Case of the Pilfered Pooches

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Nice,” I decided. I looked admiringly up at Caden. “You’re doing a helluva job, amigo.”

  My winemaster grinned back at me, “Thanks, buddy. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you inherited the winery and not Abigail.”

  “You’re definitely pulling your weight around here,” I told him. “I think you’ve just earned yourself a raise.”

  “No arguments there,” Caden decided. “Hey, on that note, I have a request.”

  I glanced at the case, then at the medals, and finally, at the two trophies. Is that what he’s been doing to me? Buttering me up so that he can make some outrageous request?

  “Oh, stop frowning,” Caden scolded. “At least hear me out before you shoot me down.”

  “Fine. What’s up? What do you need? Money for something?”

  Caden nodded, “As a matter of fact, I do. I was hoping you’d make an investment in the winery. Several investments, actually.”

  By this time, I’m sure I was frowning. Caden wanted me to make several investments? That could only mean he wanted me to part with thousands of dollars. Yes, I could afford it, provided I didn’t go too crazy, but before I approved anything, I wanted to see what my winemaster had in mind.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed, “Hit me with your best shot. What’s on your mind?”

  Caden pulled a brochure from his back pocket and handed it to me. It was from the John Deere dealership in Medford. This particular brochure was advertising a new line of tractors.

  “You want me to buy a tractor?” I scoffed. “Seriously?”

  “Hey, don’t laugh. We used to have one here.”

  My eyebrows shot up, “We did? Where is it now?”

  Caden scowled, “Take a guess.”

  “Abigail talked her mother into selling it, didn’t she?”

  “She felt the tractor was an added expense, and her mother shouldn’t have to worry about maintaining a piece of farm equipment.”

  “This is a small winery,” I pointed out. “I really don’t think we have enough land to warrant buying a tractor.”

  “I’m really glad you just said that, Zack.”

  “Oh, shit,” I groaned. “I just remembered you said, ‘investments’. Plural. Now what? You’re looking to add more land?”

  Caden nodded excitedly, “Yes! Zack, you’re not going to believe this. Old man Parsons has finally decided to retire and give his farm to his kids. The first thing his oldest son told me was that they were planning on down-sizing the farm ‘cause no one really wants to farm any more. Besides, they have plenty of money. I asked him how much land he was looking to sell. Zack, he said he’d be willing to sell us 20 acres.”

  “20 acres,” I slowly repeated.

  “His land borders Lentari Cellars to the north and west. It’d be perfect! We’d have room to grow!”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I slowly began, “but we’re not even using all the acreage we have at our disposal now, right?”

  “True,” Caden admitted, “but…”

  “How many acres are we up to?” I interrupted.

  “We’ve got 10 acres planted right now.”

  “And how many acres does Lentari Cellars have?”

  “You still don’t remember?” Caden scolded.

  “Just answer the question, pal.”

  “15.”

  “Okay. We have 15 acres to work with. You’re suggesting we more than double our existing acreage?”

  “Hence the request for a tractor,” Caden said, a little more smugly than I would have liked.

  “Let’s talk money,” I replied. “How much are we talking about?”

  “Well, if you want the honest truth, he hasn’t told me a number yet.”

  “Uh huh. Is this where I’m supposed to call him and wheedle him down?”

  “We might not ever get another chance to expand the winery like this, Zack. I’d seriously think about it.”

  “Fine. I will.”

  “You’re a good man, Zack.”

  “And this tractor?”

  “If you’ve been persuaded by my remarkable charm to add on to the acreage, then getting another tractor would definitely come in handy. All good wineries have them.”

  “How in the world could you possible drive a tractor through those vines?” I asked, bewildered. “There’s not enough room between rows. You’d squish ‘em all flat!”

  “The rows are a little under five feet apart from one another,” Caden informed me. He held out a hand, indicating I should pass the John Deere brochure back to him. “You’re right. Most tractors wouldn’t fit. However, you’ll notice here that it says that these three models are ‘narrow’. Zack, they’re specifically built for use in orchards and wineries.”

