Case of the Holiday Hijinks

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  We parted ways. I put both dogs in my Jeep and we took off. Just as soon as we pulled out of the complex I hit my hands-free telephone button on my stereo.”

  “Greetings, Zachary,” my phone politely said. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need the number to The Toy Closet.”

  “There are no contacts in your address book that match that name,” my phone told me after a brief silence.

  “I know that. Would you please look it up?”

  “Would you like me to search for that contact on the internet?” my phone asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “One moment. All right, Zachary, I found three entries that matched your description. Would you like to hear them?”

  I rolled my eyes. This ought to be good.

  “Yes.”

  “I found White Glove Home Cleaning, located in Medford, Oregon. Would you like to call the number, get directions, or neither?”

  “Neither. I’m not looking for a cleaner. Try again.”

  “The second search result is Sin-Sational, located in Medford, Oregon. Would you like to call the number, get directions, or neither?”

  “That sounds like an adult store, you lily-livered hunk of junk. No, I don’t want to call them.”

  “Would you like to call the number, get directions, or neither?” my phone repeated.

  “Neither!”

  “The third search result is The Toy Closet, located in Pomme Valley, Oregon. Would you like to…”

  I cut the phone off as I hastily pressed the ‘call’ button I saw on the phone’s display.

  “Thank you for calling Toy Closet, this is Woody. How can I help you?”

  “Woody, this is Zack Anderson. Do you remember me?”

  “Zack! Of course I do! You’re everyone’s favorite winery owner. What can I do for you, buddy?”

  “You sell all kinds of toys there, don’t you?”

  “I most certainly do. I’ve got something for everyone, covering all age brackets. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I’m hoping you can do me a favor.”

  “Hit me with your best. Whatcha need?”

  “I was just at a crime scene,” I began. “I…”

  “Boy, there’s a shocker,” Woody interrupted. “You sure do seem to enjoy your crime scenes. Which one were you at this time?”

  “It’s not like I search these things out,” I complained. “They always seem to find me. Anyway, I was just at the scene of a home burglary. Someone broke into this young family’s home and stole all their Christmas presents.”

  I could tell that I now had Woody’s attention.

  “Oh, that sucks. How can I help?”

  “Well, there are two kids who call that little apartment home. A boy and a girl. I’d like you to pick out some toys for them so they’ll have something to open on Christmas day. Don’t worry about the bill. I’ll cover it.”

  “That’s generous of you. How much are you looking to spend?”

  “Umm, I don’t know. I haven’t really shopped for kids before. Do you think $100 a piece would be enough to get them some cool stuff?”

  “A hundred? Per kid? You’re telling me you’re prepared to spend $200 on two kids you don’t know?”

  “It’s my favorite time of year,” I explained. “I hate to see someone hurting, especially when they are struggling. So, is that enough?”

  “For $200 not only will I guarantee each child will have a fantastic Christmas, but I’ll even throw in a few things that mom and dad ought to love.”

  “Just promise me if you go over the $200 then you’ll let me know so I can pay you for it, okay?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll even do one better. I’ll throw in a gift-wrapping service. All the presents will be properly wrapped by an expert.”

  “You wrap presents, too?”

  “Who, me? Not a chance. If you’d like to see what a gift wrapped in newspaper and duct tape looks like, then I’m your man. Otherwise I’ll pass you to the pro.”

  “Who?” I asked, curious.

  “Zoe.”

  “Your daughter, right? Will she be okay with wrapping a bunch of presents for me?”

  “Oh, she will be,” Woody promised. “Service with a smile.”

  Zoe was a very precocious twelve-year-old and was known to help her father out in the store on the weekends. I’ve had a few interactions with her but of those times that I have spoken with her she’d always smile and was never too shy to offer an opinion whenever I asked her a question. She also happened to love Sherlock and Watson and has puppy sat for them on more than one occasion.

  “That’d be perfect, Woody. Tell Zoe I appreciate all her help.”

  “Oh, she won’t be volunteering her time. I guarantee you that she’ll charge me for it.”

  “Oh. Well, if you’ll tell me how much she…”

  “Zack, don’t worry about it. You’re buying presents for the family. Let me at least arrange to get them properly gift-wrapped. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Thanks, Woody. I will then. I appreciate it. I’ll swing by tomorrow afternoon to settle up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  My next call was to the owner of the best bakery in town. Well, if you want to get technical, they were the only bakery in town: Farmhouse Bakery. It just so happened that the owner, Taylor Adams, was a good friend of Jillian’s. I might not have known her that well, but as was the case in a small town like PV, she knew my dogs better than she knew me. Hopefully she’d be able to grant me a favor, too.

  “Farmhouse Bakery. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Taylor Adams.”

  “Speaking. What can I do for you?”

  “Taylor, this is Zack Anderson. I’m a friend of…”

  “Zachary Anderson! You don’t need to introduce yourself! I know who you are. What can I do for you? Do you need more doggie treats? Stop by any time. They’re on the house.”

  “Actually, I have a favor to ask of you, Taylor.”

  “Is this for Jillian’s birthday next month? Just tell me what you need. I’d be delighted to help.”

