Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Read online

  I figured that if this small town were to have a pizza joint, and please, God, a Chinese restaurant, then I should find them somewhere on this street. Main Street was the busiest road in town and after driving around for a few minutes, I could see why. The clouds had parted, allowing the sun to peek through for a while. As a result tourists had poured out of nearby buildings and flocked the sidewalks in droves. Senior citizens adorned in Hawaiian shirts, khaki shorts, and sandals (most were wearing socks – if my fashion sense ever stoops to that level you have my permission to shoot me) were wandering up and down the sidewalks. Where had they come from? Look at all of them! They could have only come from a…

  A large tour bus suddenly appeared and pulled up to an open curb. It blared its horn once and the doors opened. Thank God. It was time for the geriatrics to go home.

  A new stream of visitors poured out of the bus. Within moments I was fighting a losing battle, trying to swim upstream in a sea of people moving in the opposite direction, anxious to get where they’re going before it started raining again. Fed up with the massive amounts of tourists, I ducked into the closest shop.

  My stomach growled as my nose reported in it had approved of my choice of businesses. I had just stepped into some type of coffee shop. While not a fan of coffee my nose easily picked up the scents of pastries, baked goods, and something that smelled like homemade soup. I glanced at the sign on the window. Wired Coffee & Café. Cute. If I bought something then I could hang out in here to see if the mass of people subsided. I winced as I caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee. I could only hope they offered coffee-free drinks.

  “What can I get for you today?” a bright, perky girl asked. Her smile brought out her dimples, which gave her a girl-next-door look. She also looked to be no older than 16.

  “Do you sell soda here?”

  The young girl blinked at me a few times before her head swiveled to look at a point behind me. I turned to look and saw one of those new-fangled soda machines that could produce hundreds, if not thousands, of flavor varieties. I really shouldn’t order anything else since I would be grabbing lunch with Harry, but those bagels looked fresh and appealing. A snack certainly wouldn’t hurt anything.

  “Roger that. I’ll have a large soda, please. Hmm, you know what? That pumpkin bagel looks good. I’ll take that, too.”

  The teen smiled, “Of course. What kind of cream cheese would you like? We have mixed berry, chive and onion, salmon, and honey.”

  “Salmon? Seriously?”

  The girl reached under the counter and grabbed a plastic container. She pulled the lid off, revealing a mass of whipped pink goo inside. She reached for a spatula and was ready to dip it in the nasty looking mess when I finally regained my wits.

  “Whoa. Wait. No salmon. I didn’t even know they made that flavor.”

  The girl replaced the tub and looked expectantly at me, spatula held at the ready.

  “Um, don’t you have plain?”

  The girl seemed confused.

  “Plain? Sure, I guess. I don’t get many requests for that. Let me look.”

  As soon as she finished slathering on a layer of cream cheese that had to be an inch thick, the girl rang me up, handed me an empty cup and a small paper plate with my bagel. I made my selection from the complicated soda machine and sat down at the nearest empty table.

  Don’t judge. I know what you’re thinking. I happen to like bagels with cream cheese, washed down with a cool, refreshing soda. I never said I was a health nut.

  “Sure are a lot of ‘em out there,” a voice commented from my right.

  I turned to see a guy younger than me wearing wire rim glasses, a blue long sleeved button down shirt, jeans, and black sneakers. Some type of tablet was sitting on a magazine directly in front of him. He was casually sitting at the table next to me drinking some type of coffee-laden drink that probably had six different names to it judging by the number of letters the girl had written on the cup.

  “I’ll say. Listen, what’s the deal? I saw a bus outside dropping them off. What’s going on?”

  Just then we both heard what sounded like a semi-truck releasing the pressure in its air brakes. Shocked, I turned to inspect the surroundings. Someone had just let one rip. The stranger studied me as though I was the one responsible. I heard a chorus of giggles coming from behind me. The stranger and I turned to see a table full of red-faced seniors. They were all wearing identical purple floppy hats.

