Case of the Pilfered Pooches Read online

  I was setting Watson on the ground when I noticed a tennis ball wedged up under the back seat. Perfect. This was definitely meant to be. Holding the ball in my right hand, with the leashes wrapped securely around my left, we headed into the park. I saw a group of old ladies sitting on a picnic bench nearby, chatting amiably. They ignored us as we passed by. I stepped through the chain link fence, dropped both leashes onto the ground, and threw the ball. Both dogs took off like a shot.

  My cell rang for a third time that hour. A quick glance confirmed it was Vance. Had he changed his mind and wanted some help after all?

  “Zack. Hey, pal, I wanted to apologize for being so brusque earlier. If you’ll pardon the pun, I had just been hounded by the captain. You remember the dog napping I told you about?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Well, the owner has just posted a reward for the safe return of his dog.”

  “Okay. Why would the police have a problem with that?”

  “Because the owner is willing to offer one of his prized John Wayne collector rifles to whomever returns his dog, no questions asked. Zack, do you have any idea how many nutballs are going to respond to this? Captain Nelson wants the case of this missing dog solved. Now.”

  “Wow. How much could a rifle be worth?”

  “This one is estimated to be worth over $10K.”

  “For a gun? Damn. That’s crazy. Is this guy loaded?”

  “I don’t think so. The captain was telling me about the conversation he had with the dog owner. In his words, it boils down to what he values most. If the loss of his gun would mean the return of his missing dog, then that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.”

  “So, where did this theft happen?”

  “At one of the city parks.”

  TWO

  “You’re kidding, right? If you tell me that this dognapping happened at the park off of Oregon Street, then I’ll… I’ll… I’ll eat one of these pig ears I just bought for the dogs.”

  “As much as I’d like to see that, no. This happened at the big park on the east side of town. Actually, it’s at the end of 8th Street. Why do you ask?”

  Talk about foolish wagers. I’ll have to be more careful than that. I made Vance uphold the promise he had made to me last year, about finding a missing Egyptian pendant. Vance had unwisely bet that if Sherlock would find the missing necklace, then he would wear tights to his first dance class.

  I should backtrack a bit further. Tori, that’d be Vance’s wife, is a teacher at PVHS, as well as a dance teacher. Some time ago, she mentioned she was thinking about teaching an Irish Dancing class. Jillian expressed interest, and naturally wanted to sign up, dragging Yours Truly along with her. Time passed, and I was dismayed to hear that Tori was ready to start the class. Now, the only way I’d agree to volunteer to participate for that class was to have Vance suffer through it right along with me. Thanks to an ill-conceived wager my detective friend made a few months back, he had to take the class wearing a Peter Pan costume, complete with a set of neon green tights. It was a night I would never forget.

  Yeah, go ahead and laugh. If you can imagine a 250 pound sack of potatoes in tap shoes, then you have a pretty good idea what I looked like as I tried to duplicate the moves Tori was teaching us. Seeing Vance in his ridiculous getup was icing on the cake and made the whole night worthwhile.

  With that being said, if I would have made a wager about eating a pig’s ear, and then lost, then you better believe Vance would be handing me a bottle of ketchup as he whipped out his phone to record the scene for posterity. The moral of that story would be for me to keep my big trap shut. Thankfully, this dognapping happened at PV’s other park.

  “Sherlock woofed at me, like he picked up the scent of something. We literally just stopped at Oregon Street Park to check things out when you called.”

  “Nope, wrong park. That’s okay. If any developments arise, and I need the three of you, then I’ll be certain to give you a call. Keep your cell handy, Zack.”

  “Will do, pal.”

  For the next half hour, I threw the ball for two overjoyed corgis. They barked, they ran, they saw squirrels, and then they ran some more. I couldn’t figure it out. How much energy could two small dogs have? They were wearing me out and I wasn’t even the one doing the running.

