Case of the Holiday Hijinks

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Oh, I get it. We may have fifteen acres but we’re not using all the acres, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many are we presently using?”

  Caden shrugged, “Maybe a third? What’s sad is that a mere two years ago I had all fifteen acres producing close to eight tons each. You can thank Ms. Bitch for scaling that down.”

  The bitch in question was Abigail Dawson, daughter of Bonnie Davies, the lady who bequeathed essentially everything she owned to me. Abigail resented the fact that I alone had taken control of the winery and hadn’t been intimidated by her strong arm tactics to surrender control to her. She had tried to get me to sign over the house and the winery on more than one occasion and each time had been just as successful as the first.

  I was also convinced Abigail, or at least one of her cronies, had been responsible for calling the house in the middle of the night. I can only assume she was trying to make my life hell and I’d throw in the proverbial towel. All that ended up happening was that I got rid of the landline and resorted to using my cell phone for everything. So, against better judgment, I was becoming more and more adept at using my new-fangled smart phone.

  “And how many acres were still usable when you took over your duties as winemaster?” I asked.

  “Less than three. It makes me sick to think that Lentari Cellars almost went under, all because the bitch was trying to wrest control away from her mother.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that now,” I told Caden. “She’s out of the picture and you’re not. That’s all that matters.”

  “Do you have any questions for me?” Caden asked.

  I smiled. As a matter of fact, I did. I pointed back towards the machines.

  “At what point do you add the flavor to the wines?” I asked. “We produce three different types. How are each of them made? I can only assume it has something to do with that huge suitcase full of ingredients. At what point back there do you add these things? I guess I’d like to know how it’s done.”

  Caden led me back amongst the machinery.

  “Come on, I’ll show you. Do you see this here?”

  “That’s the fermenter again.”

  “This is where the magic happens. I’m not talking about adding a little bit of this and a little of that to change a simple red wine over to a Syrah. Each type of wine has its own distinct recipe, its own distinct way to be made. Specific grapes, different amounts of yeast, and so on. No, what I’m talking about is personalizing the must, making it something that no one else has.”

  “Okay, hit me with your best. What do you do? What can you do?”

  “Let’s start with the obvious,” Caden began. “Alcohol. Since we use fresh grapes then it’s not unheard of to get fruit that has low sugar content. So, what do you do?”

  “Call you,” I suggested.

  Caden grinned, “True. And what I’d do would be to employ a process called ‘chaptalization’. It means you can increase the alcohol content by increasing the sugar. It’s usually accomplished by adding in more sugar, or honey, or even grape concentrate.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible,” I confessed.

  “It’s illegal in California and Italy,” Caden told me.

  “Seriously? What about here?”

  “Perfectly legal,” Caden assured me.

  “And have you ever had to do that chapterization thing?”

  “Chaptalization,” Caden corrected. “And I have, but only to bring the alcohol content up to where it’s supposed to be. I’ve never deliberately increased the alcohol levels to something other than what they should be.”

  “And out of sheer curiosity, what should they be?”

  “A very precise 14.4%.”

  “And if it’s above or below that?” I asked. “You’re telling me there are ways to increase or decrease?”

  Caden nodded, “Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a winemaster if I couldn’t control every facet of our wine’s production, would I?”

  “I guess not,” I decided.

  The more I thought about it the more I was glad I had managed to convince Caden to resume his duties here at the winery. There was no way in hell I’d be able to run this place. It’s way too technical and precise for my tastes.

  “You had asked about flavoring. Well, aside from modifying the alcohol content, there’s also the acidity factor, which controls tartness.”

  I nodded. I think that was the biggest issue I had with wine in general. It was way too tart for me.

  “Then there’s tannin,” Caden continued. “You find it more in red wine than white. It’s what gives you that sandpaper feeling in your mouth.”

  Check that. That was what I hated about the wine.

  “Then there’s the body of the wine, which can be increased or decreased and there’s the sweetness. I’m under the impression that no one really cares for a dry wine. That’s probably what you don’t like about wine, Zack.”

  “From the sounds of things, I think I must hate everything people love about wine. The taste, the smell, the alcohol… it’s all just so, so, blech.”

  “Like I said, I’ll get you to enjoy a bottle of wine yet.”

  “When pigs fly, pal.”

  “Not even if we make a dessert wine?”

  Now he was fighting dirty. It was a well-known fact that I had a sweet tooth. I just didn’t see how ‘dessert’ could possibly be used as an adjective for ‘wine’. I’m also sure my face must have reflected my skepticism.

  “Don’t look so cynical,” Caden scolded. “Dessert wines are in high demand right now. I’ve been working on a recipe for quite some time now. I’m close to producing a viable sample. I’ve been itching to try it, only I’m trying to be patient. I haven’t quite got the taste right yet. But I will. Soon.”

  “So try it out then,” I instructed, “just leave my taste buds out of it.”

  Caden turned to me, his face becoming grim.

