Case of the Pilfered Pooches

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Sherlock yawned and then shook his collar. My eyes flicked over to the tri-color back of my male corgi and my eyes widened again. Vance, who had been watching me closely, stiffened with surprise.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Is this the part where I tell you that, for the last couple of days, Sherlock has been barking at teeny-tiny small dogs?”

  NINE

  “Damn it, Zack! What’s the rule? Hmm? Didn’t I tell you that, whenever we’re all working on a case, if Sherlock and Watson start exhibiting peculiar behaviors, you’re to tell me? How long has this been going on?”

  “Umm, let me think. It’s been several days now, about the same time as…”

  “Let me guess,” Vance interrupted. “From the same time as the first dog was taken?”

  I nodded, “That sounds about right.”

  “They’ve only barked at small dogs? The kind that belong in this toy group?”

  I pondered a moment and eventually nodded, “Yep. They’ve only shown interest in small dogs. Are you gonna yell at me now?”

  “If this pans out, you can count on it.”

  “I thought you said that the police have already investigated this whole AKC dog group thing.”

  Vance shook his head, “No, what I told you was that we’ve already checked out the ‘different breeds’ angle. We didn’t spot any correlations between what’s happened in Medford and the string of thefts here in PV.”

  “And now?” I prompted.

  Vance nodded, “Hey, I’ll be the first to admit that our investigators were a little on the lax side, especially since I was one of ‘em. Clearly we didn’t dig as deep as we should have.”

  “And what about Medford?”

  Vance shrugged, “What about them? They launched their own investigation and came up with the same results we did. Let them deal with their own problems. We’ve got our own to contend with.”

  “So, what’s the next step?” I wanted to know. Being a newly hired police consultant, I was eager to sound like I knew what the hell I was doing.

  Vance shrugged and held out a hand, indicating I should answer my own question.

  “Well,” I slowly began, “I would think we would need to find out if there are any type of small dog breed clubs here in Pomme Valley.”

  Vance was nodding, “That’d be a great place to start. So, how do you plan on accomplishing that? I doubt the dog clubs are in the phone book.”

  I hooked a thumb behind me as I looked up, “There’s a café less than two blocks from here. I’m pretty sure they have a couple of public computers there we could use. It’d be easier than trying to tap everything into this damn phone.”

  “What’s the matter, pal? Is your eyesight starting to fail you? It’s what happens with age, ya know.”

  I scowled at Vance, “Bite me. Why is it everyone gets such a kick out of cracking age jokes at my expense?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for others, but seeing you pout always puts a grin on my face.”

  “Ass,” I grumbled.

  “Plus, you’re the oldest one in our group.”

  I gave a visible start at this.

  “What? Oh, man. Say it ain’t so.”

  “You, Harry, and Jules are all the same age. Harry’s birthday is two months after yours, and Julie’s is one month after that.”

  “And how do you know this?” I demanded.

  “We figured it out the other day. Quiet. You’ll make me lose my train of thought.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Where was I?”

  “You, me, and Harry. I’m the oldest. You were saying Harry is several months younger than me?”

  Vance snapped his fingers, “Right. Okay, so if you, Harry, and Julie are all are 43, and I’m 39, Jillian is 36, and Tori is 35, that would make you…?”

  “The oldest,” I groaned. “But, you have to admit, it’s not by much.”

  Vance grinned at me, just like how the Cheshire cat would grin at Alice.

  “Whatever,” I crossly said as I pushed to my feet. “I’m going to take the dogs home and then head to Wired Coffee & Café. We’ll meet there in, say, about twenty minutes?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Half an hour later, the two of us were perched uncomfortably on small barstools, staring at the flickering screen of an ancient computer that needed to be put out of its misery. Badly. And don’t get me started about the layers of sticky residue I found on the keyboard. I was really starting to regret my decision to use a public computer. I should have just had Vance follow me home. My laptop was there, as was my encrypted, ramped up high-speed internet connection.