  It took a while, but the dogs finally ran out of steam. Watson spit the ball at my feet, only to have Sherlock dart in and snag it, as if he didn’t trust what I’d do with the ball should I gain possession of it. By the time we made it home, both dogs were out cold. I had to carry them inside, much like how a prince would carry a sleeping princess inside her castle.

  I grinned at both of my dogs, who were now snoring on their beds in one of the guest rooms upstairs, and decided to retire to my office so I could work on fleshing out my next novel. I had already completed the rough draft – in record time, I might add – and I just needed to read through it so I could check for errors. Sure, I have an editor. A very expensive editor. However, I would like to appear as though I don’t need to take an English 101 class, or else demonstrate that I have more than a three word vocabulary.

  You see, I have learned that, when I write, my brain tends to operate at a speed in which my fingers can barely keep up. As a result, errors creep in. And we’re talking some serious, what-the-hell-were-you-thinking errors. Granted, I might not be able to catch all of them, but if I could just set aside some interruption-free time to read through my manuscript, then I know I could typically catch at least 90% of them. So, I booted up my laptop, opened my latest manuscript, and began to read.

  Thirty quick minutes later, my cell phone rang.

  A glance at the display showed it was my mother calling. Knowing full well that a call from my mom could last well over an hour, I silenced the call and went back to reading. I made a mental note to call her when I was done. After all, thanks to Jillian’s influence, I was trying to be a better son and not appear like I was avoiding her calls. Okay, I was avoiding this call, but it was for a good purpose. The completion of my manuscript trumped anything else at the moment.

  Tryst in the Gardens, by Chastity Wadsworth. My editor had claimed it would be an automatic best-seller, since my last three books had all sold amazingly well, and the number of preorders continued to increase by leaps and bounds. My ‘unique edge’ was back, Barbara – my editor – claimed. I needed to ‘ride this wave’ as long as I could. So, she had quite literally told me to get off my ass and finish the story.

  My cell chimed, announcing the arrival of a new voice mail. I ignored it, slid the cell over to the left side of my computer, and returned to reading. I had to make it through nearly 70,000 words, and at the rate I was going, I wouldn’t be done until next Tuesday.

  My phone chimed again, although this time it sounded different. Curiosity getting the better of me, I checked the display. A new email had arrived. Apparently my mother had decided to try her hand at contacting me via an alternate means. Skimming through the message, I saw that she had purchased a new cell and had some questions about some of the ‘new-fangled’ apps that were included with the phone. Her words, not mine.

  I groaned. The phone was returned to the desk. Sorry, mom. You’re gonna have to wait.

  Back to my manuscript. I read through a dozen pages before the blasted phone went off again. Looks like now she was trying her hand at texting.

  That’s it. I am now officially tired of all the interruptions. How was I, as a writer, supposed to work when I kept getting pulled out of the Zone? For all you non-writers out there, the ‘Zone’ is the frame of mind writers strive for, where the words just flow out of you and you can’t seem to type fast enough. The Zone was only accessible – for me – when I wasn’t being interrupted every five minutes.

  A simple flick of a switch effectively silenced all alerts from my phone. Whoever invented the ‘mute’ button on a modern cell phone should be awarded the Nobel Prize for genius. Now, for the third time, back to w
ork.

  Faster and faster Annabeth hurried. She spurred her stallion on, as much as she dared. After all, it wouldn’t do to run the poor creature to death. However, if she didn’t make it to the train station on time, then the likelihood of missing Evan became an uncomfortable reality. She had to tell him how she felt. He had to know that he was her one true love. If those words remained unspoken, then…

  “Awwwoooooo!”

  Let me tell you something. Nothing will yank your sorry butt out of the Zone faster than having two dogs sneak up on you when you’re not paying attention. It’s a good thing I wasn’t taking a drink. I’d be cleaning vanilla-flavored soda off my monitor right about now. Those two little boogers had just scared the snot out of me.

  I turned to look at the newest set of distractions. Sherlock and Watson had apparently woken from their nap and now wanted to play some more. In fact, Sherlock had brought me his tattered pheasant.