  “Yikes,” I mumbled. “Lay off the bran, ladies.”

  The stranger slapped a hand over his face and quickly faced forward. He looked at me and grinned.

  “Are you visiting?”

  “Actually, no. I just moved here earlier today. I haven’t even finished unpacking yet.”

  The guy nodded, “Ah. You’d be the one who moved into the Davies place. You’re the new owner of Lentari Cellars, aren’t you?”

  “Lentari Cellars?”

  “Seriously? You didn’t know?”

  I frowned.

  “I haven’t had time to go through the papers the attorney gave me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  The guy held out a hand.

  “Spencer Woodson. You can call me ‘Woody’. Everyone does.”

  I shook Woody’s hand.

  “Zack Anderson. Nice to meet you, Woody. How did you know I just moved here?”

  “This is a small town. We get lots of visitors but few regulars. When Ms. Davies died earlier this year everyone wondered what would happen to the winery and her estates. Everyone assumed that there’d be a big auction and the estate would be broken up. I guess we were all wrong.”

  “Sorry, there won’t be any auctions,” I confirmed. “Ms. Davies was my late wife’s great aunt, so that makes her family. I wouldn’t feel comfortable selling her things off.”

  “Did you know the estate came with its own winery?”

  “I knew about the winery,” I admitted. “However, I had never heard what it was called. ‘Lentari Cellars’. Has a nice ring to it.”

  “They produced the best Syrah I have ever tasted,” Woody told me, with a grin.

  “What the hell is shurraw?”

  “Syrah. It’s a type of red wine oftentimes made with black berries or black currants.”

  “You know a lot about wine,” I said.

  “Everyone in town does,” Woody said, taking another sip from his cup. “Pomme Valley may be known for our apple farms but coming in a close second would be our wines. Let me guess. You’re not a wine lover.”

  “I can’t stand it,” I admitted.

  “You moved to the wrong place, my friend,” Woody said. “Don’t you see all those people out there? They’re here for the annual wine tasting festival. Free booze. Why do you think they were all bussed in?”

  “They’re all here to drink wine?” I asked, amazed.

  Wine. Ugh. Why’d it have to be wine? I can’t stand the stuff. I’d rather drink a huge glass of prune juice, and don’t get me started with that nasty-ass crap.

  “You really don’t like wine?” Woody asked, taking a long sip from his tall paper cup. Clearly my non-wine drinking kind were in the minority here.

  “Not at all.”

  “Yet you moved here knowing you had inherited a winery.”

  “I didn’t know the whole damn town was a bunch of connoisseurs,” I protested.

  Woody grinned, “Not all of us are. So, are you going to sell it?”

  “What? The winery? Why, do you want to buy it?”

  “Not me, no thanks. I already have a business. I own and operate the Toy Closet just down the street.”

  “You sell toys?”

  “Think of it like a hobby shop. I stock model trains, rocket engines, and even some old D&D stuff.”

  “D&D?”

  “Yeah, you know. Dungeons & Dragons. My parents played it when they were kids.”

  Jesus. I had played it when I was a kid. That meant I’m old enough to be this kid’s father. How depres
sing was that?

  “So, um, are there people who still play?”

  Woody nodded, “There are entire communities out there that live and breathe D&D. If they’re willing to buy then I’m willing to stock.”

  “Wait. Are you telling me that there are people in Pomme Valley who actually play D&D?”

  “Of course. I’m Dungeon Master of our local chapter. If you ever want to get involved, let me know. I’ll get you a seat at our next game.”

  When pigs fly, pal.

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  “Did you hear all those sirens earlier?”

  My ears perked up. Sirens? I hadn’t heard any sirens, had I?

  “No. What happened?”

  “Poor Zora.”

  I took a sip of my raspberry lemon-lime vanilla soda and glanced once more at the passing crowds.

  “Who’s Zora?”

  “Zora Lumen owns 4th Street Gallery. She’s a little strange, like not all lights are on upstairs, if you know what I mean.”