  “A specialty tractor?” I asked, amazed. “What will they think of next?”

  “You’ll think about it?” Caden hopefully asked.

  “If I decide to approach old man Parsons and inquire about purchasing some land, and we end up buying it, then yes. I will consider it.”

  Smiling, as though he were the victor of a long, drawn out battle, Caden left, humming merrily. My winemaster wanted to add another 20 acres? Do we really need to consider expanding so soon?

  My eyes fell on the two awards standing proudly on my coffee table. I hadn’t even known Caden had been entering any contests, and I certainly didn’t expect him to tell me we had won anything. Yet there they were. There was no doubt in my mind that Lentari Cellars produced a fine bottle of wine. Well, more than one bottle. The winery produced several different types of wine, with more in the works, from what Caden tells me.

  Our waiting list was growing, the prices seemed to keep going up, and it didn’t look as though we’d be slowing down anytime soon. We were turning a hefty profit every time we harvested, so, what could it hurt to plan ahead? More than doubling our existing acreage would certainly be a wise investment. And I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much income the extra land would bring in once they were all producing grapes. We were up to 10 acres now, producing nearly 4 tons of grapes per acre. Caden’s goal is to hit the perfect ‘15’. Fifteen tons of grapes per acre, producing two barrels of wine per ton.

  See, Caden? You can teach an old dog new tricks. I actually remembered.

  It couldn’t hurt to inquire what the Parsons family was asking for the acreage. I had already convinced myself that, if reasonable, I’d place an offer. I’ll make the call just as soon as I sent my completed manuscript to my editor.

  Back to the Salt Mines.

  I trooped back up the stairs and placed their Royal Canineships into the guest bedroom I've nicknamed the Dog's Room. I even lifted them up onto the bed. Curious, Sherlock eyed me, wondering what I had in mind. I flipped the television on, changed the channel to a station dedicated to all things animal, and let them watch.

  I had learned long ago that, oddly enough, some dogs do enjoy watching TV. My corgis were two of them. Put on a show that had animals in it – any type of animal – and they’d become completely distracted.

  Confident that Sherlock and Watson were taken care of, I returned to my office. There was my book, still waiting for me. I had no sooner sat down and resumed reading when the barking began.

  “For the love of Pete,” I grumbled. I hurried over to the dogs’ room. “What’s up, guys? Now what?”

  What I saw had me laughing outright. Both corgis were standing up on the bed and had moved as close to the TV as they could without falling off. Sherlock was barking his fool head off while Watson would occasionally add her two cents. When she wasn’t growling, that is.

  Surprised, I leaned towards Watson and double-checked. Yep, sure enough, my quiet, timid girl was growling at the TV. For the record, I should mention that little Watson rarely growled at anything. So, what was she growling at?

  It was a show about training dogs – tiny poodles, of all breeds – to do those doggie obstacle courses that the border collies typically won. I shrugged as I looke
d back at my dogs. I have never cared for poodles. Sure, I’ve been told they are one of the most intelligent dog breeds there is, but I’ve never seen the appeal. And those funky haircuts they make the poor dogs wear? It was too bizarre for my taste.

  “Bark away, guys. I’m no fan of poodles, either.”

  Deciding I really didn’t want to have any further distractions, I tip-toed out of the room, snuck back downstairs, and pulled out two worn (and thoroughly chewed) rubber treat dispensers. I stuffed each of them full of dog treats, added a smear of creamy peanut butter, and then carried them back upstairs.

  Re-entering the dogs’ room, I saw that neither of them had budged an inch. Then, in perfect unison, both noses lifted and I could hear each of them sniffing the air. I placed both of the treat-filled dispensers in front of them and hastily exited the room.

  I didn’t hear a peep out of them for nearly a half hour.

