Case of the Holiday Hijinks

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Tori passed her husband his keys. My detective friend selected his house key, held it up for everyone to see, and then held the bumping key up next to it. Everyone could see that the teeth were nowhere close to being the same. There shouldn’t have been any way that the bumping key would unlock the door. Vance opened the door, and with the door still open, pointed at the deadbolt sitting several inches above the regular door lock.

  “Watch this. I’ve locked the deadbolt here. Now, the normal house key unlocks it, like this.” Vance inserted the key and twisted. The lock retracted into the door. He twisted the lever on the deadbolt from the other side of the door and relocked it. “Now, thanks to the pins and tumblers inside the lock, any key whose grooves don’t match exactly right will then be denied access. Observe.”

  Vance inserted the bumping key and tried to unlock the deadbolt. Unsurprisingly, it refused to open. He pulled the key back out and made a show of holding it up so that we could see he hadn’t swapped it out with his house key. Vance reinserted the bumping key into the lock. This time he held the key in two fingers, applied a little bit of pressure by twisting the key, and tapped the head of the key with the butt end of the screwdriver.

  The deadbolt popped open.

  “What the hell!” Harry swore, covering the distance to the door in just a few steps. He stooped down to stare at the deadbolt. “Do that again.”

  Vance repeated the trick. Once more the deadbolt popped open. Vance pulled the bumping key out and demonstrated it was just as effective in the main lock as it was in the deadbolt. Within seconds he had opened both locks using the bumping key. All he had done was knock a few times on the top of the key as it was sticking out of the lock.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Tori gasped. “That means the Grinch could strut right in here and do whatever he wanted to do to us. Vance, you need to do something about this!”

  Vance nodded, “I already have, my dear. Jim Bennett, that’d be the new locksmith, has already ordered new locks that are specifically designed to be bump-proof. He got nearly a dozen in earlier today. He’s already agreed to stop by tomorrow – on a Sunday – and change out the locks. Speaking of which…” Vance turned to me and pointed an accusing finger. “Would you care to explain why I was told that there wouldn’t be any charge to replace the locks?”

  I grinned at Vance and Tori.

  “It’s a Christmas present, guys. That’s all. Say thanks.”

  Tori rushed over to give me a hug. Tears were in her eyes. She held on to me for a few moments before she finally pulled away.

  “You have no idea how much that means to me,” she sniffed.

  “You have two beautiful girls,” I told her. “You don’t screw around with a family’s safety.”

  “That was awful sweet of you,” Julie told me, giving me a hug as well.

  “I was going to pay for yours, too,” I told her, eliciting a gasp from her, “but Vance argued that he was paying it forward. So Vance took care of yours.”

  “What?” Julie gasped, turning to look at Vance.

  “Dude!” Harry exclaimed. He and Julie pulled Vance into an awkward three-way hug. “You didn’t have to do that!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Vance told them. “And you’re next, after us. Then Jim has agreed to take care of Jillian’s cottage next.”

  Jillian smiled warmly at me and gave me a hug.

  “Thank you.”

  “You told her,” Vance guessed.

  “I had to. I couldn’t have a stranger showing up at her door. It’d freak her out. So I had to let her in on it.”

  “Okay,” Vance announced, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, as though they were cold, “we’re making progress. We have method of entry. Now all we need is motivation. Why is the Grinch only stealing presents? Does anyone have any thoughts on the matter?”

  “I still say they’re looking for a very specific something,” Julie said.

  “That’s one theory,” Vance said. “Any other suggestions?”

  “Maybe whoever is doing this hates Christmas?” Jillian suggested. “Hence the Grinch moniker?”

  “Possible,” Vance agreed.

  “The Grinch has a thing for Christmas paper?” I suggested.

  Vance’s cell beeped once before he could respond. He grabbed it from the card table and read the message. He nodded and held up the phone, as if he was had found a gold nugget.

  “I’ve got the report on the tire tracks, if anyone is interested.”

