed. Now what was the little booger up to? Who would have known owning a dog would be so interesting? Did all dogs behave this way?
Sherlock retraced his steps back to the utility room. He scratched at the closed door once and turned to look at me.
“If you will allow me, your majesty.”
Sherlock trotted through the newly opened door and looked back to make sure I followed.
“I’m still here. What do you want to show me now?”
Sherlock sat, looked around the room, sighed, and slid into a down position.
“There’s nothing here. Come on. We’ve got other things to do.”
The corgi didn’t budge. He remained on the floor, motionless, and blinked his eyes at me.
“What? What do you want now? Is there something in here you want me to see? Oh, what the hell. You’ve been right about everything else.”
I hit the switch to the overhead light and inspected the walls, floors, and cabinets. Nothing looked out of place. Well, what about the opposite? Was there anything there that shouldn’t be? Let’s see. Washer, check. Dryer, check. Laundry sink, check. Cabinets? Already checked, so check.
What was left? I looked down at Sherlock to see him looking up, but not at me. He was staring at the ceiling. I craned my head to see what he was looking at. The only thing I could see was a fluorescent light fixture that looked as though it had been there since time had begun.
“I hate to break it to you, pal,” I began as I looked down at the little corgi, “but there’s nothing here. There’s nothing up there, well, except for the second floor. If you want up there then you’ll have to take the stairs.”
Sherlock let out a snort and trotted out of the room. Bemused, I decided to follow. He headed straight towards the foyer. More specifically, he was heading to the staircase.
Sherlock arrived at the base of the stairs and paused. He craned his neck to look up at the imposing flight of steps and looked back at me. He shook his collar, looked up at the stairs once more, and then plopped his butt down.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” I told the corgi. “If you want up there then you’re going to do it yourself. I’m not carrying you up there, Princess.”
I am ashamed to admit I tried to out-stubborn a dog. Five minutes passed and neither one of us had budged. Sherlock had stared at me the entire time. I don’t think he blinked once. With a resigned sigh I picked up His Royal Canineship and carried him to the second floor. Once I set him down he was off again.
Sherlock headed to the largest of the three guest rooms on this floor. Consequently, it was the room I had chosen to be my office. My furry companion took a brief look around the room and immediately moved to the closet door. Before I knew what I was doing I had opened the door, figuring Sherlock wanted to inspect this part of the room, too.
Sherlock trotted into the large walk-in closet, plunked his butt down once more, and stared up at the ceiling. Now what was he looking at? I stepped inside the closet with the dog and looked up. I looked down at the corgi and scratched behind his ears.
The two of us were looking at a set of fold away stairs which allowed attic access. And, by my estimation, we were now directly above the utility room. How had Sherlock known that this was in here? As far as I was aware, he hadn’t been in this closet before now. Neither had I, for that matter.
Well, clearly Sherlock thought there was something in the attic. Might as well humor the dog. I mean, what the hell, right? Let’s see. All I had to do was to pull that little lever there and I should be able to lower the stairs into position. Alrighty, then. Let’s see what we have.
I pulled the ladder out of the ceiling and lowered it into place. A waft of musty, stale air floated down from the dark opening. I eyed the corgi, told him to wait (as though I was afraid he’d climb up after me) and climbed up.
Thankfully the attic had light. Three bulbs, each with a dangling string to turn it on, were spaced every ten feet apart along the rafters. Once the lights were on I could see that there were stacked filing boxes everywhere. Many of them had labels. In fact, most of them had the same labels, identifying them as winery receipts from the last thirty years. Judging from the number of boxes, Lentari Cellars had sold quite a few bottles of wine. Did Sherlock think I was going to be able to find something up here? Think needle-in-a-haystack.
A large trunk caught my eye. Great. It was just the right size to conceal a body. I swallowed nervously and kicked the corner of the trunk with my foot. The uninjured one. I’d better not find Aunt Bonnie in there.