  I squeaked the bedraggled bird a few times and then tossed it out the door, into the hall. Both corgis yipped excitedly and tore off after it. I had just turned back to my computer when both dogs returned, carrying the small, ratty toy between the two of them, and having a minor tug-of-war at the same time. It was as if both dogs wanted to be the one to present the toy to me, only neither was willing to give up their portion of it to the other.

  “Be careful,” I warned the dogs, remembering what Jillian had told me about Sherlock’s favorite toy. “You don’t want to damage that thing. Why don’t you two grab one of those knotted ropes? They’re much more suited for a game of tug, okay?”

  Watson blinked her eyes a few times at me, promptly spit out her half of the toy pheasant, and then trotted out of the room. Bemused, I waited to see if she would actually return with one of the ropes. There’s no way that could happen. Dogs didn’t understand that much English, did they?

  Watson trotted triumphantly back into my office with a thick, knotted, two-foot section of rope. Parts of the rope were fraying and parts looked as though they had been nearly chewed through. Sherlock took one look at the smelly, thrashed, chunk of rope and immediately dropped his pheasant. A split second later, he snagged the opposite end of the rope and a fierce game of tug-of-war began.

  Leaving the corgis to their snarling, jerking, and tugging game, I returned my attention to my book. As I started to read, my thoughts drifted to dog toys, of all things. The corgis could really use a few new toys. I’m sure I could find what I needed on Amazon.

  It started out harmlessly enough. I don’t know what happened. The next thing I know, I was sitting back in my chair, rubbing my eyes, and eyeing with amazement a shopping cart holding at least $200 worth of dog goodies. A glance at the clock told me I had lost over an hour. I don’t even remember opening up a browser window so I could surf online.

  “This is getting me nowhere,” I grumbled as I carefully saved the items in my cart and closed the browser. I had to laugh. If Samantha would have been here, then she would have called me one of her favorite nicknames for me: ‘Squirrel Boy’. You know. Easily distracted? That’s me, no doubt about it.

  I tapped the Wi-Fi key on my keyboard, which promptly kicked me off of my own wireless network. That meant no more Internet. Then I made certain the dogs were preoccupied, which they were. Both were taking naps in the hallway, laying in such a way that the dogs could keep an eye on me should I try to sneak out of the room.

  Once more, I returned my attention to my manuscript. I really needed to buckle down and get through it. I had at least two-thirds to go. I’m sure I could do it.

  The doorbell rang. Both dogs were on their feet in a flash and sprinted down the hallway. I hurried after them, determined to make it to the door before them. Call me silly, but I swear it was an on-going competition between the three of us. The dogs were determined they could outrun a lumbering human, and I was prepared to defend the human race.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever chased after a dog, but if you haven’t, rest assured that 99.9% of the time, the dog will get away. The corgis were low to the ground, had short, muscular legs, and could move like the dickens when they were properly motivated.

  Sherlock and Watson came to a sliding stop at the top of the staircase. I preferred to carry each of them up and down, ‘cause I really didn’t want either of them to hurt themselves going up or down the stairs. However, I really shouldn’t have worried. Both corgis hesitated only long enough to verify I was still in pursuit, then began what I could only describe as a ‘hop’ down each stair.

  They were quite good at it. Makes me think they’ve been practicing whenever I’m not there. Needless to say, there was no way I was going to be able to make it to the door before they were.

  The doorbell sounded again, sending both dogs into frantic fits of barking.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold on. Guys, is that really necessary? It’s not the Boogeyman, okay?”

  Sherlock must have thought otherwise.

  “Awwooo!”

  It was my winemaster, Caden Burne. He was in his early thirties – although his face looked much younger – had thick curly black hair, and was stick thin. He told me once that it was because of his high metabolism. I seemed to recall stating something about not trusting skinny people. Thankfully, he had a sense of humor and laughed off the comment.