  I was making significant progress on my book. I was about three-quarters of the way through and had just stopped to make an adjustment to one of my female character’s clothes. My description of her Victorian era wardrobe didn’t quite sound right, specifically her leggings, so I decided to do a few last minute rewrites.

  Wanting to be sure I had placed appropriate attire on my Victorian-era character, I made the mistake of looking up tights and fishnets on the internet, and I can only assume Google’s logic went something like this:

  Search query for fishnets detected. Considering acceptable results.

  1st suggestion: women in fishnets?

  2nd suggestion: women out of fishnets?

  3rd suggestion: women sans attire?

  Would anyone like to guess which one Google ended up choosing? Needless to say, I got an eyeful. Damn suggestive searches. I miss the good old days where I could do a simple search for something, and that’s all I’d get. Now, these search engines are scrambling to predict what you want to see and have it pre-loaded for you. Before you’ve even finished typing it.

  It’s a pain.

  After I hastily cleared out my browsing history, and purged the temporary data from my computer, and scheduled an immediate virus scan of every square inch of my hard drive, I finally felt like I could relax again. Sometimes the internet was more trouble than its worth. Most of the times, however, it…

  My cell phone buzzed angrily. I got the distinct impression it didn’t like being muted. Well, who was calling this time?

  “Zack? It’s Vance.”

  “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”

  “Remember when you offered your help just a little while ago?”

  “Mm-hmm. What’s the matter? Why do you sound so spooked?”

  “I need your help, pal. Badly.”

  “Of course. What do you need us to do?”

  “Meet me at the park on Oregon Street.”

  “What? The park where I called you from earlier?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Put a rush on it, Zack.”

  “Why? What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  “They took my dog, Zack. Anubis has been stolen!”

  THREE

  A large crowd had gathered by the time the dogs and I returned to the same park we had visited earlier in the day. Sherlock and Watson were both whining with anticipation, seeing how each of them had recognized our present location. Sherlock looked over at me, barked exasperatedly, and whined again. He pawed the door.

  “I’m working on it,” I grumbled. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  Once the dogs had been placed on the ground, they immediately pulled me over towards the throngs of people. I couldn’t help but notice it was the same area where we had played ball earlier. Coincidence? You tell me.

  I heard several excited whispers as we navigated our way through the mass of onlookers. I heard several people say something about the appearance of Pomme Valley’s cutest crime-fighting duo, and how quickly they’d solve the case. I had to laugh. They sure as hell weren’t talking about me. Then I saw something that had me rushing to intervene: several people were reaching out to the dogs, expecting to be able to give them a friendly pat on the back. Now, ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind if someone wanted to pet the dogs, and I knew that neither of them would mind. However, that was if you approached from the front, where they could see you. I wasn’t too sure how they’d respond to being surprised by a stranger touching their rear.

  “Make sure they’re watching you,” I warned, as I saw the outstretched hands. “Sherlock and Watson are friendly, but as a courtesy, I always make sure that they are never surprised. They… Hey, Tori!”

  Tori came hurrying out of the crowd, with her two young daughters in tow. Victoria and Tiffany, Vance and Tori’s girls, 11 and 9 respectively, were puffy-eyed, had tear-streaked faces, and were both sniffling. Tori looked as though she had been crying, too.

  Vance’s wife hurried over.

  “Zack! I’m so glad to see you. Did my husband… have you spoken with Vance?”

  “I know about Anubis,” I quietly confirmed as I cast a quick look at the two young girls. Tori’s daughters were already upset. The last thing I needed – or wanted – was to further aggravate the situation. “What happened? Where did you last see him?”

  Tori turned to point back at the way they had come.

  “We were just throwing the ball around, like we’ve always done. When Victoria threw the ball, it…” Tori hesitated as she heard her oldest daughter sniff loudly. Her voice lowered. “Please excuse us. You’re not catching us at our best. As I was saying, the ball went into the trees just over there. Anubis went in after it. We gave him a few moments and then called him back.”