Satisfied there wasn’t anything living in the trunk I flipped open the lid and fanned the air. A cloud of dust had puffed out, as though I had dropped a bowling ball on a dusty pillow. Albums. I could see photo albums. This looked promising. Hadn’t I just been wondering about that kid with the blond hair? Perhaps I could identify him by locating him in one of these albums.
I gathered an armful of them up and returned to the closet. Folding the ladder back up into the ceiling, I turned to show the albums to Sherlock. The inquisitive corgi carefully sniffed the dusty books before turning to look up at me.
“I don’t know how you’re doing this, pal,” I told him, giving Sherlock a friendly pat on his head, “but please keep it up. Clearly you’re better at finding clues than I am. Let’s see if we can find out who that guy is, okay? Will you help me look?”
Sherlock barked excitedly. A split second later he bolted from the room, barking maniacally as he sprinted to the top of the stairs.
“Sherlock, what is it? Stop that barking. What’s the matter with you?”
Then I heard it. Someone had sneezed, which meant someone was at the door. I learned to never underestimate just how much a dog’s hearing is better than our own. I hadn’t even heard the doorbell.
DING-DONG!
Ah, there it was. Sherlock must have smelled the visitor approach. Or else heard something that I hadn’t. At the sound of the doorbell he naturally lost his mind. I scooped up the dog in my arms and hurried downstairs. Once the dog had all four paws on the ground he became a 28 pound blur of orange, black, and white fur. Sherlock was running laps around me as I approached the door.
“Be right there. Hang on a sec. Sherlock, relax, would you?”
It was the locksmith, still in his grease-monkey uniform. I hadn’t realized it was after 5pm. I set him to work changing every lock that I could think of, and that included the winery. While he was busy pulling off the old deadbolts and door hardware I busied myself with Aunt Bonnie’s photo albums. Hopefully I could find something about that tousle-headed boy in the group photo.
An hour and a half later I was presented with a new ring of keys. The main house’s front door and back door now sported new locks and new deadbolts. The winery also had been secured with the strongest, hardest to pick locks that were commercially available. I also found out that there was a loading bay on the opposite side of the winery that had also had its locks replaced.
Feeling much more secure, I thanked the kid and walked
him back to his van.
“Know anyone that sells and installs security systems?” I asked, figuring I was about to learn that there wasn’t anyone in town that did that sort of thing.
“My buddy Ricky is an independent consultant for HiJinx Security,” the kid helpfully supplied. “Their office is in Medford but he handles all local installs. I can have him call you tomorrow, if you’d like.”
I nodded enthusiastically, “Oh, yeah. I would like. Tremendously.”
“Aren’t you the guy that killed that lady from the art gallery?”
I sighed, “I’m high on the suspect list. However, I didn’t do it, not that I’d expect you to believe me.”
“Naw, it’s cool. You don’t strike me as having psychopathic tendencies.”
I stifled a chuckle as I watched the kid pull away. Once the door was secured I returned to the dusty photo albums. I hadn’t found anything about that kid yet.
Getting frustrated, I picked up the final album I had brought down from the attic. The pictures in this album seemed to be dedicated to the winery. There were pictures taken during the installation of the machinery. There was a young Aunt Bonnie proudly holding up a bottle of wine. Maybe the first the winery had produced?
I flipped the page and stopped. There was a folded paper tucked inside the clear film next to a picture of Bonnie and several children. Her kids? It had to be. I studied the picture up close. Yes, there was Abigail, only this was the youngest version of her I had ever seen. She might have been a teenager in the photo but she sure didn’t look any different. She bore the same scowl and the same stern body language then as she did now. In the photo she was holding a young boy on her hip. A younger sibling, perhaps? Or was it Abigail’s son? I couldn’t tell. The boy was facing away from the camera. I slid the picture out of the album and turned it over, hoping it’d have some type of identification on the back. It didn’t. Figures.
I also retrieved the paper and unfolded it. It was a hand-written letter. Had I found a clue? I looked down at Sherlock and shook my head.
Fine.