  “Okay, here’s the bet. You’ll try the sample I’m working on. If you like it, and I’m trusting you to be honest, then you’ll work with me to open up your taste buds and help me expand our line.”

  “And if I legitimately hate it?” I prompted. “What do I win?”

  “I’ll never ask you to taste test a wine again.”

  I thrust out a hand.

  “Deal.”

  We were halfway into a conversation explaining how the bottler worked when my cell phone rang, only the ring was off. Something was different about it. Curious, I pulled my cell from my pocket and groaned. It was my mother.

  Caden peered over my shoulder at my phone.

  “Looks like she wants a face-to-face. No worries. I’ll give you your privacy.”

  My mother wanted a what? Then I noticed that this wasn’t a typical call. There was a message on the screen that said my mother was trying to initiate a video call.

  Shoot me now.

  I took a deep breath and hit the green ‘receive’ button.

  “Mom. Hi. This is new. What’s with the video call?”

  “Can’t a mother want to see her son’s face?” my mother returned. “That’s not asking too much, is it?”

  I stared down at the face filling my phone’s screen.

  “As you probably know, this is my first video call. There’s gotta be a reason for this, mom. What is it?”

  Maybe I was the worst son on the face of the planet, but there was something about this call that was annoying me. I had just talked to my mother yesterday, where she tried to guilt me into returning to Phoenix for Christmas. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was making a full-on attempt to get me to relocate back to Arizona.

  “I just watched a movie and it got me thinking.”

  I headed back to the house while holding my phone out in front of me. I knew damn well my mom was hoping I’d ask about the movie. Might as well get it over with.

  “And what movie would that be?”

  “My Last Christmas. Have you
heard of it?”

  I shook my head no.

  “It’s a good movie, Zachary.”

  I grunted, but elected to keep silent. I hadn’t been asked a question yet so I wasn’t about to volunteer any additional information. I knew I was being difficult, and a small part of brain felt sorry about it, but I just knew that somehow this conversation was going to be twisted around until I started to feel like an ungrateful lout because I had no plans on coming ‘home’ for Christmas. Sorry, mom. Home isn’t in Phoenix anymore. It’s right here, in Pomme Valley.

  “Do you know who was in it?” my mother asked.

  I studied her face. She had worry lines etched all across her features. Something was bugging her and I knew it didn’t have anything to do with the movie. There was a point to this call and I could tell she was anxious to get there but was uncertain how to bring it up. Therefore, I could only assume that this movie she was asking about had something to do with coming home from Christmas. I mean, come on! My Last Christmas? Seriously?

  I started to feel guilty about acting so gruff with my mother so I decided to humor her and ask a few questions about her movie.

  “What channel was this movie on?” I asked. “I don’t get too many channels out here but at least it’s better than nothing. Maybe I have the channel.”

  My mother’s face visibly brightened.

  “It was on the new GreetingCard Network. They have been playing wholesome movies every night this week. It’s part of their ‘Home for the Holidays’ gimmick they’ve been advertising.”

  Home for the holidays. I knew it. I braced for the worst.

  “Speaking about that, can I ask you what you’ve decided to do for this Christmas?” my mother asked. “Are you going to come back here at least for Christmas? You can bring your new girlfriend. We’d love to meet her.”

  I took several deep calming breaths. As much as I wanted to tell my mother to mind her own business, I knew she was just doing what she thought needed to be done. I couldn’t begrudge her for that.

  “We’ve already talked about this, mom,” I reminded her. “Yesterday, in fact. You asked if I was planning on coming back there for Christmas. I can’t. It’s too soon. Everything reminds me of Samantha. I just assumed you would understand.”

  My mother suddenly smiled at me. I frowned. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood up. She was up to something.

  “I never would have imagined that living in that little Oregon town would mean so much to you,” my mother admitted.

  “I’m here because of Sam. I have this house and this winery because of her. I’m keeping the winery running in her honor. I think she’d like that.”

  “What does your new girlfriend say about that?” my mother asked.

  “First off, she’s not my girlfriend,” I told my mother. “We had only just recently agreed to start seeing each other. We’re not at the boyfriend/girlfriend stage yet.”

  “You always were touchy on that subject,” my mother observed with a smile. “So can you tell me what you like most about that town? What was it called again? Pomme Valley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is it about Pomme Valley that you feel is better than Phoenix? We have all the modern conveniences of a big city…”

  “…with the crime to match,” I finished for her. “I’ll be honest with you. I never would have thought I’d enjoy living in such a small town, but it has grown on me. The people here are nice. They look out for one another. I truly feel happy here. I can see myself settling down here. I can only hope that you’ll let this particular matter drop. I don’t want to have to keep defending myself to you. Will you do that for me?”

  Surprisingly, my mother nodded.

  “I only want you to be happy, Zachary. I… what was that?”

  I had just made it to the house and walked inside. Puzzled, I looked down at her. I still thought this was a weird way to talk to someone, but you know what? It was actually nice to see her smiling up at me. Now, however, she was frowning at me.

  “What was what, mom? What’s the matter?”