  So, why would I choose to come here? Well, to be completely honest, it was because of the wonderful piece of technological sophistication located in the corner of the café. Those who know me will attest to the simple fact that I enjoy drinking soda. It was my preferred method of ingesting caffeine. Interestingly enough, I’ve never really considered myself a caffeine junkie, but when presented with the overwhelming fact that I always seem to have a soda in my hand, I’d have to agree. Whatever. As I was saying, when I found out this sleepy little town had one of those ultra-modern choose-your-own-flavor soda machines, I found myself stopping by this coffee shop way more than I probably should.

  Therefore, while Vance was pecking away at the computer, I ordered myself a large soda from the ‘pick-your-flavor’ machine on the opposite wall and – as a joke – I ordered him the biggest cup of coffee that they’d sell me. Consequently, for you coffee lovers, this shop calls its humungo size ‘TDS’, which stands for tall, dark, and scary. The name alone made me laugh. Then I wrinkled my nose as I caught a whiff of the 30+ ounces of black coffee.

  Vance glanced briefly at me as I set our two drinks down on the counter.

  “Hey, cool! Thanks, Zack.”

  Wow. He didn’t raise an eyebrow and he didn’t seem surprised. I set my much larger soda down next to his drink and focused on the monitor.

  “You drink too much soda,” Vance accused, as he caught sight of my 64 oz. cup.

  “You drink too much coffee,” I returned, pointing at Vance’s coffee. “Dude, I bought that for you as a joke, just to see if you’d notice that I gave you the biggest cup of coffee that they sell. You didn’t even blink. Then again, I’m not one to talk. Mine is bigger than yours.”

  Vance’s clickety-clacking on the keyboard froze.

  “That came out wrong,” I groaned. “I didn’t mean… forget it.”

  “Consider it forgotten.”

  After a few moments, the guy using the second computer rose to his feet and left. I waited a few minutes to see if there were any other takers, but when no one sat down in front of it, I slid over to begin my own research. I wanted to know if any small dog clubs called PV home. Several minutes later, we had our answers. Well, at least some of them. Plus, I found out that the clubs weren’t segregated by breed but by AKC group. Between Medford and PV, every single AKC group was represented by some type of amateur dog club.

  Here they are, in no particular order. The ‘terrier’ group has a club in Medford; ‘herding’ has clubs in both Medford and PV; ‘sporting’ could only be found in Medford. The ‘non-sporting’ group has clubs in Medford and PV; ‘hound’ also has clubs in both cities; ‘working’ was only in Medford, and ‘toy’ could be found in both Medford and PV.

  I noticed Vance had just checked the time on his cell phone, so I chose that moment to take a healthy swig of my soda.

  “What do you think?” I asked, as I looked at the detective. “Think we should go check out these ‘toy’ clubs?”

  Vance nodded, “Sounds like a plan. How many are there and where can we find ‘em? Does it say?”

  I went back to PV’s listing for toy group clubs and clicked the link. Sadly, it didn’t tell me much.

  “There’s two,” I said. “One in PV and one in Medford. I don’t see a permanent address for PV’s club. I’m not even seeing a contact number.”


  “Then how are you supposed to join their club?” Vance asked, frowning. “There’s gotta be some way to contact them.”

  “Looks like they have bi-monthly meetings, but it doesn’t specify where,” I added, as I continued to skim through the meager data on the screen. “It only gives the dates. According to this, the most recent meeting happened just last week.”

  “And there’s nothing in there about a contact person?”

  “Nothing that I can see.”

  “What about the other clubs?” Vance asked. “Maybe one of them knows how to get in touch with the other groups.”

  I instantly singled out the PV herding club, since that’s the group Pembroke Welsh Corgis belonged to, and checked for contact information. We were in luck. Not only did the herding club maintain accurate, up-to-date information on their club’s website, but they also had a phone number listed. I nudged Vance and pointed at the screen.