Had Sherlock found another clue? I took the letter over to the closest arm chair and sat down. Sherlock jumped up on my lap and curled up. I have to admit, I was really starting to like dogs.
September 25th, 1994
Mother,
Why will you not listen to reason? Have I not made it clear how much the Garno Corporation was offering? You would never have to work again. None of us would. Our family’s financial troubles would be over.
I understand you want to keep the winery in the family. I can respect that, mother, I really can. However, I worry about you being in that house all by yourself. You need your family to take care of you. I have already told you that I have arranged for a caregiver to see to your every need. All you have to do is sign the contracts that I have enclosed and you’ll be a very rich woman.
At the very least, let me speak on your behalf. Make me a full partner in Lentari Cellars and let me take some of the burden off of you. Why you’d trust the day to day management of the winery to that foolish boy is beyond me. He has no business experience, mother. I do. It is my place to run the winery, not his. I have years of management experience. Let me put my skills to work. For you. You will do that for me, won’t you?
For your convenience I’ve also included all the necessary paperwork to make me your full partner. Please get everything signed and notarized and you’ll finally be able to take that vacation that you so deserve.
Let me help you, mother. I only care about your wellbeing.
Your daughter,
Abigail
Yep. I’m thinking the same damn thing you’re thinking. What a conniving bitch. No wonder Bonnie didn’t want to leave the winery to her daughter. This letter confirmed my suspicions that Abigail was nothing but a money grubbing twit that didn’t care a thing about her mother. I was also hoping I would be able to shed some light on why Bonnie bequeathed everything to Samantha and me. Nothing I had found thus far, including the letter and the numerous photo albums, had indicated why Samantha and I had been given the estate. I’m honestly starting to think I’ll never find out.
Back to the letter.
If I wasn’t convinced Abigail Lawson was the mastermind behind the murder at the winery before then I certainly was now. I read the letter again. Damn. Bonnie’s own daughter wanted her to sell, and from the sounds of things, she wanted to put the old lady into some type of home!
I have arranged a caregiver…
Yeah, my ass. It’s called a ‘nursing home’. Although, the letter did mention some company called ‘Garno’. A quick search on the internet confirmed it was one of the largest commercial wineries in the country, with locations all across the States. No wonder Bonnie didn’t want to sell. I wouldn’t want my life’s work to be usurped by some nameless corporation, either.
The mention of the offer intrigued me. How much had Garno offered? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to sell, but I did want to know what the winery was worth. And who was that ‘foolish boy’ Abigail had mentioned? She had said it herself. The boy had been overseeing the day-to-day operations of Lentari Cellars. Was he still around? Could I persuade him to resume his duties?
Exhausted, I poured some kibble into Sherlock’s bowl, had a few pieces of leftover pizza, and promptly crashed for the night.
The following morning I was busy searching more of the photo albums when my cell rang. Sherlock, who had been asleep on my lap, stirred once, and then rolled onto his back so that he was wedged against my right leg and the side of the recliner. I gave his belly a friendly pat as I pulled my phone from my pocket. A quick glance at the display had me sighing. It was Vance.
“Hello?”
“Zack? It’s Vance. Long time no chat. Got a minute?”
“Sure. I was thinking about giving you a call.”
“You were? Why? You didn’t find another body, did you?”
I started to laugh but thought better of it. I seem to recall thinking the good detective lacked a proper sense of humor.
“No. I was going through some old photo albums, looking for our mystery man, when I came across an old letter.”
“From who?” Vance asked.
“Abigail. That’s Bonnie’s daughter. She’s the one that confronted me on my first day here and tried to get me to sign the winery over to her.”
“Ah. I remember you telling me about her. Before we get into that letter I wanted to share what we’ve found out about our John Doe. We have I.D.’d him.”
“Fantastic. I was beginning to wonder what was taking so long. In this day and age I had assumed figuring out who a dead guy was would only take an hour or two.”
“You’re basing this on, what, television shows? It can take time for the computer to search through all the databases at its disposal. You know what they are, right? Nifty devices that allow you to systematically search hundreds, if not thousands, of records in an amazingly short amount of time? It’s really far out, man,” Vance added, adopting a surfer dude persona.
