Case of the Dysfunctional Daredevils

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Case of the

  Dysfunctional Daredevils

  By

  J.M. Poole

  www.AuthorJMPoole.com

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  1st Printing: June, 2020

  1st Electronic Edition: June, 2020

  A FRAPPIN’ DOG IS A HAPPY DOG!

  For a complete list of titles available by Jeffrey M. Poole, including the best-selling series Bakkian Chronicles, Tales of Lentari, Pirates of Perz, and Corgi Case Files, please click here!

  Case of the

  Dysfunctional Daredevils

  By

  J.M. Poole

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Acknowledgments

  As always, this book’s existence has only been made possible by a long list of people. First and foremost, my wife, Giliane. She puts up with me on a daily basis, she (politely) listens as I try to add some humor and jokes to the story, and then (mercilessly) shoots me down when something doesn’t work with the story. For that, I’m eternally thankful, m’ dear!

  There are my Posse members, who have given me input on just about everything from suggesting fonts for the cover’s typography, all the way down to lending a hand with character names. They take the time out of their busy schedules to render aid when I need it the most. Jason, Carol M, Caryl N., Diane, Mefe, Louise, and Elizabeth. Thanks, guys & gals, for everything you do for me.

  Taking on the responsibility of creating the cover was, once again, Felipe de Barros. This Brazilian artist has proven himself time and time again. Thank you for all your hard work, amigo!

  I also need to give a shoutout to my niece, Kaylee H. I asked her if she’d be willing to give me some help creating a few of the Daredevils, and she agreed. Thanks to her, we have the characters of Cecilia “Dagger” Jade and Caleb “Techie” Gyserman. I also asked for a description of their personalities, what they like, don’t like, and even what they wear. To say that she delivered would be an understatement! Thanks for all your help, kiddo!

  Finally, my thanks go out to you, the reader, for allowing me to continue the adventures of Zack and the dogs. I promise I’ll try to keep up with Sherlock & Watson’s ongoing exploits!

  The graphic I’m using at the head of each chapter was found at: https://wikiclipart.com/mountain-clipart-black-and-white_34097/. Now, I don’t know who is responsible for making it, but I do offer my thanks for making it available.

  Now, without further ado, let’s find out what’s going on in Pomme Valley!

  J.

  For Giliane –

  There are no words which will adequately describe how lucky I am to have you in my life. You mean the world to me!

  Love you always & forever!

  PROLOGUE

  “Be careful,” an exasperated voice said, for the third time in as many minutes. “There are jagged rocks everywhere. If you get hurt, then we’re screwed. There isn’t any help for miles, and I’m pretty sure neither of us have reception on our phones.”

  “If you’re that concerned,” a female voice shot back, “then you shouldn’t have brought me all the way out to the middle of nowhere. I don’t care how pretty the scenery might be. Nothing is worth this.”

  “I did mention this is a stratovolcano, didn’t I? It’s worth it, I assure you.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Mount Olympus. Look how steep that is. I’ll never make it up there.”

  “The goal isn’t to get to the top.”

  “It isn’t? Then what’s the point of doing all this?”

  The first speaker, a man in his late twenties, gave an exasperated sigh. He took his companion’s hand in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then he pointed northeast.

  “There, at an elevation of over 7,000 feet, is a scenic point that overlooks Rascal River Valley. You can see for miles, in all directions. That, alone, is worth the trek up there. Don’t worry. We’re not going all the way to the top.”

  “How high is the top?” the woman, also in her late twenties, irritably asked.

  “Over 9,000 feet. It’s a doozy.”

  “You’re a doozy,” the girl quietly grumbled to herself.

  “Do you know who this volcano was named after?” the man eagerly asked.

  “Did they make a movie about it?”

  “Er, no. Why would they?”

  “Then no. Of course, I don’t know who this blasted mound of rocks was named after.”

  Oblivious to his partner’s sarcastic response, the man eagerly pressed on.

  “John McLoughlin. He was a Chief Factor for Hudson Bay Company. This magnificent beast was so named in 1838.”

  “Great. Whoopee.”

  The man finally turned to his hiking companion and frowned.

  “Listen, I know you don’t care too much about this sort of thing, but it’s important to me, okay? Could you at least try to look interested?”

  “You’re a geology major,” the woman returned. “I get it. You like rocks.”

  “And you don’t? I thought your profile said you enjoyed being outdoors.”

  “I do enjoy being outdoors,” the woman angrily returned. “However, traipsing several miles over rugged terrain is not my idea of a good time.”

  “Okay, that’s a fair point. I’m sorry.”

  “And I’m sorry I ever used that damn dating service,” the woman quietly muttered.

  “Look over here,” the man excitedly exclaimed. “Do you see this? This appears to be basaltic andesite. I do believe we’re close!”

