Case of the
Muffin Murders
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 Digital Edition: March, 2018
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Case of the
Muffin Murders
By
J.M. Poole
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Acknowledgments
The adventures continue!
As always, there are always a bunch of people to thank with regards to the creation of this book. First and foremost would be my wife, Giliane. She’s the love of my life and all the inspiration I need in order to be the best writer I can be.
I also have to thank the members of my Posse: Jason, John, Elizabeth, Krista, and Michelle, just to name a few. Thanks again, everyone, for coming to my aid when I (clearly) needed it most!
The cover illustration was once again provided by Felipe de Barros. Thanks for putting up with my incessant demands in getting the dogs just right on the cover, and for doing – as always – an outstanding job!
And last, but not least, I want to thank you, the reader. There are many choices of books out there to choose from, so thank you very much for giving mine a try.
I hope you enjoy the story! Happy reading!
J.
For Giliane –
You are the light of my life. I thank my lucky stars you’re in my life each and every day!
ONE
“Are you sure you don’t want to try? You might be able to get some type of commission and make a few bucks off of me. I mean, look at that thing. It’s gotta be expensive. Are you sure you don’t want to run this by your distributor?”
Okay, okay, I guess some context is required. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Zachary Anderson, and I’m a caffeine addict. No, not coffee, or any type of drink that has a drop of coffee flavoring in it. I’m talking about the much better alternative called soda. Yeah, I know. I probably shouldn’t drink the stuff. Especially the diet version. However, I was hooked on it. It sure beat the wine my winery made.
Speaking of wines, I should also mention that I own my own private winery, Lentari Cellars. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? In southwest Oregon, in the small town of Pomme Valley (PV to the locals), my winery is the talk of the town. Absent for almost two years, the reappearance of everyone’s favorite brand of wine made a lot of people happy. And, of course, it made me a few nasty enemies. Abigail Lawson was at the top of the list. Crotchety, grouchy, bitchy, and a whole slew of other colorful adjectives sprang to mind whenever I thought of her. Her mother, Bonnie Davies, was the one who had left her estate, which included the house and winery, to me and my late wife, Samantha. Abigail naturally thought I should ‘do the right thing’ and sign over control to her and her alone. To say that she was pissed off when I refused was an understatement. This was my winery, and I had decided to keep it open in my wife’s memory. Ms. Sourpuss was just gonna have to deal with that.
So, what happened to Samantha, you ask? Well, my wife passed away from a freak automobile accident early last year. We were living in Phoenix at the time, and each of us was driving home from work, only in separate cars. For some inexplicable reason, Sam’s SUV suddenly veered into oncoming traffic and collided with a semi head on. She was killed instantly.
At least, that’s what I thought had happened. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Let me explain.
Ever since I moved to PV last year, I had been getting annoying phone calls at 3:30am. Every. Single. Morning. I had just assumed they were from the aforementioned Ms. Sourpuss, Abigail Lawson, in an attempt to drive me away from ‘her’ beloved winery. And if it wasn’t her, then I figured it had to be someone doing her bidding.
Wrong.
Two months ago, I received a phone call that threatened to shatter the new life I had built for myself here in Oregon. Some woman, whom I didn’t know, had called me up out of the blue to claim Samantha’s death had been anything but an accident. She had sounded distraught, and hadn’t wanted to stay on the phone, so I had been unable to ask her who she was, or ask her about her proof.
Thankfully, I had a friend on the local police force. He had reached out to the Phoenix police – on my behalf – and asked for copies of my wife’s file to be sent over, expressing interest in reopening the case. The Phoenix cops were, shall we say, less than thrilled at the prospect of an out-of-state police officer working one of their cold cases. However, seeing how their detectives had been unable to find any leads in well over a year, had finally relented. Copies of all the paperwork, I was told, would be sent over to the Pomme Valley Police Department at their earliest convenience.
Two months later, no files. At least, not yet. I’m sure Vance is sick and tired of me asking if anything has showed up, but if he is, he thankfully doesn’t show it. Well, I suppose I could just wait for the Arizona detectives to forward us what they have, but no. What do I do? Hire the first private investigator I could find that was based in the Phoenix metropolitan area. I gave him what info I had, which wasn’t much, and told him to start digging.
That was nearly a month ago. While the PI’s expenses were considerable, I had more than enough in the bank to finance many years of investigative snooping. Has he found anything? No. I mean, not yet. Alexander Stokes assured me that, if there was anything to find, he’d find it. I just have to be patient.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming: the ongoing saga of my life.
