The Case of the Caged Cockers

by B R Snow

  “Well, I’ll be. Suzy Chandler,” Rooster said, wiping his greasy hands with an even greasier rag. “What the heck brings you down here on a cold night like this?”

  Despite the cold, he was only wearing a ZZ Top tee shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt. His jeans, held up by an American flag set of suspenders, were tucked into a pair of old workboats without laces. His long greasy, gray hair was tied back in a ponytail that trailed down his back. He grinned at me and spat a mouthful of tobacco in the general direction of my foot. Josie took a step back.

  “Let me guess,” Josie whispered. “He’s the Baxter Brothers’ long lost cousin.”

  “Relax. The tobacco spit is a sign of affection,” I whispered.

  “I’d hate to see what happens when he gets turned on,” she whispered.

  “Hi, Rooster. It’s good to see you,” I said.

  “Been too long,” he said.

  Then he got his first look at Josie. He blinked several times, then shook his head.

  “My word,” Rooster said. “I thought the sunrise this morning was about the most beautiful thing the man upstairs could pull off. I was wrong.”

  I laughed. Josie was still searching for her sense of humor.

  “Rooster, I’d like you to meet my best friend and business partner, Josie.”

  “So you’re the vet I’ve heard so much about,” Rooster said, unable to take his eyes off her. “You be sure and let me know if you ever start working on people.”

  I laughed again. This time Josie managed a small chuckle.

  “Say, I’ve been thinking about gettin’ another dog,” Rooster said. “You got any at the moment?”

  “We’ve got tons,” I said. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something big, loyal, and able to scare the crap out of tourists when necessary.”

  This time both Josie and I laughed.

  “We’ve got a male pit bull, but he’s getting up there in years.”

  “No, I need a young one. I’ve had a couple of older rescues in the past, but it’s too hard saying goodbye to them,” Rooster said, wiping away a tear and a painful memory.

  “In a couple of weeks, we’re going to have some labs ready for adoption. And in a couple of months, we’re expecting a litter of German Shepherds.”

  “That’s the one,” Rooster said. “A big male German Shepherd. You put me on the list and let me know when I should swing by.”

  “You got it, Rooster.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  “Actually, we’re here because of the dogs,” I said.

  I spent a few minutes explaining the puppy mill. Apparently, this was the first time Rooster had heard the news, and he wasn’t pleased with it.

  “People,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, we know,” I said. “We’re trying to track a couple of people we think could be involved.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Baxter Brothers,” I said.

  “Those two,” Rooster said. “Why aren’t I surprised?”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Sure. They rented some dock space from me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Probably two, no three months ago,” he said.

  “Odd that they’d be renting dock space at the end of the summer wouldn’t you say?” I said.

  “Suzy, we’ve known each other a long time, right?”

  “Yes, Rooster. A long time,” I said, knowing what was coming next.

  “I’m just a poor businessman trying to get by. What my customers do is none of my business. And that’s the reason why I have so many repeat customers. The Baxter boys are pure scum, but as long as they pay me a hundred bucks by the first of each month, my interest in how they spend their time is pretty much zilch.”

  “Unless you knew they were messing with dogs, right?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said nodding. “If that’s the case, then my level of interest would definitely go up. How sure are you that they’re involved?”

  “At the moment, I’d probably go as high as ninety percent,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, thinking for several seconds before continuing. “They usually take their boat out a couple nights a week. Tuesday and Thursday nights around ten if memory serves. And they’re usually back by midnight, one at the latest. Their boat is the black runabout in the third slip to my left. I wouldn’t have a clue where they go.”

  “Thanks, Rooster,” I said, hugging him. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anybody where we got our information.”

  “I know you won’t,” he said. “That’s why I told you.”

  “We’ll let you know as soon as the litter arrives,” I said, waving goodbye as we headed back to the car.

  “Hey, Suzy,” Rooster called after us.

  “Yeah.”

  “If you need any help with the Baxter boys, let me know. I’ve got some friends who’d be more than happy to help them adjust their attitude about dogs.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Rooster. Thanks.”

  I started the car and cranked up the heater.

  “Tee shirt and flannel shirt with no socks,” Josie said. “Why isn’t he in the hospital with pneumonia?”

  “He comes from hardy stock,” I said, shrugging. “And I’m sure the bottle of Remy Martin helps him fend off the cold.”

  “Remy Martin? That stuff can go for a couple of hundred a bottle.”

  “Rooster’s loaded,” I said.

  “After a bottle of Remy a night, I’m sure he is.”

  “No, I meant loaded as in rich,” I said, laughing.

  “That guy?”

  “Rumor has it that he’s worth millions,” I said.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, at least that’s the story.”

  “How?” Josie said.

  “I have no idea,” I said, laughing. “That’s where the story sort of dries up.”

  “Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” I said, glancing over at her.