  Jillian’s birthday was next month? I had completely forgotten. I hastily made a mental note to add it to my calendar, knowing full well that by the time I got home it’d be long forgotten.

  “Actually no, this isn’t about Jillian.”

  “Oh? What can I do for you?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a young family was burglarized earlier today. They have two small kids living in that apartment. I was hoping to get some cookies or cupcakes delivered to them. Anonymously, of course.”

  “That’s awful sweet of you. I have just the thing. I just decorated a fresh batch of peppermint flavored vanilla and chocolate cupcakes. I’ll put together a selection and have Megan run them over.”

  Megan was a high school junior who worked part time at the bakery.

  “Hmm, I have several dozen sugar cookies that have yet to be decorated. Are the children boys or girls?”

  “There’s one of each. The girl looks like she’s around 5 and the boy is not that much older.”

  “Got it. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Just let me know how much it’ll be and I’ll be in to take care of it.”

  “Absolutely not. This is on me. I don’t like to see families hurting this time of year. If I can help put a smile on their face then that’s all the payment I need.”

  “I didn’t call you up to ask for a handout,” I reminded her. “I’m just trying to help out this family. It’s a secret Santa type of thing.”

  “And I am helping you out by contributing. End of story, Zack.”

  “Look, maybe we could…”

  “Do I have to call Jillian and tell her that you’re being unreasonable?” Taylor asked with a hint of laughter in her voice.

  “Tell you what. I’ll buy a dozen cupcakes and maybe a dozen cookies. If there’s anything you’d like to secretly add to that order then I won’
t object.”

  “It’s a deal, Zack. When would you like these to be delivered?”

  “Umm, I’d say as soon as you can get them over there. I’ll swing by tomorrow afternoon and square up with you then. Would that be okay?”

  “That’d be perfect, Zack. Thanks for letting me help.”

  “Thanks for volunteering. This whole small-town atmosphere takes some getting used to.”

  “You’re from Phoenix, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They don’t look out for one another in the big city?”

  “Not like this, they don’t. At least they never did in my neighborhood.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it, Zachary. We take care of each other in PV.”

  “Thanks, Taylor. I’ll be by within the next day or so to settle up.”

  “I’ll see you then, Zack.”

  I hung up the phone and eyed the dogs. I had rolled each of the back windows down just enough where they could stick their heads out to enjoy the fresh air but not enough where they could possibly fall out. Watson hasn’t figured it out yet but Sherlock knew where the window controls were and also knew how to use it. As a result, I had to keep the windows locked at all times. At the moment, both dogs had their heads poked outside the windows and were spraying flecks of drool all down my Jeep.

  Oh, the joys of being a dog owner.

  Sherlock had just pulled his head back inside when he let out a warning woof. Naturally, that caused Watson to start woofing, too. Several seconds later the soft woofs had escalated into full-fledged barks. My gaze returned to the road. We were driving east along Main Street and had just passed Watt’s Veterinary Clinic & Animal Shelter, owned and operated by my friend, Harrison Watt. The building was dark, but then again, it wasn’t surprising seeing how it was past 6:00pm on a Friday night. So the question was, what was Sherlock barking at this time? He hadn’t barked at Harry’s office in quite some time. A quick scan up and down the street revealed there wasn’t anyone walking alongside the road.

  “What are you guys barking at, you goofballs? There’s no one there. If you’re barking at Harry’s place then you’re a couple of hours too late. He’s closed.”

  Sherlock ignored me. It was then that I noticed that he and Watson were both sticking their heads out the same window, on the right side of the Jeep. I took my foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow. I smiled. I’m pretty sure I just figured out what had set Sherlock off.

  We were now passing Gary’s Grocery and its huge parking lot. We were also passing the site of a demolition zone. The old Square L convenience store was being prepared to be torn down. Gary, owner of the town’s only grocery store, had bought the small store with the intention of ripping it down and adding the extra space to his parking lot. As a result a large bulldozer, a backhoe, and two dump trucks were parked within the perimeter of a temporary chain link fence. There was also a windowless white cargo van parked off to the side. Perhaps Gary had rented a van to take one last load of stuff out of the doomed store? Either that or else there was a kidnapper hiding out in PV. Wasn’t that the type of vans that those creeps always seemed to use?

  I should also clarify that I was pretty certain Sherlock wasn’t barking at the heavy machinery. The equipment had been parked for the weekend and that corner of the huge parking lot was all dark and quiet. No, the reason Sherlock had been barking at the Square L was because nearly two months ago everyone had thought a mummy had come back to life and had stolen a priceless pendant.

  All right. Stop your scoffing. It was just me, okay? I was the one that had been convinced we had an undead perpetrator walking around town. As it turns out, the mummy side of things had been a ruse concocted by a couple of high school students. The owner of the Square L had been one of the men responsible for pulling off the heist. In fact, the pendant had been hidden inside the store. Little Sherlock had found the Egyptian pendant when no one else had been able to.

  So, I figured Sherlock must have been bragging to all his canine friends that he alone had been responsible for the demise of the small store. He alone had found the real pendant when the store owner thought he had made a successful getaway, but with a planted fake pendant. I stared at the two corgis in the rear view mirror. The problem was, it didn’t sound like Sherlock was bragging. It was more of a you-really-need-to-check-this-out-dad type of bark.