  Sure I did. There’s people like that everywhere. Every family had at least one pear in the apple barrel. Come to think of it, mine had two.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. What about her?”

  “Her place was robbed and her assistant was killed!”

  “What? Here? You’re kidding! That’s the last thing I would expect to happen around these parts. Wait. Does her gallery have a purple door?”

  Woody nodded, “Yep. A very garish purple door, if you ask me. Then again, no one really understands Zora’s style.” He shook his head, pushed his thin silver glasses up the bridge of his nose, and scratched at his goatee. “This is the first murder PV has seen in over 50 years!”

  “When did this happen?” I wanted to know. Had it been today? Last night? What was stolen? I guess I should be asking my new friend those questions and not you, right? “You said her place was robbed. Any idea what was taken?”

  Woody nodded, “They’re calling it PV’s crime of the century. Emelie Vång’s newest, most dazzling object d’art was in the gallery and it was stolen. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s called Bengál.”

  Great. He’s talking about art. There’s a subject that I know next to nothing about. Someone must have really wanted to… Wait. Emelie Vång? I stand corrected. I had heard of her. She’s the Swedish glass artist that’s taken the world by storm this past year. I’ve even seen a couple of her pieces. Weird, abstract blobs of glass with intense swirls of color nestled within its heart. Wow. Listen to me, huh? For a second there I sounded like I knew what the hell I was talking about.

  But, I shouldn’t lose focus. Back to the problem at hand. Did you hear what Woody had said? Someone had been murdered there. Leave it to me to bring a piece of Phoenix’s violence to SmallTown, USA.

  So, some piece of glass was stolen. Why? How long had it been here? Better yet, why would a world-famous artist have ties with a local art gallery here in Nowhereville, Oregon? Had this Bengál thing been on display? Why the hell hadn’t it been stored more securely?

  It didn’t add up.

  “You okay?” Woody asked as he tipped back his cup to finish off his drink.

  Whoops. Damn. I was caught zoning. Again.

  I nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine. This Bengal thing that was stolen…”

  “Bengál,” Woody interrupted, once more adding emphasis on the second syllable.

  “Whatever. What’s it look like? How big is it?”

  “It’s a tiger.”

  I let out a snort.

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious. Can you give me anything more than that?”

  In response, Woody pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a couple of times, and then handed it to me. There, on the screen, was a picture of Bengál. It was an ugly thing. Not one of Ms. Vång’s better work, if you ask me.

  Conveniently enough someone had laid a yardstick next to the glass sculpture in the picture. It was 38” long and about 20” high at its highest point. It was in a crouch, as though it was ready to pounce on some hapless prey. The body was mostly clear, like I was looking at pure water, but I could also see that some coloring had been added, giving it a faint purplish hue. The tiger’s front legs, however, were a slightly different color. Instead of purple I could see an orange-reddish coloring. Like burnt cinnamon.

  I snorted derisively. Burnt cinnamon? Where the hell had that come from?

  The tiger’s rear legs were faint blue. I couldn’t see any black stripes anywhere but I did see how the surface of the tiger was wavy; rippled. It definitely gave the tiger the appearance of having stripes without having any black color anywhere on the piece.

  The more I stared at the tiger the more it grew on me.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Woody asked. “I didn’t like it at first but the more I see it, the more I like it. I just wish whoever took it would put it back.”

  Woody took his phone back, swiped his finger across the screen of his phone, and returned it to me. A new image appeared. This was a close up of the tiger’s head. The first thing I noticed was the tiger only had one eye. The other eye, the one that was there, looked an awful lot like a ruby, leading me to believe the other eye had been pried loose and stolen.

  “You’re wondering about the eye, right?” Woody asked. “Everyone does. Ms. Vång insists the tiger has the other eye squeezed shut.”

  “She insists?” I repeated, frowning. “You’re saying you’ve talked to her?”

  “Of course. She visits PV often.”

  “Why? Does she live here?”