  “He never returned,” I guessed.

  Tori nodded miserably.

  “Can you show me the exact point where Anubis went into the trees?”

  Tori wiped the corners of her eyes and slowly nodded. Right about then, she looked down and noticed the corgis, both of which were staring up at her. She smiled and instantly squatted down to their level. Sherlock and Watson swarmed all over her. Both of the dogs could sense that something wasn’t right, and both were doing their best to offer comfort to an extended member of their pack.

  “Look!” Victoria cried as she spied Sherlock. “It’s Mr. Anderson’s dogs!”

  Tiffany shyly approached, patted Watson once on her back, and when the timid corgi gave the friendly gesture a lick in return, Tiffany wrapped her arms around the corgi in a full-on bear hug. Within moments, the young girl was rocking in place, with the corgi swaying in place with her.

  “Who would have taken our dog, Zack?” Tori quietly asked. “Why would they take him? He’s our dog. We have to get him back. The girls will be devastated!”

  “I wish I had an answer for you,” I slowly began. “What I can promise you is…”

  “I’m so sorry!” Victoria practically wailed startling everyone within a twenty foot radius. “It’s all my fault!”

  “No, it isn’t,” Tori said as she wiped her eyes again. She turned to her eldest daughter and took her hands in her own. “Someone took Anubis from us. You aren’t responsible for that.”

  “But I am!” the young girl insisted. “I’m the one who threw the ball too hard. If it wasn’t for me, Anubis would still be here.”

  “Nonsense,” I argued. “You can’t blame yourself for this. You didn’t force that person to steal your dog, did you?”

  “Well, no,” the girl reluctantly admitted.

  “You didn’t go up to some stranger and say, ‘Hi there. Here. This is my dog. I don’t want him anymore. Take him please,’ did you?”

  The girl’s eyes widened, “No!”

  “Well, then, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Exactly,” Tori agreed. “No one is blaming you, sweetheart. Daddy will catch whoever did this.”

  “Unless we get them first,” I quietly mumbled under my breath.

  Tori, overhearing, managed a sly grin.

  “Daddy!” Victoria all but shouted. The young
girl sprinted across the crowded park and threw herself into her father’s arms, just as Vance was exiting his vehicle.

  “It’s okay, Vick,” Vance was telling his eldest daughter. “We’ll get Anubis back. That’s a promise, baby girl.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore,” Victoria complained, but refused to release her grip of her father’s neck.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Zack or the corgis, have you?” I heard Vance hopefully ask. Victoria still had her arms wrapped around her father, and together, they started my way. Vance’s irregular gait reminded me of a clumsy three-legged sack race, since Victoria refused to let go of her father’s waist, and he was forced to carry her weight every time he took a step.

  Victoria nodded, “Yes. Mr. Anderson is here. He was talking with mom earlier.”

  “I’m over here, pal,” I called out to my friend as he slowly approached.

  Victoria continued to act as dead weight, causing Vance to stumble a few times. My friend gently pried his daughter’s arms off and smiled affectionately at her.

  “Daddy has to go to work. Zack and I are gonna find out who did this. When we do, I’m… Tiffany? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  Vance’s youngest daughter was still cradling Watson and gently rocking in place. I took one look at the pair of them and silently handed Watson’s leash to Tori. I nudged Sherlock to get his attention.

  “Watson can stay here. Tiffany, will you take care of her for me?”

  The girl looked briefly up at me and gave me a barely perceptible nod.

  “Thank you. We’ll be right back. Sherlock? Ready to go to work?”

  As we headed towards the woods, I sidled closer to Vance and saw that he had a look of grim determination on his face. I can only imagine what type of phone call he must have had with Tori after being told that Anubis was the latest victim of this notorious dognapper. I looked down at Sherlock and shuddered. How would I feel if someone took one of my dogs from me? If I had to, I’d spend every cent in the bank to get them back.

  “We’ll find him, pal,” I quietly vowed.