  “I just saw something. When you held the phone up, presumably when you were opening your front door, I caught sight of something. Something orange. What was it?”

  I smiled as I walked into my living room. I sat down on the couch and looked over at Watson. The little orange and white corgi had just circled a few times before stretching out on the floor in her customary ‘flying squirrel’ position. I held the phone up and turned it around, pointing the camera in Watson’s direction.

  “What is that?” I heard my mother ask. “Is that a small, orange, bearskin rug?”

  I laughed and kept the phone pointed at Watson.

  “I’ve never heard her referred to as a rug before. Watson!”

  Watson’s head jerked up off the floor. Her tongue flopped out and she panted contentedly. That’s one of the things I like about corgis. They always looked like they were smiling at me. Watson watched me for a few moments before settling back to the floor.

  “Is that a dog?” my mother asked.

  I turned the phone back around and smiled at her.

  “That was Watson. And yes, Watson is a dog.”

  “You have a dog now?” I heard my mother ask. I could actually hear her approval in the tone of her voice.

  “I have two dogs,” I corrected.

  “Two dogs? Really? You’ve never owned a dog before. Why get two now?”

  “Long story short, I was suckered into adopting Sherlock the first day I arrived here.”

  I heard the approaching clicks of doggie toe nails on a tiled floor. Sherlock, upon hearing his name, had woken up from his nap on my bed back in the master bedroom and had come investigating. I turned the phone back around.

  “Mom, this is Sherlock.”

  “Sherlock and Watson. Those are good names for dogs.”

  “Thanks. I thought so, too.”

  “So much has changed for you, Zachary.”

  “It’s for the best, I assure you,” I told my mother. “I needed a change, mom. I’m now living in a place where I have more time to write, and most importantly, I am inspired to write. I have two dogs who I think the world of, have reconnected with a friend I haven’t seen since high school, and have since started a relationship with a very nice lady who has lived here in this town her entire life.

  “This town is something else, mom. Everyone is so nice. They’ve got this three month long festival still going on. Cider Fest. All the farms are selling fresh fruit, baked goods, and all manner of things. The town has been decorated with old-fashioned Christmas lights and I swear, if it snows here, we’re going to see people riding around in horse drawn sleds.”

  “It sounds wonderful, Zachary. You sound happy.”

  “I am happy, mom. For the first time since I can remember, I truly feel like I belong here.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s definitely more crime here in the Phoenix metropolitan area. I can only assume you have nothing like that in Pomme Valley.”

  Shit. No crime here? What was I supposed to tell her, that I somehow managed to bring the crime with me? Since I’ve been in town, Pomme Valley has had several murders and a high-profile theft.

  Better leave that for another time.

  “Now can you see why I don’t want to go back to Phoenix for Christmas?” I asked. “Now do you see why I want to stay here? On top of which, it’s awful damn hard to travel that far with two dogs.”

  “I understand, Zachary. I really do.”

  “Thank you. Will you at least stop asking me now? You’re really making me feel bad every time I have to turn you down.”

  My mother suddenly smiled at me, as if she had just made up her mind about something. The hairs on the back of my neck jumped up. Again. Why did I get the feeling that I just shot myself in the foot?

  “Very well. Since you won’t be able to come to
us for Christmas then we’ll bring Christmas to you. It’s settled. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  Her picture disappeared and my phone reverted to its inert state. I remained, motionless, standing in the middle of my living room. I slowly looked down at the dogs.

  “I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  FOUR

  “You have no idea what she’s like. I mean, she looks like a harmless little old lady but man alive, can she lay on the guilt trip. I’m telling you, she has the power to twist a conversation around and make me out to be the world’s worst son in less time than it takes to say, ‘I told you so’.”

  Jillian stifled a giggle, “She couldn’t possibly be that bad, Zachary. Don’t you think it’s possible that you might be over exaggerating? Just a little? This is your mother we’re talking about.”

  Jillian and I were enjoying a nice lunch the following Monday out on one of the many ‘pet friendly’ terraces that looked out onto Main Street. Before you ask, yes, we were at Casa de Joe’s. Don’t judge. Anyway, Watson was snoozing by Jillian’s feet while Sherlock entertained himself watching the general public pass by on the other side of the terrace. He was resting on the ground, Sphinx-like, next to my feet and watching the people go by.

  “Me? Over exaggerate? Perish the thought, woman.”

  “They’re your family, Zachary. No matter how poorly you get along with them they’re still there for you. You should be proud of all that you’ve accomplished here in Pomme Valley. You’re a successful business owner. Your winery is winning awards left and right. You’re the PVPD’s secret weapon for solving crimes. What’s not to love?”

  “Maybe I am being a little too hard on them,” I admitted. “After all, they didn’t even know that I had two dogs living with me.”

  Surprised, Jillian returned her glass of iced tea to the table before she could take a sip.

  “They don’t know you have two corgis? Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “Ummm…”

  “How often do you talk to your family, Zachary?” Jillian asked. A frown had settled over her lovely features and made me want to squirm in my seat.