Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Author’s Note
The Corgi Case Files
Case of the
Shady Shamrock
Corgi Case Files, Book 12
By
J.M. Poole
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my “discovery” of the NaNoWriMo challenge five years ago. Without it, I don’t know if I would have ever started the Corgi Case Files series. For those of you who don’t know about NaNoWriMo, it stands for ‘National Novel Writing Month’, where authors challenge themselves to write a 50,000 word story in a month’s time. I didn’t make it the first time I tried, for CCF1, but for the four following years, including this one, I’ve kicked its ever-lovin’ butt! Yes, you can quote me on that.
The Irish Crown Jewels are, in fact, a real thing and, as you’ll soon learn, were stolen in 1907. To this day, they have never been recovered, so … I had some fun with that. Why not let a couple of inquisitive corgis try to work their magic on the case?
As always, I am incredibly grateful for the help of my dedicated group of family, readers, and friends for helping out with this novel. Diane, Caryl, Jason, Louise, Elizabeth, and Carol. I appreciate the support and, as you will no doubt attest, I definitely need it. :)
I’d also like to thank my new publisher’s set of beta readers: Marcia Koopman, Sandra Anderson, Paula Webb, and Susan Gross, who have been instrumental in catching every last grammar and punctuation error or typo in each manuscript as they’ve been re-released, and making them as flawless as we can. Thank you for all your time and effort, it’s so appreciated!
Finally, I have to thank my readers and fans. This marks the 12th book of the series. I never would have imagined I’d get this far, and to be honest, the end is nowhere in sight. The next two titles have been announced, and will be released later this year.
Happy reading!
For Giliane -
We had a magical time in Ireland. So much so that I’m eager for more.
When are we going back? :)
ONE
“Are you absolutely sure you want to try that one? I’d think twice, if I were you.”
“You did say that I could sample a few dishes before this event, didn’t you? I realize people are still setting up, but you did say no one would get mad at me for sneaking a few morsels here and there, right?”
“Er, mad? No. I’m just thinking about your, er, digestive system.”
My hand froze in mid-stretch, with my fork mere inches away from securing a four-inch-long segment of a dark, delicious-looking piece of sausage. Of all the various dishes at my disposal, this one actually smelled and looked the most appetizing. A quick check of the majority of the other dishes revealed a common denominator: a green substance I loathed. Who would’ve known the Irish eat so much cabbage? Cooked or raw, I couldn’t stand it. That’s why I thought my selection of a meat dish should’ve been my safest bet. Skeptically, I turned to my companion.
“What’s wrong with it? It is sausage, isn’t it? I mean, it looks like it, and smells like it, so I think it’s safe to give it a try.”
“It isn’t sausage,” Jillian Cooper, owner of Cookbook Nook, and my fiancée, clarified, with a remarkably straight face. “If you want to get technical, it’s black pudding.”
“Pudding?” I repeated. “Oh, I get it. Is that what the Irish call sausage?”
“In this case, yes.”
I narrowed my eyes as I studied the piece of meat. Looking at the cross-section of the dish, I could see that the insides looked just as I expected, containing tiny pieces of fat, flecks of grain, and bits of spices interspersed throughout an otherwise darker-colored substance. I could easily see where it got its name, since the casing on this sausage was nearly black. Wait a minute. I do seem to recall being warned off from certain dishes when I visited the Emerald Isle a number of years ago. Was this one of them?
“You told me you’ve been to Ireland,” Jillian said, smiling. “I know you can be a picky eater. How did you ever survive there? More to the point, you didn’t actually eat this, did you?”
“My publisher warned me about certain dishes,” I admitted. “Black pudding. I think you’re right. I think this was one of them, only I don’t remember why.”
“Blood,” Jillian answered.
“Blood? What about it?”
Jillian pointed at the plump coils of sausage. “The black part of the pudding refers to blood. This dish is made with pork blood and pork fat, or beef suet, and … Zachary? Are you all right? You’re turning green.”
While we wait for me and my stomach to return to speaking terms, perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Zachary Anderson. I’m a writer, winery owner, police consultant, dog owner, and with regards to cuisine, culinary-impaired. I guess I should explain, so let’s go through each of those.
First off, I’m a writer. No, my chosen genre isn’t mystery, or fantasy, or anything else you would expect me to say. As it happens, I’m a romance writer, responsible for dozens of novels with scantily clad people on the covers. If you really want to be honest, the covers that sell the most copies for me are those that show the most skin, while keeping the proper, er, bits covered. I should also point out that you won’t find my name on any book, but my nom de plume: Chastity Wadsworth. When I’m behind a computer, I let my fans and readers think I’m a woman. It’s why my books sell so well. It’s also why I obviously don’t do any book-signings. Having written so many books, for so long, I’ve built up quite a devoted group of fans, and those readers are responsible for paying the bills.