  “Bingo. Found a number for the guy this web site says is the president of the PV herding club.”

  Vance nodded, “Beautiful. Give me the number. I’ll give them a call right now.”

  While Vance wandered off to conduct his call, I continued to peruse through all the various club pages. Practically all of them had professionally done web sites, complete with forums where guests and users could leave comments for one another. Let me tell you, it made for some interesting reading.

  Surprisingly, almost every club forum had a ‘complaints’ section, and those sections were far and away the most popular. Apparently, people loved to bitch about anything and everything. The most recent complaint involved a person griping about a pile of dog poo in the park, as if they could tell by sight and smell what breed was responsible. Dumbasses. I mean, seriously? Was it even possible to tell what dog did their business by studying their crap? Man alive, people had way too much time on their hands.

  I should also point out that it seemed like just about every club was at odds with another club. I mean, what were we, back in grade school? These were legitimate clubs, run by adults. How petty could one get?

  Based on these forums, the answer to that was ‘extremely’. The sporting group were natural rivals of the non-sporting members. Okay, I could get on board with that. Then the terrier club members were at odds with the hound group. I must’ve skimmed through their entire forum – both of them – and was unable to find out what the problem was, for either side.

  Coming up next, we have the herding group versus the working group. And finally, not to be left out, the toy group always seemed to be poking fun at the terrier group. Unsurprisingly, the terrier group didn’t like that one bit.

  Vance walked up to me, finished with his call.

  “So, whatcha got?”

  “One mother of a headache,” I answered as I leaned back in my chair. I took a healthy swig of soda and scowled at the computer. “You wouldn’t believe some of the petty crap I’ve found. These dog owners must not have anything else to do, and as a result, they take their clubs seriously. Too seriously, if you ask me. Either that, or they’re bat-crap crazy.”

  “Probably both,” Vance agreed. “So, you say they’re crazy? Can you give me a ‘for instance’?”

  I shrugged, “If you look at the local hound group’s website, and just about every other club website for that matter, you’ll find a forum where people can leave comments for other members. However, it looks like the only thing it’s being used for is to allow people to vent their frustrations. Look, it says here that someone in the terrier group illegally obtained all the cell phone numbers from the hound group and signed them all up to receive X-rated text messages.”

  I could see Vance fighting valiantly to keep a straight face.

  “That, er, type of thing could, uh, definitely be construed as… ahem… malicious. I wouldn’t want to receive those types of messages on my cell, either. How do they know the terrier group was responsible?”

  I shook my head, “They don’t. They’re assuming. That’s all this is, nothing but assumptions. I’m starting to think these missing dogs were probably supposed to be harmless pranks, but I get the impression that someone has taken the pranks a little too far.”

  “You’re suggesting one of these groups is responsible?” Vance asked. After a few moments he was vehemently shaking his head. “I’m not buying it, Zack. These are people who are active members in dog clubs. By definition, that means they love dogs. There’s no way any of them would willingly hurt a dog.”

  “I didn’t say they were hurting the dogs,” I argued. “Quite the contrary, I think whoever has them is taking great care of them. However, I just don’t know what they’re doing with these dogs once they have them. I will say, however, that I think you’re right. I don’t think these dognappers mean any of the dogs harm.”

  “So what else is left?” Vance wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. Maybe finding homes for the dogs in other cities? Other states?”

  “Are you suggesting PV is involved with a black market dog smuggling ring?” Vance slowly asked. He shook his head again. “Maybe in a big city, Zack, but not here. Not in PV. No way.”

  “What other theory fits the facts?” I demanded.

  Vance held up his cell, “Let’s go see if we can find one. Will is expecting us. We can find him at the Post Office.”

  “And who is Will?” I curiously asked.

