“Nothing?” Jillian sighed, as she eyed my empty arms. “I can’t believe they’re still out of cranberries.”
“Can you use anything else? Like a substitute, perhaps?”
“I’ll have to think about it. I may have to call Taylor and ask her for some advice.”
“Well, she is the baker,” I reminded her. I caught sight of a couple of brand new empty flats, next to the cranberry bin, and pointed at it. “What gives? Those weren’t out earlier. I wonder what was in there?”
Jillian leaned forward. “Blueberries. It says blueberries, Zachary. Why would they be out?”
“Why would cranberries?” I countered.
Jillian nodded. “A fair question. This is just strange. I’ve never seen a run on anything at the grocery store before. Come on. I want to check the frozen section. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a bag or two of cranberries there.”
A family rushed by us a few moments later, pushing two carts laden with food, toiletries, cleaning supplies, and so on. I didn’t really pay any attention to it, nor did Jillian. The only thing on my fiancée’s mind was the procurement of cranberries, so she could make some of her favorite seasonal recipes. As for me, the only thing on my mind was eating those seasonal recipes.
Pushing our cart, I decided to swing by the frozen section a second time, this time with another set of eyes, just in case I might’ve missed something. Sadly, I hadn’t. In fact, there were shelves in this freezer that were looking just as bare as the fresh berries section. Just what the hell was going on? What, were we in the middle of some type of pandemic? Just because a couple of grocery stores were vandalized, did that mean people should immediately begin hoarding supplies? Was that what the family with two carts was doing? Stocking up in case it was the end of the world?
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” Jillian quietly lamented. “All I need is a bag or two of cranberries.”
“Unless the population of Pomme Valley has somehow increased without anyone else realizing it,” I slowly began, “I can only assume the general public are freaking out for no reason. Did you see the canned goods aisle? Black beans were out. Beans! Who the hell would think to themselves, ‘Dude, we can’t run out of beans, bro! Buy ’em all!’ It’s ridiculous.”
Jillian was laughing. “You sounded just like Harry!”
A young courtesy clerk wandered by at that moment.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Excuse me, could we ask you a question?”
The clerk hastily back stepped until he was standing in front of us.
“Yes? Can I help you?’
I pointed at the freezer. “By any chance, do you have any more bags of cranberries back there?”
The teenager sighed and shook his head. “We’ve had everyone asking about them. We’re out, I’m afraid. They were the first to go when the newspaper reported several other stores had their supplies stolen.”
“And blueberries?” I continued. “And black beans? What’s going on around here, anyway?”
The kid looked left, then right, as if he was afraid of being overheard.
“I know, right? This is insane. We haven’t been this busy since … ever. It’s like every single person coming through the line has a minimum of $150 in groceries.”
“People are buying things they don’t need,” Jillian sighed. “They’re …”
“… panic-buying,” the clerk finished for her. “You’re right. Aside from cranberries, do you have everything you need? Perhaps there’s something you can’t find that we might still have on the shelf?”
Another fully laden cart was pushed by us.
“I give it another 48 hours before you’re going to be sold out of everything,” I quietly deduced.
The clerk confidently shook his head. “There might be panic-buying happening in here, but the demand hasn’t gone up. We’ve got another shipment coming in sometime in the next day or so. I know they were trying to push the delivery earlier, but I don’t think that’ll happen. Besides, I overheard my boss saying that there should be a shipment of cranberries included with that delivery.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” Jillian told the boy. She pulled out her phone and checked the list she had digitally created. “How are your supplies of stuffing and gravy?”
The kid smiled. “I just walked down that aisle. I wouldn’t want to create a panic, but we’re good. And gravy? I saw both jars and cans.”
I grinned and gave the kid a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Perfect.”
“What about chopped pecans?” Jillian inquired. “I can’t find those.”
The clerk nodded. “How much do you need?”
“Just one bag, thank you.”