“Is everyone in Pomme Valley as sarcastic as you?”
“My sister asks me that all the time.”
“So who is he?” I asked.
“His name is Gregor Stefans.”
“Gregor? Sounds Russian.”
“That’s because he is. He’s a well-known thief. Or should I say, was a well-known thief. He had a rap sheet that was three miles long.”
“Our dead guy is the one that stole that glass tiger,” I guessed.
“That’s our assumption, too.”
“What was someone like that doing in a town like this?” I wondered.
“Do you have any idea how much Bengál is worth?” Vance countered.
I shook my head, even though I knew Vance couldn’t see me. It was just a glass sculpture, for crying out loud. An oversized paperweight. How much could it
possibly be worth?
“No. Should I?”
“Try 2.7 million. Probably twice that on the black market.”
My eyebrows shot up and I’m sure my mouth fell open.
“Zack? Still there? Did you catch that? That’s 2.7 million dollars. In case you didn’t notice, there are two commas in the price tag.”
“Who in their right freakin’ mind would pay that much for an ugly-ass glass tiger?”
“You don’t know much about art, do you?” Vance guessed.
“Wine and art. Two subjects I know go hand in hand yet I fully admit that I know diddly squat about,” I confessed.
“Art pieces can be super pricey,” Vance agreed. “It gets insanely expensive if the artist is in high demand.”
“Like Emelie Vång,” I guessed.
“Right. Her work is incredibly popular right now. That makes that damn tiger worth its weight in gold.”
“What the hell was something that valuable doing in a dinky town like this?” I exclaimed. “And where the hell were the armed guards, laser beams, or any other high tech gadgets typically used to protect something that valuable?”
“Believe it or not, 4th Street Gallery has one of the most sophisticated security systems I’ve ever seen for a commercial location in a town this size.”
“What? Really? I didn’t see anything remarkable in there.”
“That’s the point. There were cameras hidden everywhere.”
“There were? So then you should know who killed Debra Jacobs and who stole the tiger, right?”
“Zack, the security system was deactivated.”
“Really? How? If this was a top notch system then there should have been preventative measures in place to make sure that sort of thing didn’t happen, right?”
I heard Vance grunt on the phone. Clearly he had been over this particular topic once before.
“The alarm had a battery backup. The backup had a backup. The cameras were all configured to dump their footage directly online to be stored offsite. The battery backups, the cameras, everything was disabled.”
“Wouldn’t that suggest that whoever installed the security system should be your prime suspect?”
“The system was installed nearly a year ago. If the company that installed it wanted to do anything then they would have done so by now.”
“So whoever this is knows all about bypassing security systems, is that it?”
“Zack, Gregor Stefans is, or was, such a man.”
“So who do we send the Christmas card to?” I asked. “If Gregor was our thief then who took him out?”
“I would say whoever hired Gregor to steal the tiger.”
“And do we have any idea who that is?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” Vance admitted.
“Well… shit. What about the painting?”
“Oh, that’s right. Thanks for reminding me. We tested the blood.”
“Let me guess. Debra Jacob’s?”
“No. It’s definitely blood but we don’t have a match for it yet.”
“It’s not even Gregor’s?” I asked. If it wasn’t Debra’s, and it wasn’t Gregor’s, then whose was it?
“We have no idea,” Vance admitted. “Do you know what this means?”
“That you’ll be asking for a pint of my blood next?”
Vance snorted.
“Not likely. It means that there was a third person in the gallery.”
“You’re not thinking it was Zora, are you?”
“We’ve already verified it wasn’t Zora’s blood,” Vance informed me. “We know it wasn’t yours, since we took a sample when you were brought in.”
“Which I gave voluntarily,” I reminded him. “So whose is it?”
“Don’t you get it? If it wasn’t Debra’s, Zora’s, Gregor’s, or yours, then the only person left would be the killer’s!”
SEVEN
Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Page 8