  Today, he was wearing a black tee shirt with a gold embossed logo of some heavy metal band, blue jeans, and black sneakers. A red baseball cap completed the picture. He was also holding a small suitcase. My eyes zeroed in on the case. I couldn’t help it. I groaned aloud.

  “No worries, Zack,” Caden told me as he came inside. “I don’t have anything for you to try today.”

  I immediately brightened. That was the best news ever. Thanks to my propensity for hating wine, Caden viewed me as the best guinea pig ever when it came to taste-testing newly created recipes. I, on the other hand, was always less than thrilled.

  “Whatcha got there?” I curiously asked. “Is it something for me to sniff? Is it something you’re looking to try?”

  Caden followed me to the living room, set the case down on the coffee table, and gently opened it. I edged closer to see what was in it. The case, I noticed, was lined with felt, as though my winemaster had been transporting a miniature Ark of the Covenant. What was nestled within the suitcase, however, brought me up short.

  It was a trophy. Two trophies, actually. They were made of crystal, were elongated, and shaped like monoliths, with one being several inches larger than the other. It was the kind of award you’d expect to see at car dealerships for winning national recognition. I should also mention that these two objects were green, resembling nothing more than giant emeralds.

  Caden gently pried the first from its sunken nest, produced a small square of white cloth from somewhere within a pocket, and reverently polished the surface of the 7” crystal award. As soon as he was done, he held it proudly out to me.

  “So, what is this for?” I asked as I rotated the commemorative object in my hand.

  There, etched onto the surface of the crystal – in gold-leaf writing, no less! – were the words, “In Recognition of 25 Years of Excellence in the Art of Winemaking: Lentari Cellars”.

  I whistled loudly, “Twenty-five years? Really? Is that how long Lentari Cellars has been in business?”

  “It’s actually longer than that,” Caden explained. “But, since PiNWO rarely gives out these awards, we’ll take it.”

  Confused, I pulled my eyes off the case trophy and looked at Caden.

  “Who is ‘Pinwo’? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Hmm? Oh, sorry. That’s right, you wouldn’t know. PiNWO is a what, not a who. It stands for Pacific Northwest Wine Organization. They cover Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, and even Wyoming. Come to think of it, I think PiNWO oversees parts of northern California, too.”

  “Okay. Well, that’s great, right?”

  Caden nodded and then pointed at the second, larger trophy still in the case
.

  “That’s the one I’m really excited about.”

  My winemaster pulled the second object from the case. It was a larger version of the first award, and just as green as its smaller counterpart. This trophy underwent the same polishing process before it was placed into my hands.

  “From the same place as the first?” I asked.

  Caden nodded again, “Yup. This, Zack, is the Holy Grail of privately owned wineries here in the Pacific Northwest. Read what it says.”

  The blasted thing was heavy. Caden seemed to think this thing was worth its weight in gold? Maybe I should use two hands. It probably wouldn’t be good if I dropped it, so I pushed aside the empty case and gently placed the larger green crystal trophy on the coffee table.

  Now that I was staring at it, I rotated it until the front of it came into view: 2017 PiNWO Grand Champion – Lentari Cellars.

  “That’s really cool,” I exclaimed as I gave Caden a congratulatory slap on the back. “I didn’t even know we entered any contests.”

  “We enter contests all the time,” Caden pointed out. “Or, should I say, I enter these contests for the winery all the time. We might not always win, but I feel our wines are good enough to try.”

  “What wine earned this?” I asked.

  Caden returned to the carrying case, opened a side compartment that I didn’t even know was there, and removed a velvet drawstring pouch. I heard the clink of metal striking metal as he opened the pouch and reached inside. Three medals were produced. Two were gold and one looked to be silver.

  “Two of our wines took gold,” Caden proudly informed me. “The syrah and the gewürztraminer.”

  “What took silver?” I asked as I pointed at the third medal.

  “Silver? Pah. What you’re looking at is platinum. It’s the same wine that earned us Grand Champion. The syrah.”