No, wait. That’s not all true. As I mentioned before, I hold a number of jobs. Let’s move to the second, which is winery owner. This particular title requires me to do the absolute least, because I have a master vintner overseeing all stages of my wines’ production. Caden Burne has been Lentari Cellars’ self-proclaimed winemaster for the past couple of years, and I couldn’t be happier. The only thing I have to do is sign checks. He tells me what I need to buy, and as long as there isn’t a comma in the price tag, then I’ll usually do it without any arguments.
For the record, if the price of the item Caden needs happens to be four figures, then he’ll usually sit down with me and plead his case. Come to think of it, I haven’t turned him down yet, and that’s because I trust him implicitly with my winery. Whatever Caden needs, Caden gets.
Next up on my list of professions takes a little bit of explaining. You see, I’ve been hired as a consultant for the Pomme Valley police department. Where’s that, you ask? PV, as we locals like to call it, is in the southwestern area of Oregon. We’re a small town of less than 5,000 people, situated between the communities of Grants Pass and Medford.
Our police department is small, with less than ten full-time officers. As for me, well, I’m usually called in whenever a crime has been committed that has the potential of stumping the officials. What that really means, though, is that I’m brought in whenever Detective Vance Samuelson gives me a call. Let me stop you right there, because I know what you’re thinking. Vance doesn’t really want my help with anything. He wants theirs.
Who am I talking about? That’d be my two dogs, Sherlock and W
atson. They are Pembroke Welsh Corgis and, like their namesakes, are incredibly skilled at solving mysteries. Those two dogs have solved murder cases, located missing property, and have found people who have no desire to be found. I would also like to be able to tell you it’s something I trained them to do, only we both know that’d be one doozy of a lie.
Sherlock and Watson have the ability to sniff out clues that, to an outside observer, would appear to have no bearing on the case whatsoever. However, each and every time they locate something, regardless of how bizarre, it’s later proven that the clue has a direct connection to the case. I just wish I knew how they did it.
Whenever the dogs home in on something, which could be a bit of trash, or a fluttering leaf, or anything else you or I would instantly classify as insignificant, I would take a picture of it. Then, after I had taken enough ‘corgi clues’, my friends and I would sit down—usually over dinner—and try to figure them out. Have we ever figured out the case before the dogs? No. I have no idea how the corgis work their magic. The only thing I can tell you is that Sherlock and Watson are the police department’s secret weapons. The only thing I am is official Kibble Acquirer and Poo Picker-upper.
Yes, those are technical terms.
In case you were wondering, their Royal Canineships were over at Vance’s house playing with his girls, while I was able to have some quiet time with my aforementioned fiancée. Although, if I am to be truthful, this wasn’t the quiet time I was expecting.
Jillian Cooper is the owner extraordinaire of Cookbook Nook, a specialty cookbook store located here, in PV. It’s a well-known fact that Jillian loves to host events at her store, whether it’s a store-wide promotion or a local cookbook author providing a demonstration of some recipes found in their cookbooks.
Jillian had asked me earlier in the day if I could help her set up tables and chairs for an event Cookbook Nook was hosting. Then, she uttered the magic words which would always guarantee I’d offer my help: free food. Let’s just say I couldn’t get to my Jeep fast enough. What I didn’t know, however, was the nature of this particular event. Since we were in the second week of March, that could only mean this particular festival had something to do with the rapidly-approaching St. Patrick’s Day.
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but the only real observation I’ve done for this particular holiday was to have a beer or two. No, they weren’t dyed green. I don’t care how good the beer tastes, if it’s green, then it stays in the bottle, thank you very much.
I didn’t care for corned beef, and you may recall me expressing my utter dislike for cabbage. What did that leave me? Well, I know the Irish were fond of potatoes, so that usually meant hitting the drive-thru at McDonald’s for an order or two of French Fries.
This particular year, though, was different. Jillian had decided she wanted to host an authentic céilí. Well, after I looked up the word online, I saw that it simply meant an Irish festival, with food, music, dancing, and storytelling. Since there was no way she’d be able to clear enough space for a dance floor, she had to settle for three of the four requirements.
Turns out Oregon has over 10% of its population tracing back to Ireland in some fashion. What did that mean for PV? Well, we have some older folk who were born and raised in Éire. I had to look up that word, too. Éire is Irish for Ireland. You’d think I would have known the word, having some faint Irish blood running through my veins and having spent time over in County Cork a few years back.
Having questionable taste buds (hence the culinary-impaired label I had branded myself with earlier), I ended up researching quite a few recipes before anything could come even remotely close to my mouth. However, after sampling the third or fourth recipe, and finding it harmless, I let my guard down. Serves me right, I guess.
“Will you try this one?” Jillian asked me, as she pointed at one of four 13”x9” pans of a white, fluffy substance.
“What is it? Mashed potatoes? Of course.”
“Is that what you think it is?” Jillian asked, bemused.
About ready to scoop some of the ‘potatoes’ onto my plate, I let out a sigh.