“It’s okay to tell her you’re completely out,” I offered.
“I’m making those sweet potatoes,” Jillian sternly told me.
The teen grinned. “Sweet potatoes? With pecan topping? Sign me up! I’ll get you a bag.”
Jillian smiled at the boy, while casting a frown in my direction. “Thank you.” The clerk hurried off. “You said you were going to try my recipe. There’s no backing down now, Zachary.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sighed. “What can I say? I took a shot. It didn’t pan out.”
Jillian swatted my arm and pointed back toward the canned goods section.
“We need a can of olives. I have this recipe where … what’s with that face? Oh, don’t tell me. You don’t like olives.”
“Umm, I’m not a fan.”
“You know what I’m going to ask next, don’t you?”
I grinned and nodded. “Yep. You’re going to ask me if I’ve ever tried them. Well, I have. And, believe it or not, I didn’t find the flavor truly distasteful, just unpleasant.”
“Does that mean you’d be willing to try one of my famous stuffed olives?” Jillian asked.
“Tell you what. As long as you’re okay if you hear me say, I truly didn’t care for it, then I’ll give it a try. I’m fairly certain I won’t care for the taste, but I will try it. For you.”
Jillian smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear. What I don’t want to hear, however, is that I won’t be able to make my grandmother’s cranberry persimmons cookies. I’ve made those cookies every year since I was 14, and I have no intention of breaking that record.”
“You’ll be able to make your cookies,” I vowed. “Even if it means I have to drive to Portland to buy a bag of cranberries. I just have one question.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” Jillian gushed. “What’s your question?”
“What’s a persimmons? Is it a type of fruit?”
“You’ve never tried a persimmon before?”
“I think we’ve established I’m culinary-retarded,” I reminded my fiancée.
Jillian giggled. “Well, you’re right. It’s a fruit.”
“What’s it taste like?” I curiously asked. “I’ve heard the name before, of course, but I have no idea what they look like or taste like.”
“Let’s see. Let me think how I should best describe them.”
Jillian, master cook and owner of a cook book shop, had to think about how to best describe a persimmon? Why do I get a feeling that my red flags are about to go up? I have a bad feeling about this.
“There are no comparisons to any other fruit that I can think of,” Jillian admitted. Just then, she snapped her fingers. “Ah, I’ve got it. Imagine, if you will, a mango and a roasted sweet pepper met up, fell in love, and had a baby. Now, dust that baby with a touch of cinnamon and presto, you have a persimmon.”
“Mango and a roasted sweet pepper?” I repeated, with mock horror. “I’ve had mango, and while it’s not a favorite, I can choke it down. Sweet peppers? Definitely not a fan, so I can’t begin to imagine what a mixture of those two would taste like.”
“You told me you’d try those cookies, too,” Jillian reminded me. “Your mother tells me you love cookies. Any cookies. Trust me, you’re going to love them!”
As we roamed a
round the store, picking up only what we needed, mind you, my mind started to wander. Why would a simple theft of cranberries create such panic as what we were experiencing today? For that matter, what in the world would someone want with that many cranberries?
“Can you imagine what would happen to Gary’s Grocery if it was hit by the same thief who hit the other two?” Jillian quietly mused.
I swept an arm around the hustle and bustle of Pomme Valley’s main grocery store, as tiny as it was.
“I’d rather not, thanks,” I remarked.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Jillian suggested, as she found the canned olives and selected several varieties.
“Just now? I was wondering what schmuck, in his right mind, would want to steal a bunch of cranberries? I mean, aside from causing pandemonium at Ye Olde General Store, what’s the purpose? Why go through all of this?”
“If I didn’t know any better,” Jillian began, as she moved to the canned vegetable section, “then I’d say they were looking for something.”
“And they found it,” I confirmed. “More frozen cranberries.”
“No, you silly man. Let’s say that this thief has hidden something with the cranberries. Or, more likely, there’s something hidden inside the shipping box of cranberries.”