  Woody shrugged, “I don’t know. She’s supposed to be Swedish so I would have assumed she lives in Sweden. As far as PV is concerned, everyone has speculated on Emelie’s connection, and how she knows Zora, but no one really knows.”

  The owner of Toy Closet pushed back from his table and gathered his things, namely the tablet and the magazine.

  “Back to the salt mines. Wish me luck. Hey, if you really are going to sell Lentari Cellars, I know several people that would probably be interested.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that. Someone wanted the winery? The analytical portion of my brain made a mental note to research old Aunt Bonnie’s winery to see if there was some hidden value somewhere I didn’t know about. I watched Woody leave and decided I should be on my way, too.

  I found the bank, opened all the necessary accounts, and found out from the teller that the city’s utilities were all handled by City Hall. Naturally it was on the other side of town. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I probably could have walked there. In fact, you know what? Judging by the number of people milling about and crossing the street wherever they felt like it, it’d probably be safer if I didn’t drive. Besides, it was time to find Harry’s office. This was a small town. Is should be able to find it without any problems.

  Wait. His office? What did he do, anyway? Had he said? I shook my head. I couldn’t remember. Oh, well. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I put my ID and all other necessary cards back into my wallet, “but do you have any idea where I might find the offices of Harry Watt?”

  The teller blinked at me a few times.

  “Harry Watt? Dr. Harrison Watt, the vet?”

  I’m sure my eyebrows just shot up.

  “Doctor? Harry? You’re kidding.”

  “He’s been the only veterinarian in town for several years now, ever since Doctor Ruckman retired.”

  Harry was a doctor? Unbelievable. Apparently the teller must have sensed my skepticism.

  “He’s a very good vet. Do you know Doctor Watt?”

  “I do. He’s an old friend from high school.”

  “Oh! He told me about his 25 year reunion coming up. You must be so excited!”

  Age jokes. Why do I always get hit with the age jokes? I didn’t look that old, did I? Damn punk teeny bopper.

  “Dr. Watt’s clinic is just down the
street on the right. It’s on the corner of Main and 5th. That road right out there is 3rd. It’s two blocks over.”

  I thanked the snarky teller and waded my way back into the throng of people milling about outside. I longingly looked back in the direction of where I had parked my Jeep and briefly considered going back for it. Just then the traffic light at the corner turned green and a whole mess of people hurried across. In both directions. There were so many people that they didn’t fit within the painted lines on the crosswalk and therefore spilled over.

  I wasn’t about to try and drive in this chaos. I’ll just have to suck it up and walk.

  I found myself outside the corner of 5th St. and Main just before noon. I looked at the single story professional office building that sat on the corner. It had a large chain link fence – my first clue that I should never have stepped foot through that accursed door – wrapped around the perimeter of the property and then I saw several more sections of fence further dividing up the yard. Each narrow section had strips of grass, a small house, and a large water bowl.

  Again, I know you’ve figured out what you’re looking at, but for me, sadly, it took a little while. I glanced at the outdoor kennels and didn’t think anything of it. He was the vet, wasn’t he? Maybe he wanted to provide the recovering dogs a place to enjoy the fresh air. Outside.

  Yeah, you’re right. I was stupid. Not one of my better days.

  I gazed at the sign, which read Watt’s Vet Clinic & Animal Shelter. I shook my head in amazement. It was true. Harry was a vet. No matter what his credentials were, there was no way I was calling him ‘Doc’. My poor brain was already short circuiting just thinking about Harry in his new role. In a white doctor’s coat.

  I strode into the clinic and instantly recoiled in disgust. I had to fight the urge to pinch my own nose shut. I could smell strong traces of urine in the air, along with feces and a powerful disinfectant that must have been used to clean up whatever had happened. I automatically lifted a foot to inspect the soles of my shoes.

  Good. Nothing there.

  “Good afternoon,” a woman cheerfully told me. “How can I help you today?”

  She was about my age, tall (for a woman – about 5’9”), and had short brown hair.