“Fine. What is it? It sure looks like potatoes. Smells like them, too.”
“The top layer is mashed potatoes,” Jillian confirmed.
“And the bottom layer?” I hesitantly asked.
Jillian shrugged. “Well, there’s ground meat, usually lamb, but in this case, it’s beef, with brown gravy and …”
“Shepherd’s pie,” I said, as I grinned and resumed scooping a helping onto my plate. “Finally, something I know, seeing how I’ve had it before.”
“And you liked it?” Jillian asked, impressed.
“There’s nothing in here that I don’t like,” I confidently reported, as I prepared for my first bite. Then, I caught sight of Jillian’s face, which had a guarded expression on it. “There isn’t, is there?”
Jillian broke out in laughter. “I’m just teasing you. I made that batch, and I can assure you it is Zachary-approved.”
“Awesome. Oh, man. This is good, lady. I should keep you around more often.”
Jillian snuggled close. “You already do. And thank you. My family loves shepherd’s pie. I’ve made quite a few of them.”
“Is your family part Irish?”
“Not that I am aware of. My family is mostly Swedish.”
“Swedish? How did I not know that?”
“I’ve never told you?” Jillian asked, surprised. “I’m sorry. I should have said something sooner.”
“No worries. Have you ever been to Sweden?”
“No, but I’d like to.”
“In that case,” I decided, “we should plan a trip.”
“How exciting!” Jillian exclaimed. “But, could I make a request?”
“Sure.”
“Could we make it Ireland? I’ve listened to you talk about your visit, and I’ve heard others talk about theirs. I’ve always wanted to go.”
I pretended to think. “Ireland? Seriously?”
“I know you prefer to visit new places every time you travel,” Jillian began, mistaking my hesitation for reluctance, “but there are some places that do require a more thorough look, don’t you think?”
“If we plan a trip to Ireland,” I slowly began, as I tried to keep the smile from spreading across my face, “then that would make the second trip for you, and the third for me.”
As expected, Jillian stared at me with confusion written across her lovely features.
“Huh? I don’t know what that means. I haven’t been there before.”
“But we are going there for our honeymoon, aren’t we?”
Jillian gasped with surprise. “We are? What …? When …? You’re not playing some type of prank on me, are you?”
“We talked about this,” I began, completely enjoying myself, “a few nights ago. It was while we were watching Notting Hill 2 — The Reckoning.”
“But … we watched that on Tuesday.”
“That’s right.”
“And I … fell asleep.”
“Yes, you did,” I recalled, with a smile. “I just assumed you were okay with my decision, especially when there were no objections afterward.”
Jillian swatted my arm. “Objections? I was asleep! And heavens no, there are no objections. Are we really going?”
“For our honeymoon, yep,” I confirmed. “I was going to plan out the rest, but then I realized I wanted to get your opinion on a few things.”
“This is so exciting!”
“Is this an acceptable time to talk about this?” I asked, as I looked around the tables at the people milling about.
“Absolutely. You can’t bring up Ireland to me now and not expect me to inquire about our itinerary. What do you need help with?”
Jillian and I stepped over to an adjacent table. On it were four different dishes in commercial buffet warmers. We stopped at the first dish and stared at the offerings.
“Well, I wanted to ask you
… well, first, I want to know what that is. Should I take one?”
“That’s a boxty.”
“A boxty? And that would be …?”
“It’s a potato pancake, made with mashed potatoes and grated potatoes.”
“The Irish do love their potatoes,” I quietly observed. “It also sounds harmless. I’ll try one. Will you as well?”
Jillian held out her plate in response. After placing a boxty on each of our plates, we moved on.
“As I was saying,” I continued, “with regard to spending a full two weeks in Ireland, I thought …”
“Two weeks!” Jillian excitedly repeated. “Oh, this keeps getting better and better!”
“Two weeks,” I confirmed. “The first time I visited Ireland, I can tell you I was part of a tour group. Everything was done for me. I went where I was told, when I was told, and was only able to see things that were nearby. The caveat to that is someone else did the planning. The only thing I had to do was show up. Now, I have since learned there are tons of things to see, and plenty to do, so my question to you is, would you want to explore the country on our own? Or would you prefer to go through a travel agency and have them arrange everything?”
“Oooo, that’s a good question. Perhaps I could come over tonight and we can go through a travel guide together? We could then each point out what’s most important to us.”
“You’re on, m’lady,” I drawled, using what I’m hoping was a passable John Wayne accent.
We made it to the next offering and I have to say that I was frowning long before I made it to the dish. What I was looking at was a huge punch-bowl-sized container, filled to the brim with mashed potatoes, and mixed throughout was some type of green ingredient. Parsley, perhaps? Although, if it was, then that was a whole heckuva lot of it, and what I was looking at was a lot lighter than parsley. My nose, on the other hand, told me whatever it was, it didn’t appeal to me in the slightest.
Case of the Shady Shamrock Page 1