  “Hell yeah,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”

  “As I mentioned before, this specific brand of tire isn’t found on passenger cars. Its all-terrain, which means it can handle off-road conditions. It comes standard on several full-sized pickup trucks and Econoline vans.”

  “What’s an Econoline van?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s a cargo van,” Vance answered. “Ford makes ‘em.”

  I suddenly thought of Sherlock and the times that he had barked at the Square L.

  “A cargo van? You mean like a kidnapper van?”

  Vance laughed, “Yeah. That’s one way to describe them.”

  “A kidnapper van?” Jillian repeated with a puzzled expression on her face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen the movies or television shows where a child is abducted?” I asked. “The kidnapper always appear to be driving a windowless cargo van.”

  “And they’re always white,” Harry added with a knowing grin. “It would take one gutsy individual to drive one of those things around. Might as well paint the word ‘predator’ on the side of it.”

  “That doesn’t really help us,” Tori decided. “There’s probably tons of those in town.”

  “In Pomme Valley?” Julie asked. “I haven’t seen any.”

  “Except I have,” I said excitedly. “Every time I see it Sherlock barks his fool head off at it.”

  Vance looked up, his eyes sharpening.

  “Sherlock has barked at a white cargo van? Here in town? Zack, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And tell you what?” I demanded. “Inform you that Sherlock has barked at a dozen different cars today? For all we know Tori is right. There are probably dozens of those vans in town.”

  Vance dialed a number into his cell.

  “Detective Samuelson requesting a records check. Yes, Sandy, I know it’s the weekend and you’re covering the desk by yourself. I just need to know if there are any white cargo vans registered in PV. No, no specific model. Any will do. You will? Thanks. I look forward to your call.”

  Vance hung up and gave me a strange look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How many times has Sherlock barked at this van?”

  I shrugged, “A few. I don’t remember. Why?”

  “New rule. From now on, whenever we’re working a case together, if Sherlock expresses interest in anything, no matter how insignificant, you are to let me know, okay?”

  I laughed and shook my head, “I can see it now. ‘Hey, buddy. Sherlock took a dump, turned around, and barked at it. Then a fluttering leaf caught his attention and he followed that for twenty yards before barking at it’. Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “If this pans out, yes I do.”

  “How long will it take to find out if there are any white cargo vans in PV?” Jillian asked.

  “The database is pretty specific,” Julie automatically answered. “Sandy is good. She should have the results in about…”

  Vance’s cell rang. I grinned at Julie.

  “Damn, you’re good.”

  “Detective Samuelson. Sandy, hello. What do you have? Really. That’s what I need to know. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Well?” I prompted. “What did you find out?”

  “There are exactly zero registered white cargo vans that call PV home.”

  “Oh, come on,” I protested. “PV isn’t that small. There must be one or two somewhere around here.”

&
nbsp; Vance nodded, “There is. And I’d like to find that van to see if the tread matches.”

  He began punching numbers into his cell.

  “Who are you calling now?” Tori asked.

  “I’m calling the captain. I’m asking permission to send out an APB on that van. This is too good of an opportunity to pass up. I’ll bet you any amount of money that van’s tires will be a match.”

  “Are you sure you want to bet again?” Tori asked, stifling a giggle. “You lost the last one and I’m sure you will remember what’s involved with that, right?”

  Vance’s face blushed bright red.

  “Let’s not get into that now, okay? We have more important things to talk about.”

  The bet in question dealt with a certain detective friend of mine having to wear tights and learn how to tap dance. He foolishly made a wager that Sherlock couldn’t find the missing pendant from the mummy case a few months ago. Well, Sherlock found it. I cannot wait to see Vance outfitted in his Peter Pan costume.

  “Says who?” Harry demanded. “This sounds juicy. Spill, dude. What about that bet? You lost? What did you lose?”

  I quietly texted Harry’s cell, promising to fill him in later.