  The woman sighed, “Thank goodness. My feet are killing me. I’d like to sit down for a while.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant the base of the volcano itself. The scenic point I was referring to is still about three hours away, so we’d better pick up the pace.”

  “I’d like to pick something up, all right.”

  “What was that? Do you see something you want to pick up?”

  “No. I was just… what’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That. I’m talking about that right there. There’s something poking out from underneath that bush by your left foot. Is that a piece of clothing?”

  Noting a strip of bright yellow nylon near his left foot, the man bent to retrieve it, only he discovered it entangled in the bush. The piece of fabric refused to budge, even after he had given the strip a good tug. Intrigued, the man gave the nylon strip a hearty yank, and then gasped with surprise as the object it was attached to came into sight: the grisly remains of what was clearly a human hand. Strips of flesh could be seen dangling precariously from exposed, broken bones.

  “That’s it,” the woman declared, catching sight of the mutilated remains. “No more computer dat
ing for me. I’m outta here.”

  ONE

  Glancing up at the sky, I nodded. It was gorgeous outside. The sky was a brilliant shade of azure, with white, puffy clouds visible as far as the eye could see. There was no wind, the temperature was holding at about 77°F, and thanks to the immediate drop in ambient temperature when the sun set, there was a feeling of fall in the air. All in all, it was my favorite time of year. Especially here, in Southwestern Oregon.

  Whereabouts in Oregon, you ask? Well, I may be biased when I say this, but I maintain this is the best part of the state. However, I do think the vast majority of the state is absolutely lovely this time of year, especially in the small town of Pomme Valley, which is where I currently live. Oh, I’m sorry. Let me introduce myself. My name is Zachary Anderson, but you can call me Zack. Everyone here does. I am in my mid-forties, I’m six feet tall, have brown hair (with what I keep telling myself is a gentle touch of gray) and blue eyes. I manage to keep myself in reasonable shape, and that’s mainly due to me chasing after my two dogs.

  Sherlock and Watson. Where to start with those two? Well, they’re both corgis. For those who are familiar with the breed, they will know there are two variants: those with tails (Cardigans) and those without (Pembrokes). My two are both Pembrokes. Sherlock, whom I’ve had the longest (but not by much) is tri-colored, and Watson is classified as red and white.

  Go ahead and laugh at their names. Trust me, I’ve heard every joke imaginable. Sherlock was already named when I adopted him. As for Watson, well, I was told when I rescued her that… yes, you heard that right. Watson is a she. She’s a very sweet, timid little girl who loves to snuggle with her daddy and chew on her toys. As I was saying, Watson had been through a number of foster homes, too, and had been called several different names. However, when I accepted her into my home, she became ‘Watson’. Why? Well, lemme explain.

  Sherlock and Watson, true to their namesakes, have a knack for solving mysteries, regardless of nature, be they murders, robberies, and so on. Somehow, and I still haven’t figured out how, those two little dogs have the ability to locate clues pertinent to the case we’re working on. Sherlock and Watson have solved more cases than the rest of the Pomme Valley police force, combined.

  Oh. I should also mention that the three of us are official Pomme Valley police consultants. I’ll get back to that in just a minute.

  As I was saying, Sherlock and Watson have the ability to sniff out clues that will, inevitably, link back to the case I’m working on in some fashion. Lately, I’ve gotten into the habit of taking pictures of anything that catches their interest, in the hopes of somehow being able to piece together what was happening first. But, has it helped? Not one bit. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve gone back through my pictures after a case has been solved and just shook my head in disbelief.

  Trust me, those two dogs are smart. Wicked smart. Smarter than me, even, only that’s not saying much. So, yes, we’re police consultants. Thankfully, those talents aren’t called into service that often, so what do I do when we’re not playing cops and robbers? Well, I’m glad you asked. First and foremost, I’m a writer. A romance writer, if you must know. Romance readers are a very dedicated lot and, once you’ve got them hooked on your books, they’ll typically purchase anything that has your name on it. In this case, it isn’t my name they’re looking for, but my nom de plume: Chastity Wadsworth. Oh, I know that’ll make a lot of you laugh. Then again, it also affords me a very decent living. Ever since moving here a few years ago, and rekindling my desire to write, my books have been burning up the charts.

  And, if you don’t think I stay busy enough with those two jobs, there’s a third I need to tell you about. However, to be honest, it’s not one that requires me to do much. I own a local winery, Lentari Cellars. It’s a small, well, small-ish local winery that I inherited, which prompted me to move here in the first place. You see, I was married once before, to a lovely woman by the name of Samantha. Unfortunately, she was killed in an automobile accident a few years ago. To make matters worse, I found out last year that her death wasn’t an accident after all, but premeditated murder. I won’t go into details here, seeing how that’s a story I’ve already told, but I will say I am thankful to put that painful experience behind me once and for all.