I own two dogs, who at the moment, were waiting for me in my Jeep. Two Pembroke Welsh Corgis, if you want to get technical. You may not recognize the name of the breed but I can guarantee you’ve seen pictures of corgis before. Ever see the Queen of England on television? Have you seen her walking those short, squat, elongated little dogs? That’d be them. They’re her favorite breed and I think she has over a dozen of them.
I can honestly say that I’ve never been a dog lover growing up. However, owning those two dogs have completely changed my attitude towards canine companions. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Sherlock and Watson. Don’t laugh. I didn’t name Sherlock, having already been named when I adopted him. As for Watson, well, her name was my fault. And yes, I said ‘her’ name. Watson is a ‘she’. Trust me, I’ve received a lot of flak by family and friends alike for my little girl’s name.
I should al
so tell you about the dogs’ unique abilities. Somehow, and I don’t know how, those dogs – especially Sherlock – have become very effective detectives. They have helped me solve several cases with a good friend of mine here in this town. That’d be Vance Samuelson, an actual detective on the local police force, the one I mentioned before. In fact, Captain Nelson, head of the Pomme Valley police department, made me and the dogs official police consultants several months ago. Why? The captain’s granddaughter had her dog stolen, and Captain Nelson had quietly hired us to take the case. Now, we help out the police department at our discretion. However, we had yet to take another case since the dognappers had been apprehended.
Since this was apparently PV’s slow season when it came to crime, the dogs and I were enjoying some much deserved down time. My latest book was burning up the charts and I… oh. In case you didn’t know, I’m also a writer. What kind? Well, that’s where you’re gonna get a good chuckle. I’m a romance writer. That’s what I’m primarily known for, only you won’t see my name on the cover. Nope. In print, I’m known as Chastity Wadsworth. My choice of genres might sound strange to some, but trust me, if you can build up a devoted fan base, it’ll make you a very decent living.
So, let’s recap, shall we? Winery owner, police consultant, and romance novelist. To say I keep very busy would be an understatement. If you would have known me before I moved to PV, then you would have laughed. I prided myself on my laziness. I reveled in the fact that, as a self-employed writer, I could sleep in as late as I wanted to, whenever I felt like it. Now, however, the dogs made sure I was up before the birds to serve them their morning kibble.
When I get some time in between publishing books, you’d better believe I’ll take advantage of it. In this case, I hadn’t plotted out my next novel yet, and PV was experiencing a very pleasant crime-free summer, so I found myself with nothing to do for a few days. How did I celebrate? I’m glad you asked. I headed to my favorite convenience-type store to buy a soda. And surprisingly, here in this tiny southwestern Oregon town, they had one of those pick-your-flavor soda machines that I have been drooling over ever since I learned of their existence. This store, Wired Coffee & Café, had one, and I was doing my damnedest to find a way to add the sleek machine to my list of favorite possessions. I had quickly learned who the owner of the store was and I’ve been trying like crazy to wheedle some information out of him.
There. All caught up. Now, back to the story.
The young twenty-something store owner stared at me with incredulity written all over his features. I personally didn’t see why someone that young would want to own their own business, but, seeing how I was, among other things, a self-employed author, I really couldn’t argue the point. I had been caught – yet again – taking close-up pictures of the marvel of modern day technology sitting in the corner of the store with my cell phone. Right about then, I felt a light tap on my back. Sighing, I turned to see the owner, wearing a not-so-patient look on his face. I shrugged and plastered a sheepish smile on my face. I had been hoping to find the crazy thing’s make and model number, looking for some type of label which identified it as the Flav-o-matic 3000 or something, but no such luck. Damn! Instead, Daryl Benson - owner of Wired Coffee & Cafe - gave me such a look of derision that I ended up laughing out loud. Besides, this was the third time Daryl had caught me checking out his soda machine masterpiece.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson. I know you don’t believe me, but I need you to hear me now: the Coca-Cola Freestyle machines are not for sale. I don’t even own that one. It’s leased directly through the company.”
Not to be deterred, I crossed my arms over my chest, “Well, okay. Then how do I sign up for one of those leases?”
“This is not like you’re trying to lease a car. These are for commercial use only.”
“Look, Daryl, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s gotta be a way I can get one of these babies in my rec room. You have to help me out!”
Daryl suddenly lowered his voice and looked left and right, as if he was afraid he’d be overheard by Ye Olde Bigwigs at Coca-Cola.