  EIGHT

  Early Sunday afternoon the dogs and I were in the back storeroom of the winery. Since I had made a deal with Mr. Dubois, and essentially cost his restaurant hundreds of dollars in revenue for that miserable excuse of a lunch, I figured the least I could do was search my winery’s storeroom and see if I could locate any extra bottles of wine. There had to be a case or two tucked away in a dark corner. Somewhere.

  I unlocked Lentari Cellars and stepped inside the storefront, locking the doors after me only once I verified both Sherlock and Watson had followed me in. Both corgis turned to look up at me, no doubt wondering what the hell I was doing in here on a Sunday afternoon when, instead, we typically watched a movie or played inside with any one of the hundreds of toys they left scattered all over my living room. I pointed at one of the display racks and tapped a bottle of Syrah.

  “We’re looking for some more of this, guys. Sherlock? You’re good at finding things. Let’s see how good you really are. The storeroom is back there, through those doors. If his Royal Highness would allow me to open the door for you…”

  Sherlock snorted and looked away. So much for that. Apparently since this wasn’t part of any police investigation then he wasn’t interested. Little snot. I was stooping down to unclip their leashes when I heard the distinct sound of a key being inserted into the lock outside. I peered around the racks and saw someone – wearing dark clothes – fiddling with the lock.

  What do I do? Call for the police? Who else has a key to that door besides me?

  “Zack? Where are you at? I know you’re in here.”

  I visibly relaxed. It was Caden. What he was doing here, on a Sunday, was beyond me.

  “I’m over here,” I said, stepping out from behind the rack. “What are you doing here? Better yet, how’d you know I was here?”

  Caden closed the door behind him and held up a satchel he had slung over a shoulder. It could have doubled for a laptop bag. He opened the bag and pulled out a wine bottle.

  “What are you doing with that?” I suspiciously asked.

  Caden grinned as he waved the bottle in front of me.

  “I saw the dogs go in. Hi Sherlock. Watson. Zack, I’m glad you’re here. I think I’m finally ready for you to try a sample of my latest and greatest experiment.”

  “Aww, crap. You’re gonna make me taste that? I don’t have any soda with me.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Caden assured me. He reached behind the small bar counter that was in the far corner of the ‘showroom’ and pulled out two wine glasses. “I’ve been experimenting with this for long enough. I think it’s time for a taste.”

  “You have been experimenting with a wine and you actually think you’re going to make me your guinea pig?” I asked, confused. “Have you not met me before?”

  Caden popped the cork out and poured a tiny bit of a sparkling golden wine into the two glasses.

  “Before you start arguing with me, I just need you to try it.”

  I sighed, “Caden, look. I appreciate what you do, pal. I really do. However, I’ve come to the realization that wine just isn’t in the cards for me. I can’t stand the stuff.”

  Caden held out the glass for me.

  “That’s why I want you to try this. I’ve tried to create a recipe that’ll cater to both the connoisseur and non-drinker alike. You’re perfect for this. If you drink this, and you like it, then it’ll give me hope that we can try to lure in the non-drinking crowd for the next holiday season.”

  I eyed the wine glass and was silent as I considered.

  “Come on, Zack. You’re a winery owner. The only way you’re going to start liking wine is if you keep trying it.”

  I grumbled a response not fit for print and took the glass. I clinked it with Caden’s and cautiously took a sip. My winemaster watched me like a hawk.

  Surprisingly, the liquid that hit my taste buds wasn’t too bad. What I was tasting was a complex mix of flavors. I could taste honey, spice, and exotic fruits. With surprise etched all over my face, I stared at my empty glass. This was wine? I had to admit, it wasn’t half bad.

  Caden was gloating.

  “See? I knew you’d like it! This is awesome, Zack! If I can come up with a bottle of wine that even a hater like you could enjoy then just think of the possibilities!”

  “What kind of wine is it?” I asked, curious.