  Now, here I am, engaged to… look at that. I’m jumping ahead again. I really should introduce my fiancé, Jillian Cooper. She’s 5’6”, has auburn hair, and is in her late thirties. She’s also the owner of a local business in town, Cookbook Nook. She and I hit it off right from the start, which pretty much startled the hell out of both of us. It probably has something to do with how many similarities the two of us share.

  Let me give you a few examples.

  First off, Jillian was a widow (lost her husband to cancer), and so was I. Then, we learned we both enjoy science fiction, be it movies, television, books, or magazines. And, we both love animals. Jillian loves dogs, only she hasn’t had one for quite some time. Her late husband had been deathly allergic to animal dander, so she hadn’t had the opportunity to be around that many. Well, Sherlock and Watson made sure that came to a screeching halt. Both of the corgis absolutely adore her. I think they love her just as much as I do, which brings me to my next point. I never would have thought love could strike me twice. Thankfully, I was proven wrong. Jillian and I ended up getting engaged just a few months ago, while we were on vacation in Monterey. Even trying to take a simple vacation proved almost impossible, due to us discovering a dead body. It led to a strange series of events, involving a local numami… nusimani… coin collector, seeing how I have forgotten the technical term again, and the world-famous Monterey Bay Aquarium. During the wrap-up on that case, I gathered together our friends and family, unbeknownst to Jillian, and then popped the question, right there in front of everybody.

  Like I said, that was several months ago. Now, summer was winding down and fall was rapidly approaching. The nights were cooling off, and before long, it’d be too cold to venture outside. Therefore, I have decided to see about having lunch with Jillian, outside, at Casa de Joe’s, PV’s best Mexican-food restaurant in town. However, my fiancé was currently preoccupied, teaching a cake-decorating class at her store. So, following her suggestion, I grudgingly decided to just have lunch by myself and perhaps work on my latest novel.

  Snapping the leashes on both of the dogs, I grabbed my computer and headed out. The weather was warm, the sky was clear, and I decided to remove my Jeep’s hardtop. Jillian didn’t particularly care for riding in my Jeep in the open air. I guess it had something to do with getting windblown hair? I don’t know. Speaking for us guys, as long as our hair is there, it can flap in the wind, turn gray, or turn bone white for all I care. As for the dogs, this was the one and only time I’ve ever used seat belt restraints. After all, the last thing I need to worry about was to see one of the corgis stretched halfway over the side of the Jeep as they were enjoying the passing scenery. Trust me, it happened once. I vowed never to let that happen again.

  Setting up my laptop before me on the open-air veranda at Casa de Joe’s, and then opening my work-in-progress to the current chapter I was on, I skimmed through the last two pages I had written to refresh my memory. However, try as I might, I just couldn’t get the words to flow, and I wasn’t sure why. I knew that writer’s block was something every writer experienced from time to time. As for me, it has happened before, of course, but it was rare.

  I found my mind jumping from topic to topic, like someone rapidly changing the channels on a TV set. When would the winery’s new warehouse be completed? Would it pass all the necessary inspections? Could I really believe I was engaged to be married again? Would the weather cooperate on whatever date Jillian ended up choosing for the wedding?

  On and on it went. I waited, fingers poised over the keyboard, to see if my thoughts would settle down, but much to my dismay, they didn’t. Sighing, I pushed back from my computer and reached for the basket of chips on the
table.

  Why couldn’t I concentrate?

  Movement in my peripheral vision attracted my attention. I glanced over to see what it was, and immediately cringed. It was a who and not a what. Willard Olson, Post Master General of PV. He was also president of the Northwest Nippers herding dog club, and had been heckling me like crazy to get Sherlock and Watson to attend their monthly meetings. I had already been duped into allowing them to join, but I’ll be damned if I give up any of my free time to spend it associating with that grump.

  And that was why I was currently hiding behind a menu.

  Once the walking beanpole had meandered by, I sighed in relief, and then noticed a group of teenage girls wandering this way. They had to be no more than 13 or 14, which would typically have me recoiling with fright, only I recognized their ringleader: Zoe Woodson, daughter of Spencer Woodson. Zoe was a very bright girl, tall for her age, and had puppy-sat for me on several occasions. In fact, her eyes had just alighted on the two corgis and a wide grin appeared on her face.

  “Oh, look! It’s Sherlock and Watson! How are you two today, you adorable bundles of fur?”

  Both of the dogs were wriggling with anticipation. Not only were they fond of Zoe, but they had spotted the gaggle of kids trailing behind. Before I knew it, both dogs had gone belly up and were receiving more attention than they knew what to do with. After a few moments of fervent scratches, Zoe looked up at me, as if she just now realized someone else was present.