“That’s been sitting inside a freezer?” I asked, skeptically. “Can you give me an example?”
Jillian shrugged and lowered her voice. “What about drugs? What if, as the authorities were closing in, this thief had to hide a bag of drugs? And, if by some miracle, they were walking past a box ready to be shipped? What if it was dropped inside?”
“That’s a mighty big ‘what if’,” I pointed out. “And cranberries? I don’t think you can just leave an open box of cranberries—bound for a grocery store—at the local post office.”
“It’s a far-fetched suggestion,” Jillian admitted. “I was just trying to come up with an explanation to fit the facts.”
“It’s a good idea,” I decided.
“Do you really think so?” Jillian asked.
“Well, think about it. So far, the common denominator between the two break-ins are the cranberries. Both were stolen and not recovered, I might add.”
“Yet, the pills and the booze were recovered from those two burglaries,” Jillian reminded me.
“True. I’m not sure how that helps us, but I know it must mean something. How’s your list coming along? Aside from cranberries, do you have everything?”
“We still need the …”
The young clerk reappeared just then. He saw me watching and tossed a bag of something he was holding. Was it pasta?
I caught the item and then looked at my hand and groaned. Chopped pecans. Jillian was going to be able to make her blasted sweet potatoes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I hate sweet potatoes, but there’s just something about the flavor I don’t care for. I know what you’re thinking. I should like them, due to the word ‘sweet’ being included in the name. On top of which, my own mother used to make a version of sweet potatoes that had some type of roasted marshmallows on top.
I still didn’t care for them. Oh, well. These recipes clearly mean something to Jillian, and I wasn’t about to be the dolt who rains on her parade. So, some compromising was in order. Regardless of how they tasted, I would eat my fair share. I just had to make sure I had a can of soda on hand.
“Have all grocery stores had their cranberries stolen?” Jillian suddenly asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I think it’s just those two so far. Why do you ask?”
“Well, the bigger stores have more stock. If you really wanted to get your hands on some frozen cranberries, then I would think you’d target the bigger stores. There’s an Albertson’s, a Walmart, and even a Safeway in Medford. Were any of them hit?”
Jillian headed toward the bakery while I pulled out my phone and fired off a few questions via text to Vance. In less than two minutes, we had our answer. Vance had—apparently—wondered the same thing and sent off his own inquiries. He confirmed he had no idea why cranberries were targeted and, once I asked if only those two stores had been hit, he said he’d make a few calls.
Another 15 minutes passed before we had texts back from him.
Have already asked the same thing. Was waiting on several more Medford stores before answering, but their replies just came in.
I hurried over to Jillian, just as she selected a loaf of French bread, and showed her the phone.
Distributor has nearly two dozen stores checking inventory. 2 have reported their supplies have vanished. Cranberries only thing missing / unaccounted.
“Two more,” Jillian breathed. “Are they smaller stores?”
I eagerly tapped out the question.
Yes. Looking into how stores are connected. Will keep you posted.
“Vance thinks something is fishy, too,” Jillian decided. She waggled her phone and then slid it in her purse. “That’s everything. Well, mostly everything. Ready to go?”
Another harried shopper rushed by us. And yes, before you ask, his cart was full, but this time, there were a few items in there which made me laugh.
“Zachary, did you see that man? He must have had a hundred rolls of toilet paper. All this because a few grocery stores were vandalized? I don’t get it.”
I spotted another shopper approaching. He looked to be younger than me, maybe mid-thirties, and had a seriously unhappy expression on his face. He noticed me looking his way and shrugged.
“Toilet paper?” I incredulously asked. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s with all the TP? Am I missing something?”
“If there’s gonna be a run on supplies,” the stranger began, “then the last thing I want to worry about is whether or not I have enough, er, paper to finish the job.”
I snorted with laughter. “You make it sound as though we’re in the midst of a panic-inducing run on all supplies.”