  “It’s made from botrytris affected grapes,” Caden slowly and carefully explained. He poured a tiny bit more into his own glass and held up the bottle, questioningly. He poured some more into my glass once I shrugged and nodded. “You have no idea how big this is. I just poured you a refill. Of wine!”

  “It kinda has a sweet taste to it,” I decided, after I took another sip. “And why are you only giving me a thimbleful at a time? Is that all you have of it?”

  “It’s a dessert wine,” Caden explained. “You’re supposed to have a tiny amount. So it’s official? You like it?”

  “Hell hath officially frozen over,” I muttered as I stared at my empty wine glass. “I will admit it. You came up with a recipe that I’d willingly drink. So, how’d you do it? What’s the secret?”

  “The secret is the botrytis affected grapes.”

  “You said that before,” I pointed out. “What does that mean?”

  I watched Caden take a deep breath. There was something he was hesitant to tell me, I decided. I set down the glass, stooped to give both dogs a pat on the head, and then deliberately – and slowly – crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Out with it, amigo. What is it you don’t want to tell me?”

  “Botrytis is a necrotrophic fungus that can affect many plant species. It’s prevalent in wet or humid conditions that have a chance of drying out in a fairly rapid fashion. You may recall we had a very odd summer.”

  I stopped paying attention after I heard the magic word. Fungus. Wasn’t that another name for mold?

  “Where’d I lose you?” Caden asked, mistaking my silence for confusion.

  “You didn’t lose me. I was focusing on the ‘fungus’ you mentioned. You made this wine with mold? Are you insane??”

  “Now, before you completely freak out on me,” Caden hurriedly said, “I feel I should remind you that you enjoyed the wine. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “If you want to be certain I don’t get sick, you’d better explain to me how moldy grapes is not a bad thing. And I do advise you to hurry.”

  “Mold on grapes is typically a bad thing,” Caden agreed. “However, the right mold can be a blessing in disguise.”

  “And you’re telling me that’s what we have here?”

  Caden nodded, “Since Abigail pestered her mother to the point of the winery being neglected, grapes were allowed to sit on the vine longer than they should have. I f
ound a patch of vines covered with botrytis cinerea. It’s a fungus that typically surrounds the grape and causes it to shrivel, thereby leaching out most of the grape’s liquid. What’s left is an extra sweet pulp that winemakers would then press to extract the remaining liquid. That, my friend, is what you sampled.”

  “Moldy grapes,” I grumbled. I looked down at the dogs. Both Sherlock and Watson were staring expectantly at Caden, as if they were waiting for a treat. “I should sic the dogs on you.”

  “But you liked it,” Caden reminded me. “So it can’t be that bad, can it?”

  “How many shriveled grapes did it take to make that bottle?”

  “Well, it’s not just the juice,” Caden began. “I also added…”

  “How many?” I interrupted. I knew if I didn’t stop Caden from launching into a full-fledged explanation of the intricacies of wine-making then I’d literally go gray waiting for him to stop.

  “That’s the stickler,” Caden admitted. “Noble rot wines take a lot of grapes in order to make a single bottle. That’s why you’ll find most brands are super expensive. I’m thinking we could get away with charging at least $100 a bottle for this. What do you think?”

  “Dude, that’s cheaper than the Syrah.”

  Caden blinked at me a few times, “Huh? That’s not true. Full retail of the Syrah is listed at around $49 a bottle.”

  “I was at a restaurant yesterday that was charging $149 a bottle.”

  Caden didn’t seem surprised. He shrugged.

  “Think about Disneyland. For the price of a single bottle of water there you could buy an entire case of water at a grocery store.”

  I had to concede the point. Whatever. If a restaurant wanted to charge that much for one of my bottles of wine, and people were willing to pay for it, then so be it.

  “So are you okay with adding this to our lineup?” Caden asked.

  “As long as you don’t call it ‘noble rot’,” I said.

  “But that’s what type of wine it is,” Caden insisted.

  “Can’t we call it something else?” I asked.