  “There’s no one in the store, Sherlock,” I told the little corgi. “You already caught the bad guy and found the loot. You should be proud!”

  The look of disgust Sherlock had on his face had me laughing out loud. From the way he was staring at me Sherlock must have thought I was the stupidest biped he ever had the misfortune of dealing with. Turns out he was right. More on that later.

  THREE

  “I‘m never going to remember any of this.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t been explaining what each of these machines do for the past two months, Zack.”

  I scowled at Caden. We were standing amidst all the sparkling complicated-looking machines that were responsible for producing all the wines that Lentari Cellars was known for. In fact, I was literally standing in the exact same position where I had discovered a dead body the first time I had investigated my newly inherited winery. Caden turned to point at the large vat that was closest to me.

  “Quiz time, pal. What is this?”

  “A, uh, fermenter?”

  Caden nodded, “That’s good. Which one?”

  I paled. There was more than one? I glanced around at the other machines all connected by pipes and tubing. Including the vat directly in front of me, there were five others nearby. All were identical in appearance. Well, at least they were to me. I did remember Caden saying something about his 2-2-2 rule. Something about three sets of two vats that each did something different. It all depended upon their place in the line. So, let’s see. The fermenter was sitting the closest to a large, bulky machine that was nicknamed ‘the crusher’. So that had to make it the stage 1 fermenter.

  “Stage 1, right?”

  Caden grinned broadly.

  “Nicely done. Was that a guess or did you actually know?”

  I walked over to the machine closest to the back loading bays and pointed at it.

  “Well, this is the crusher, as I’ve heard you call it before. This is where the recently harvested grapes are dumped and then pressed.” I paused to look over at Caden. My winemaster nodded, indicating I should continue. “Now, the vat that you just asked about is the first tank that the mulch is deposited into.”

  Caden’s eyebrows shot up, “Mulch?”

  “Yeah, mulch. Anyway, it then…”

  Caden held up his hands in a time-out gesture.

  “Hold up, we need to correct your vocabulary. It isn’t called ‘mulch’. Mulch is what you spread on the ground, around plants and such, in order to prevent erosion. ‘Must’ is freshly pressed wine juice which typically contains skins, seeds, and stems.”

  “Must,” I repeated. “Not mulch. Got it. Thanks. Anyway, the must then travels from the crusher to this tank, the fermenter.”

  “And how long does it stay there?” Caden asked as he walked alongside of me.

  “Hmm. A month?”

  “Close. Anywhere from 7-14 days.”

  “I thought it fermented longer than that.”

  “Don’t forget there’s a second fermenter,” Caden reminded me.

  “Ah. So it sits in that fermenter for at least a month, right?”

  “Nope. The must sits inside the second fermenter from 3 to 7 days. I’m not sure why you keep saying months instead of days.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Then what happens to the must?” Caden asked. “What’s next?”

  I traced the stainless steel pipes coming out of the second fermenter over to a vat of equal size. However, this tank looked to be mobile. I smiled. I finally knew the answer to one of my test questions. I rapped my knuckles on the huge wooden
barrel.

  “This is one of the holding tanks. This is the part where it ages, right?”

  Caden nodded, “That’s right. We’ll age the wine in these oak barrels, which each hold…?”

  “50 gallons?”

  “60. And each barrel will typically produce how many bottles?”

  “Okay, I know for a fact that we haven’t covered this before,” I pointed out.

  Caden smiled, “True. I’m looking for a guess here. What do you think?”

  “60 gallons,” I mumbled to myself. “I heard somewhere that it takes about 5 bottles of wine to make a gallon. If that’s true then each of these barrels would make around 300 bottles. That’s a lot of wine. That can’t be right, can it?”

  Caden slapped me on the back and let out a whoop.

  “Nicely done, Zack! That’s exactly right. Each 60 gallon barrel will produce roughly 300 750ml bottles.”

  “And how many of these barrels do we produce each year?”

  Caden led me away from the machinery, back towards the winery’s storefront.

  “There are a lot of variables that affect the yield of a vineyard. Space between vines, between the rows, the variety and age of the grapes, it all can affect how many grapes we get from each acre. A vineyard will typically produce anywhere from 2 to 10 tons of grapes per acre. And, in case you’re wondering, a single ton of grapes will yield approximately two barrels of wine.”

  “Holy shit!” I whistled, amazed. “That’s a lot of wine!”

  “I’ve seen both lower and higher yields,” Caden told me. “But in our case, we have been averaging just under two tons per acre.”

  “So how many acres do we have here?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “This is your land and you don’t even know?” Caden asked as he smirked at me.

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now,” I grumbled. “Cut me a little slack, okay?”

  “Yeah, tough life, buddy. Anyway, Lentari Cellars has about fifteen acres dedicated to our vines.”

  “You’re telling me that we produce thirty tons of grapes each year?”

  Caden shook his head, “Not even close. Thirty tons would be sweet. Believe it or not, our target goal is much higher. I’d like to see all fifteen acres yielding at least five tons per acre.”