“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass these things are?”
I stared at the young store owner as if he had just started speaking in foreign tongues.
“You’re killing me, pal. You can’t possibly mean that.”
Daryl snorted, whether from amusement or exasperation, I couldn’t tell, “Really? Okay, how about the simple fact that the damn thing is always breaking?”
“It has a touch-sensitive screen,” I reminded him. “Problems are bound to happen with something that sophisticated. It’s gotta be user error. Everyone knows the general public aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed.”
“The service calls for that beast,” Daryl continued, “are astronomically high. If a tech comes walking through my door, then I’m automatically charged $400.”
I almost snotted my soda, “You’re kidding! That’s highway robbery!”
“There are no authorized service centers in Pomme Valley,” Daryl explained. “The closest qualified tech who works on these machines lives in Medford, and he’s usually so booked up that I have to call in the tech from Bend.”
“That’s insane.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Daryl assured me. He walked over to the back of the soda machine and pointed at a series of tubes that were snaking out from beneath the machine. The bundle of tubes disappeared through a grating sunk into the tiled floor of the cafe. “You have to think about the multitude of flavors involved here. These things can produce well over a hundred different flavor varieties. That means bags and bags of syrup.”
“Which means you need a place to store them,” I surmised with a groan.
Daryl nodded, “That’s right. I have a corner of my storeroom dedicated to keeping all those bags separate and clean. Oh! I shouldn’t forget the mess involved with the syrup bags. If you make the slightest mess, then you have to clean it up. Immediately. The last thing you want on your floor is a sugary substance.”
“Which would attract bugs,” I guessed.
If Daryl was trying to talk me out of this, then he was doing a damn fine job. I’m not a fan of bugs, and I know Jillian sure as hell hates bugs just as much as I did. Probably more. Jillian Cooper is a smart, classy woman who has lived in PV her entire life. She and I enjoy spending time with one another, so much so that I’ll make up excuses to drop by her store, Cookbook Nook. And no, before you ask, we’re not at the boyfriend/girlfriend stage. I don’t think either one of us is quite ready for that.
“They’re messy,” Daryl confirmed. “There are leaks all the time.”
“You’d think they’d find a better way to transport the syrup to you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the bags,” Daryl told me. “It’s my employees. They’re sloppy. They don’t care if the hoses aren’t tightened, or if there’s a teeny tiny leak dripping onto the floor. I’m telling you, Mr. Anderson; avoid the headache. Don’t do it.”
“And just buy my soda here, right?”
“You’re one of my most loyal regulars,” Daryl told me, with a smile. “Just think of all the teenagers I’d have to lay off if you stopped coming in here every afternoon.”
“Ha ha. I’m not in here that much, am I?”
Daryl grinned at me, “Every single one of my employees knows who you are. There’s usually a bet to see which of them correctly guesses which flavor you’ll choose this time around.”
“And how do you know which flavor I end up choosing?” I asked, confused. “It’s not like I tell anyone which combination I picked out.”
“Are you kidding me? This thing is all computerized. It tells me which syrups are used the most, which ones are running low, and so on. And yes, there are detailed reports you can run to see which choices are the most common. Your arrival time is noted and the manager on duty will then check the machine’s logs to see who got it right. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Anderson. After all,
you are a celebrity around here.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or annoyed,” I truthfully told the friendly store owner. After a few moments, I shrugged. “Oh, well. It could be worse, I suppose. How good are your employees? Has anyone correctly guessed yet?”
Daryl turned and pointed at a red-headed teenage girl.
“That’s Amanda. She’s won the most wagers so far.”
Upon hearing her name, Amanda looked up from where she was cleaning the counter. She saw the two of us looking at her and gave us a smile and a wave. Then Daryl pointed at another teen, this time at a wiry-looking kid with dark brown hair and a dark complexion.
“That’s Alex. He’s typically the runner-up. He and Amanda are always trying to outdo the other.”
“Glad to see I’m a source of entertainment around here,” I chuckled. “Okay, I’m outta here. Gotta pick up some doggie treats at the bakery.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Anderson.”
Snot. I wasn’t that predictable, was I?
Returning to my Jeep, I saw that Sherlock had curled up in the front passenger seat – snoring – while Watson was stretched out on the back seat. She had assumed her sleeping pose as well, which I had nicknamed the ‘Superman’. It consisted of having both short hind legs splayed behind her, and her two front paws up against her sides.
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