  “It’s a Southern expression to indicate surprise,” she said. “It’s one of my mom’s favorites.”

  “Oh, I thought it was just another way for you to express hunger,” I said.

  “I could eat.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “You know, Rooster’s one of the strangest people I’ve met in a long time, but I feel good about giving him one of the Shepherd pups,” Josie said.

  “Yeah. It’ll be the most pampered pooch in town.”

  Chapter 12

  For the next few days, Josie and I went back and forth about how to overcome the logistical challenges involved in tailing two purported smugglers who were using a boat on the St. Lawrence River in the middle of December to carry out their crimes. We refused to even be on the water during what I called the Tweener Season; the time of year when the River was still deciding between transitioning into a 750 mile long ice-bath, the world’s largest ice skating rink, or a mini-glacier that swallowed the shoreline and extended out into deeper water as far as the cold, wind and snow allowed. In short, the River was especially dangerous this time of year and one small mistake, like running into even a small stretch of ice in the dead of night, could send you overboard to a certain early, frigid death.

  Besides, we had already put our boat into winter storage and had the perfect excuse for not following the Baxter Brothers. At least following them from the water. It was Josie who first had the idea that, even if we couldn’t actually follow the pair from the water, if we could somehow pinpoint their destination we might somehow be able to observe them from land.

  We then headed for the Clay Bay library to do a little historical research on the bootlegging that had operated in the area during Prohibition. More specifically, we were on the hunt for any information about the Baxter Brothers’ infamous grandfather, Monroe Baxter. We each gathered an armful of books and sat down across from each other at a small tabl
e in the empty reference room.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes flipping through a long, but somewhat sketchy overview of the area during Prohibition and found no mention of Monroe. I glanced up to reach for another book and noticed that Josie was completely hidden from view behind a stack of books that surrounded her on three sides. Impressed by her focus on the task before us, I was about to compliment her when I heard a mouse-like crinkle of paper, followed by the unmistakable sound of her chewing. I peered over the stack of books and saw her turning pages with one hand, and using her other hand and her teeth to open bite-size Snickers.

  She’d already found her rhythm.

  Turn the page, select one of the treats from the bag, tear, pop and chew, read, turn the page.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  She paused mid-chew when she saw me staring at her over the stack of books.

  “Well, would you look at who went and built herself a little fort,” I whispered.

  “Libraries always make me hungry.”

  “You’re not supposed to have food in here,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why I built the fort.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “Is that leftover Halloween candy?”

  Josie raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, dumb question,” I said.

  Around our place, there was no such thing as leftover Halloween candy. In fact, over the years, local trick or treaters had learned the hard way about the need to stop by our house early in the evening.

  “The store was having a Halloween clearance sale, so I loaded up,” Josie whispered. “You want one?”

  “Well, maybe just one,” I said, glancing around for any sign of Ms. McTavish, our local librarian who was one of the sweetest people in town, but a total stickler when it came to library rules and quick to punish offenders.

  Josie reached into her coat pocket and tossed me a fresh bag.

  “I didn’t mean one bag,” I whispered.

  “Suit yourself. More for me,” she said, popping another bite-sized morsel. “Hey, I think I’ve got something.”

  I carefully slid the bag of Snickers into my pocket and moved my chair to her side of the table. I shook my head at the collection of strewn candy wrappers. Josie pointed down at the book she was reading.

  “There’s a whole chapter here on Monroe Baxter. There’s even a photo.”

  I studied the black and white photo of a large hairy man smiling and holding a case of Canadian whiskey. The resemblance to his grandsons was remarkable.

  “An adventurous but odious and violent man with no regard for either the law or social norms, Baxter was well-known and feared throughout the area,” Josie said, reading from the book.

  “Ivy Lea is mentioned a lot of times,” I said.

  “That’s the nice little hamlet with the boathouses and cottages just on the other side of the River, right?” she said, popping another piece of candy into her mouth.

  “Yeah, and it was a major smuggling spot during Prohibition,” I said.

  “You think the grandsons might be following in old Monroe’s footsteps? Maybe trying to pay him some sort of weird tribute?”

  “Could be,” I said. “But what is really interesting about that area is that the River narrows quite a bit near Ivy Lea and the current is really strong around there.”

  “And that would keep the water from freezing, right?”

  “Yes, it certainly does,” I said. “Smuggler’s Cove is around there.”

  “Smuggler’s Cove?” Josie said. “I’m assuming that’s a spot that was aptly named.”

  “Yeah, it leads right to shore at the edge of a big campground that’s there now. And there are a lot of small islands around there that made good places in the old days to hide if the Feds were on the prowl.”

  “It would be pretty remote this time of year,” Josie said.

  “Yeah,” I said, continuing to scan the page.

  “If we knew when the Baxter Brothers’ boat left Rooster’s place, we could get there by car in about twenty minutes,” Josie said.