The guy pointed at the prizes in his cart. “You ought to grab some for yourself. You never know what will happen.”
“We will not be panic-buying anything,” I pointed out. “The only thing we need, which Gary’s is currently out of, is cranberries.”
The young man nodded knowingly. “You, too? I need that, and a few other things. Oh, well. Better safe than sorry.”
Unfazed by my blasé response to his invitation to join the pandemonium, the shopper moved on.
“People are just …”
“… stupid,” Jillian finished for me, after I had trailed off. “The general public is easily frightened. The most we can do is not let ourselves panic-buy anything.”
“Consider it done.”
We returned to Jillian’s house, Carnation Cottage. As we walked in the door, with our arms laden with our purchases, I noticed both of the corgis were up on the couch, laying Sphinx-like, in front of the television. Thanks to Jillian’s suggestion, I tuned in to a free preview of some canine-enriching programming which promised to capture and hold your beloved dog’s attention. I remember scoffing at the notion there was programming explicitly tailored for an animal. But, the moment I set the channel, both Sherlock and Watson, who had been in the process of jumping down to follow us to the door, turned to stare at the TV. What was the program showing? Simple: a procession of dogs, enjoying themselves in an outdoor park.
With the exception of sinking into down positions, neither dog had moved an inch.
“Well, I know what I’m signing up for, when I get back home,” I chuckled.
Speaking of homes, I should point out that I’ve been spending a lot of time over at Jillian’s house lately. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was spending more time here than there. Why? Well, I wanted to be wherever Jillian was, and I know she was more comfortable in her house. Plus, her house was easily twice the size of my own. Ideally, I’d love to have Jillian’s house on my winery’s acreage, but let’s face it. That wasn’t gonna happen.
Neither of us have addressed what the living a
rrangements will be after we get married. Will we live here, in one of PV’s historic houses? Or, would we choose to live on my fifty acres of land?
If given a choice, then I think I would still love to live out in the country. However, Jillian loves her house, and unless I plan on renovating my house or possibly expanding it, then …
Hmmm. Hold the phone, I think we have a winner! I could upgrade my house and give it some major renovations. The kitchen would need to undergo a huge makeover. Since Jillian loves to cook, I’d have to double the counter space, increase storage, replace appliances, and so on. It might be easier to just raze everything to the ground and start fresh, from scratch.
Wait, could I do that?
The thrum of a lawnmower suddenly erupted nearby. Mentally reminding myself to quietly look into the possibility of tearing my house down to begin anew, I patted both dogs on the head and looked out the window. A landscaper’s truck, towing a large trailer loaded with a wide assortment of tools, was parked outside. I hadn’t known Jillian had her own landscaper, but based on how nice everything looked, it really shouldn’t be too surprising.
“You’ve got some people outside, working on your lawn,” I called to Jillian.
Jillian rounded the corner and nodded. “Oh, good. I need to talk to them. I’m hoping they can trim back the pine tree closest to the house. It’s getting too close for comfort, if you ask me.”
The two of us headed for the front door. Sherlock and Watson finally tore themselves away from the TV and joined us. Clipping their leashes on, we headed outside and were instantly assailed by the exhaust from the lawnmower and the telltale scent of fresh grass clippings. One guy was busy raking up after the mower, and a second guy was loading the clippings into a wheelbarrow.
Also visible was a young boy of eight or nine, who was sitting on one of the porch steps. His head was down and he seemed to be staring at something in his lap. I’m guessing it was some type of electronic device?
I felt the leashes go taut. The dogs, it would seem, had noticed the youngster and were staring at him, as though they suspected he was hiding treats in his pockets. Moments later, I heard a few beeps and several synthesized explosions, confirming my guess the device was some type of video game. I tugged on the leashes, indicating my desire to follow Jillian as she headed for the guy currently raking the lawn. The dogs, however, refused to budge.
Case of the Great Cranberry Caper Page 8