  “Oh, sorry. Will Olson is the president of the Pomme Valley herding club. He works down at the PV Post Office. I actually got him on the phone. I had meant to check to see if he was working today, only he’s the one who answered the phone. Turns out he’s the post master. Then I got to listen to a lecture about how, as a post master, he’s there whenever the Post Office is open.”

  “You were on the phone a long time,” I recalled. “I just figured you must’ve had another call.”

  “That’s how many times Will put me on hold,” Vance muttered. “Every time I tried to ask him how long he was planning on being there today, someone would come up to the counter to ask a question. Before I could get the question out, he’d simply put the phone down, without notice. There’s someone who takes his job very seriously.”

  “Will Olson,” I mumbled incoherently. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “Do you know him?” Vance asked.

  I shrugged, “I know I’ve seen the name somewhere before. Damned if I can remember where. Oh, well. Maybe it’ll come to me.”

  The Pomme Valley Post Office was located on 4th Street, adjacent to Traveler’s Inn and across the street from Jackson’s Gym, PV’s only exercise facility. The Post Office building was a converted Tudor-style house the city had been bequeathed after the owner had passed away. I remember Jillian telling me the house had been in such poor condition that the town had raised funds to have the building restored to its former glory. Well, let me just say, the town got its money’s worth.

  The sidewalk leading up to the single front door had been done using bright red bricks set out in a herringbone pattern. A gable-shaped canopy – painted dark green – was covering the front door. The front of the house had three six-pane windows overlooking the street, while a set of French doors – also painted the same shade of dark green – were on the left, leading into who-knows-where. A hand-painted sign, which stated that the monthly meeting of the PV branch of the American Philatelic Society had to be postponed this month, was displayed in the front window closest to the door.

  I followed Vance inside and, this being the first time I’ve ever stepped foot in a small town post office, looked around. Right off the bat, I noticed the house’s original living room had been turned into the lobby. To the left, the dining room (I’m guessing here) had been divided into two smaller cubicle-type enclosures with customer post office boxes lining every square inch of the walls. Directly ahead of us was the counter, where presumably the cashier sat. There was also a closed door to the right of the counter. A manager’s office, perhaps? Was that where we were supposed to meet Wil
l, the Post Master?

  Turns out the PV Post Office was predominantly a one-man operation. Will himself was behind the counter and, without any customers in the building, had been staring blankly out into the lobby. The Post Master looked to be in his mid-sixties, was as skinny as a beanpole, and had to be wearing one of the worst toupees I have ever seen. Nobody that old could have a head of hair that thick or luxurious without some type of help. To make matters worse, the toupee and the Post Master’s natural hair were nowhere close to being a match. The ‘rug’ stood out like a sore thumb.

  As we stepped inside the building, I noticed Will had slightly tilted his head our way as he tracked our movements with his eyes. Other than that, we elicited no other response from the old man. I got the distinct impression he wouldn’t move or say a thing until we were standing directly in front of his counter. I gave Vance a ‘this-is-your-idea, you-take-the-reins’ look and took two deliberate steps backwards. Vance nodded, whipped out his badge, and held it up for the Post Master to see.

  “You’re Will Olson, right? I’m Detective Vance Samuelson, PVPD. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we’ve actually met a few times before. We spoke on the phone just a little while ago.”

  The Post Master finally stirred. He blinked a few times, as if awakening from a trance, and turned his head to look directly at Vance. After a few moments, Will slowly walked around the counter and entered the lobby through a ‘Staff Only’ door. He held out a hand.

  “I am Willard Olson, Detective Samuelson. What can I do for you?”

  Vance shook the outstretched hand.

  “You’re president of the PV herding club, aren’t you?”

  Willard Olson nodded, “That’s right. Besides Post Master General, I’m also president of the Northwest Nippers.”

  Vance and I waited a few moments to see if Willard was going to offer anything else. When it became apparent that he had shared all he was going to, Vance and I gave each other another look. Trying to get information out of this guy was like pulling teeth. Bemused, I watched my detective friend to see how he’d handle the situation.