  “Sure. Once we clear Canadian Immigration, we make a left, and it’s just up the road. Or we could just roll the dice, find a good spot to hide, and wait for them to show up,” I said, already rolling several possible options around in my head.

  “We should probably call Jackson and let him know what we’re doing,” Josie said.

  I considered the idea, then shook my head.

  “I’d rather wait until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with. Maybe the Baxter Brothers just have girlfriends on the Canadian side.”

  “Yeah, right,” Josie said. “And I’m the local rep for Weight Watchers.”

  “Look, if we call Jackson, he’ll call the locals on the Canadian side and probably the state police. And if the Baxter boys give a whiff of the cops, they might just take off.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Josie said, laughing.

  Her laugh elicited a loud, long shush from Ms. McTavish who was hovering near the entrance to the reference room.

  “Sorry, Ms. McTavish,” I said, waving to her.

  Josie collected all the empty wrappers, stuffed them into the bag, and slowly slid it into her pocket.

  “I hear she likes to confiscate if she catches you,” Josie whispered.

  “The rumors are true,” I whispered. “She’s a big confiscator.”

  Ms. McTavish had once busted me when I’d snuck some fudge brownies into an after-school reading group. Since I was eight at the time, I’d gotten off with a warning. But I did lose the brownies.

  And to this day, I swear I’d smelled chocolate on her breath later on my way out.

  Chapter 13

  “Two pairs of binoculars?”

  “Check,” Josie said.

  “Two flashlights?”

  “Check.”

  “Notepad and pen?”

  “Check.”

  “Thermos of tomato basil soup?”

  “Check.”

  “Thermos of hot chocolate?”

  “Check.”

  “Two ham and cheese baguettes?”

  “Uh, we’re one short.”

  I gave Josie the evil eye, and she shrugged.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “The other one has your name on it.”

  “A dozen brownies?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Large can of mixed nuts?”

  “Relatively speaking,” she said.

  “You’re unbelievable. We better hit the road before you work your way through the whole basket.”

  I turned off the overhead light and backed the SUV out of the driveway. Through a stiff breeze and light snowfall, we headed across the various spans of the Thousand Islands Bridge system that connected the U.S. and Canadian sides and made our way through Canadian Immigration in record time. A few minutes after nine, we pulled into the empty campground and found a place to park in a strand of pines that provided both a hiding place and a good view of Smuggler’s Cove. I turned off the lights but left the car running and the heater on.

  Not taking any chances, I made Josie take the first watch while I polished off my ham and cheese baguette.

  “Man, it would be freezing out there on the River,” Josie said, scanning the horizon for signs of boat lights.

  “Yeah, it wouldn’t be fun,” I said. “I hope whatever the Baxter Brothers are smuggling is worth the pain and suffering.”

  We both heard the sound of another vehicle and hunched down as it drove past us about a hundred feet to our right.

  “Interesting,” I said, reaching for my binoculars. “It’s a panel van.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t tell if there’s any writing on the side,” Josie said.

  “Dark.”

  “Good work, Sherlock.”

  “Just watch the water,” I said, continuing to peer through my binoculars at the van.

  Whoever was inside obviously didn’t have plans to leave their warm vehicle any more tha
n we did.

  “Here we go,” Josie said with a touch of excitement in her voice. “Straight down, right in the middle of the water.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “All I can make out are the running lights,” she said.

  I squinted through the binoculars, but all I could see were the green and red lights on the bow and a bright white light extending from the stern.

  “We really need night vision goggles for something like this,” I said.

  “Maybe Santa will bring you a pair,” she said, laughing.

  I thought about it and decided I’d gotten worse Christmas presents in prior years.

  “Okay, they’re on the dock,” Josie said.

  Two flashlights came on and our ability to see improved.

  “That’s our guys,” Josie said.

  “What’s that they’re carrying?” I said.

  “I can’t tell,” she said. “They’re covered up. Call me crazy, but they look like dog carriers.”

  “Don’t tell me they’re running more than one puppy mill,” I said. “These guys are so going down.”

  We watched the Baxter Brothers walk along the path that led from the dock and up a small hill. When they were a few hundred feet away from the van, a lightbulb went off in my head.

  “I’ll be right back,” I whispered, making sure the overhead light was turned off before I opened the door.

  “Where on earth are you going?” Josie whispered, pausing from her surveillance to watch me.

  “To the dock.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be back in two minutes,” I whispered. “Just keep an eye on them.”

  I partially closed the door and shivered as the cold and wind hit me. I hunched low and made my way through the pines, and started down the hill. Then I tripped over a small stump that was buried by the snow, tumbled and rolled three times, then landed face down in a snowdrift about four feet deep. I stifled a groan and worked my way into a standing position, brushed the pine needles off my face, and shook the snow out of my ears. It was an extremely painful, but relatively quiet fall and no one had seemed to hear it. As important was the fact that Josie hadn’t been around to see it.